Below is the opening essay from ‘The Authority of Tenderness’, the third and final book in a trilogy. The first book was ‘The Fifth Principle’ and the second ‘Scum’. This third book differs from the first two in that it is written by the adult self of the individual previously written about and takes into account five ensuing decades of experience. Its content varies between types of experiences needed by a disturbed individual to recover, and the actual experience of the recovery. Although concepts, theories and ideas are important in psychoanalysis, and play a part in all clinical work, ‘The Authority of Tenderness’ is neither theoretical, nor does it seek to teach anything. It is a glimpse into processes of change – actual, lived experiences which, if respected, address a fundamental concern facing psychoanalysis today, and the most urgent preoccupation facing tormented and confused individuals; this is the question of the dignity of the True Self. We possess a unique and inexplicable authentic or True Self which, as commentators from Meister Eckhart to Winnicott have emphasized, is hallowed ground requiring seclusion and lack of interference for mental and psychological health to develop. Paradoxically, deference to this psychological condition permits the individual’s personality to connect, develop and prosper with others. The implications for the practice of psychoanalytic therapy are considerable. Psychoanalysis might be likened to restoring a painting. Patient and analyst attempt together to lift the grime and wear of the years without damaging the original beneath. Where damage appears, repair is carefully undertaken in accordance with, so far as possible, the intentions of the creator – the Self of the patient. The process may have qualities of a science but it is definitely an art. A distinction is made between the developmental Self of the individual, in need of assistance, and the True Self, in need of solitude and dignity. Failure to respect this distinction causes harm. This was conveyed to me by a late friend in a way I have not heard put better. He began a training analysis when he was much younger with an eminent analyst who, after five years’ work, died. In grief and in need of help, it was suggested he see another, not quite so eminent, analyst but someone revered for her clinical skill. He told me: “My second analyst was a better analyst in some respects, but she pulled out my psychopathology by the roots. My first analyst knew me too, but she was more kind.” He felt damaged by the second, more ‘accurate’ analysis. Perhaps science had taken precedence over art. His first analyst had had a sensibility to his core vulnerabilities and strengths – his True Self – and had respected these. His second analyst had failed to respect the dignity of his True Self.
For seriously disturbed individuals, the dilemma of how to live reflects the scale and nature of internal damage. The origins of disturbance are many and varied, but the individual’s response to it is what brings the person into psychoanalytic therapy, to save his or her life and with some hope for meaningful change. My respect for individuals who undertake such work remains undimmed. The gravest consequence of having suffered serious disturbance is exposure of the True Self. The dissolution of personality is imminent when this arises and it presents the clinician with the greatest of responsibilities. Assessing the degree of integrity of the personality, including the True Self, is necessary in order to grasp what can or cannot be expected of the individual. To overlook this form of assessment incurs the risk of riding roughshod over the vulnerabilities of the True Self, worsening the patient’s condition and inducing adaptation to the defensive needs of a damaged self. In this third book I speak to the need to attend to the privacy and dignity of the True Self. If this is accomplished, both parties are free to pursue as much analysis as the personality needs and wants, especially the experience of outrage in response to impingements on the True Self.
[1]When asked to explain short-story writing, Flannery O’Connor replied: “Asking me to talk about story-writing is just like asking a fish to lecture on swimming.” (O’Connor 1969 p87)
