As a trainee psychotherapist, the following was always going to make me chuckle:
Bar Haddaya was an interpreter of dreams. For one who gave him a fee, he would interpret the dream favourably. And for one who did not give him a fee, he would interpret the dream unfavourably.
Is this a winning business model, a quick fix for psychoanalysts struggling to make ends meet?
Of course we all blush at the suggestion – “We would never, we should never, we mustn’t even entertain such an idea…” – but I wonder if the matter isn’t actually a little more subtle than it seems, if maybe we don’t actually get ourselves into something of a muddle over it.
To put it bluntly, what is the role of the therapist?
On one reading, our role is perhaps to comfort, to console, to understand and to empathise. And there is certainly some truth in this approach, there is definitely an aspect of care and concern to the profession.
That said, this is not the whole picture. Sometimes, and this is true of all relationships, being understanding and empathetic can actually harm the person we are engaged with, it can re-enforce their sense of being a victim, it can discourage them from thinking seriously about the changes they could and should make in their lives. If one always assures a troubled or distressed person that they are in the right, one might actually be helping them to miss an opportunity.
Many – though of course not all – forms of frustration have their source in the way a person approaches life, in the way they conduct their relationships, in the difficulty they have in genuinely connecting and relating to the other. This is hard, sometimes we think we’re relating to the other, but we’re actually relating to the imagined version of the other that lives inside our head. In Kleinian terms, we are relating to a ‘phantasy’ version of the other, or an ‘introjected’ other.
Frustration and anger can arise because the other is not behaving in the way we expect, they are radically deviating from our imagined sense of who they are. And we are somehow not able to cope with that, their reality outside of us is unbearable, it unsettles and confuses us.
At this sort of juncture, it can be extremely helpful to tactfully and delicately try to get a person to see what is happening, to see what it is that is really distressing them.
It can be harmful and counterproductive to assure them that their behaviour has actually been impeccable, that they are right to be outraged. The fury must be held, it is a valuable therapeutic commodity, and it must be unpacked and explored.
Holding onto the fury, to the rage and hurt a human being sitting opposite us is experiencing, is an extremely difficult task. It requires one to be extremely rooted and solid, involved and attentive but not overly swayed or moved by the emotion. And it requires insight and tact to be able to work it back into the conversation, to turn it into an object of study, to bring out what is revelatory in it.
It is much easier to move in for the comforting gesture, to try to rescue a person, to make all that horrible stuff just go away, to be the fixer.
Easier, but ultimately less productive.
Neville Symington, in his excellent book on narcissism, puts it like this:
My experience tells me that it is necessary for the analyst to be unrelenting in stripping away the false consolations with which a narcissistic person is surrounded, while holding them firmly, as it were, with care and concern. (Narcissism: A New Theory p.93)
It takes tremendous experience and skill to carry off this strange conjunction of gestures, to be relentlessly stripping away whilst simultaneously holding with care and concern. And yet, when we can manage it, we might be doing a person more good than we can possibly imagine.
I can’t help feeling that there’s something of this dialectical complexity in the relationship between Yom Kippur and Sukkot.
On Yom Kippur we are stripped of our defences, we are made raw through the purity of the honest encounter with our weaknesses.
On Sukkot we are held in a protective environment, in a space which takes away our comforts and consolations whilst simultaneously offering us shade, shelter and a modicum of warmth. It is not the ease and luxury of our sturdy homes; we are rattled, shaken, provoked by what has been stripped away.
At this point, in this difficult and jarring environment, we are instructed to turn our eyes towards heaven, to peer at the stars, to be open to the majesty of external reality, to be confronted by the other. We are instructed to find new resolve, to creatively re-engage with our relationships and to try to overcome the ways in which we are numbed to the world around us.
The combination of Yom Kippur and Sukkot should pierce us, it should enable us, to quote again from Symington:
To crash through this inner fortress, and bring the patient out of this turning inward and into relation with objects [people, ideas] in the outer world.
Sukkot is not easy, it does not always feel like the party it was once intended to be. In Britain especially it can be harsh, a somewhat ascetic exercise. And it flows from Yom Kippur in ways that were probably not intended. And yet, it can be an extremely valuable opportunity, it can teach us something significant about the dangers of excessive comfort; it can shake us into continued reflection on our fragility and our mortality. It takes us outside: outside of what is homely, outside of our comfort zone.
Bar Haddaya met a gruesome and horrible end. There is grave danger in attempting to offer false comfort, and also in acting harshly for the wrong reasons. Harsh yet concerned, this is the challenge, both in our relations with others and also in our relations with ourselves.
May it be a chag which pierces us in all the right ways, and may the joy we attain be raw and pure in its intensity.
p.s. This blog is dedicated to the memory of my cousin Yoni Jesner, who was killed ten years ago today in a terrorist attack in Israel. May his memory continue to be an inspiration to all of us.