Double feature: Social Depression, Silent Empty Chair

Social Depression

From an earlier TPS blog post: “For some (dysfunctional) people, it can be painful, though subliminally, merely to entertain the consciousness of another person.” By a very strange coincidence, within a recent week I saw three clients who named a peculiar phenomenon featuring this uncomfortableness with another consciousness. Not in the twenty-five years prior to that week, as far as I recall, had a client ever described it. Two of them, one a twenty-year-old woman, disclosed that it is “draining” to be among people, even for five minutes, to be expected to and proceed to talk. The third client described it as "a drag." A single person’s presence, it could even be a family member, would be enough to distress, numb and pain her mind.

This is not “social anxiety.” It is “social depression.” I know the essence of it because I am the fourth person on that list. In my predominant adult persona, as therapist, I am invigorated by a client’s presence, his thoughts and feelings and challenges. In my secondary persona, as husband to a compatible, former-therapist wife, I am comfortable with our mutual familiarity with my preconscious* psyche and its easy translation into conscious talk. But outside of work and marriage, I find it painfully and heavily burdensome to be silent with or talking to a stranger or a neighbor or to one of my wife’s friends, small talk or ‘medium’ talk. (Deep subjects would invoke my adolescent-stage narcissism fused to my professional garb.)

This is not because the more real self of me is too murky – complex and historical – to know which words to pull from the deeps. It’s because without the appropriate context for my (professional) conscious and (marital) preconscious selves, there is only left the inner child – the unformed and ungrown self – that has only fear, oblivion, and no words. Were there no behavior controls that must fall into place, in an “adult” context with stranger, neighbor or friend, the needful urge would be to collapse and become fetal.

My three clients are also this person. We don’t really go to that inchoate darkness but to recognize how recondite we are and to offer therapist’s empathy and care for it.

 

Silent Empty Chair

This is a slight idea but one that I find meaningful. I don’t know if many or all therapists who use Perls’s Empty Chair exercise bastardize it as I do. To me, the client needs to feel her internal ocean of “all the unsaid”** between her and a parent. But to feel this and then try to talk it, put it into words and concepts, is like painting the surface of the ocean. It's reducing the immeasurable to something temporal.

So sometimes a client’s failure to have the nerve to speak to an agelessly frightening father or an unloving mother can bring her to an even deeper place, beneath words. In her silence she is starting to feel and know parts of her history, aspects of her true character, and feelings that she never experienced but for a glinting moment in childhood. The look on a silent client’s face as she stares in the direction of the empty chair shows that she is changing on the inside, is finding and reclaiming more of the real childhood self that was banished early on, more of her self as left open and empty of her parent. I can’t assume, but hope that this internal change will manifest in new eyes, new seeing, new acting in the world.

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* Look up Freud’s notion of the “preconscious.”

** Term taken from Nathaniel Branden’s “Death Bed Situation” exercise. See blog post "The antithesis client," July 16, 2024.

The sound of labels makes me ill

I think it would be great if all of the thousands of YouTube and Instagram and TikTok (and whatever else there is) psychology videos were to disappear in a flash, electrocuted in a painful instant. Millions of children’s, teenagers’ and adults’ heads would no longer be toilets of wisdom, giant billboards of diagnostic labels shoved into their brains like Steve Martin’s arrow-through-the-head. Fourteen-year-olds wouldn’t be saying their father is a Narcissist with an Avoidant Attachment Style. Teenagers wouldn’t be told by their parents that their grandfather cheated on their grandmother and that’s why . . . . Twelve-year-old girls wouldn’t call their mother Borderline Personality (when, factually, both of them would be). The entire world minus five people wouldn’t have the middle name “Trauma.” Therapy clients wouldn’t prefer Rod McKuen-like couplets of profundity in melodramatic typefaces to the powerful work of therapy.

We would also remove many psycho-nouns and adjectives from the public domain. We’d make them private feelings that only the individual would discover in himself. “Abandonment,” “depressed,” “people-pleaser,” “codependent,” “gaslighting.”

People are deeper than, other than, the labels, but as soon as they buy one or two, they become them. They will evermore have trouble feeling the feeling underneath, far underneath to their buried history of meaning.

Imagine that even therapists didn’t have the labels, like John Lennon’s Imagined world without religion. Clients would still be describing – vaguely and poignantly and accurately – their distress, pain, emptiness, lack of a sense of identity, soul sickness, chronic hurt-frustrated-angry wrongness. And with their clients describing injury and hurt, therapists wouldn’t be focusing on their thinking, trying to change their thinking – the sick domain of Cognitive Therapy. They would help the client go to where they were wounded and pour their pain out.

Therapy without labels would enable so much more healing, it would be a phenomenon.

I’m thinking of “trauma.” Trauma is rape and being in war and watching your buddy’s head blown off. But even more, because the consequences can be so much deeper and longer, trauma is being a child of divorce, feeling unloved, being regularly left with a babysitter, being bullied and having no one at home who knows how to listen. I’m thinking of “abandonment.” My clients’ mothers and fathers left when they were two years old, seven years old, twelve years old, left and never returned. But abandonment is also telling your parent that you’re sad and hearing “you’ll feel better.” Or in my case, telling my father that and seeing him flinch. It’s saying the teacher was unfair and being told “I’m sure she was just having a bad day.”

Please join me in wishing all these labels, brain candy and brain poison, gone.

The antithesis client

This is Nathaniel Branden’s “Death Bed Situation” from his book, The Disowned Self. I use this drastic evocative scenario a dozen or so times a year with clients who need to break through their adult persona:

Now, I want you to accept the following situation. You are lying on a bed in a hospital and you are dying. You are your present age. You are not in physical pain, but you are aware of the fact that in a few hours your life will end. Now, in your imagination, look up and see your mother standing at the side of the bed. Look at her face. There is so much unsaid between you. Feel the presence of all the unsaid between you – all the things you have never told her, all the thoughts and feelings you have never expressed. If ever you would be able to reach your mother, it is now. If ever she would hear you, it is now. Talk to her. Tell her.

Let’s say that we want to know if a client has any chance of being a person, of having self-esteem, of actually caring for himself or herself, of having a fundamental sense of self-value. We want to know this because only this person can be helped in therapy at a real and enduring level, not in a superficial, “cognitive” and ephemeral way.

Let’s say we want to know if we are even aware that there are individuals who come to therapy, an ostensibly self-caring act, yet have no “self” that can accept help. We may not be aware that such people, and such a problem, exist.

The Death Bed Situation will be a good diagnostic tool of identity and nothingness.

Clients with at minimum the rudiment of Being will say to their mother (or father) in their final moment of truth:

“You were never there for me. You may have believed you did your best, but you only did your feeling, your own pain, your own needs, your own purpose. I needed your love. I needed you to see me – me – with nothing else on your mind, with your eyes clear and with eternal patience for a child. I have been a ghost in my own clothes, wandering the world without that touch of love that would have given me life. You failed me, Mom.”

That is someone who can grieve and move on.

The clients who cannot be helped will say:

“Mom, I’m sorry I disappointed you. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough. I failed you.”

These are antithetical people, who never became anything other than their parents. They never individuated. Their parents continue to be all powerful, always more powerful than them. They would rather die than try to matter – to their parent, to themselves. As a client said, “I wouldn’t want to say anything on my death bed that would make her regret knowing me.” This is clinging to starvation because it's their only identity. There was never the connection of love, the psychological birth of the human infant.* They have never been given to understand that they should be loved, not required to be something to satisfy their parents.

They are not able to feel and exorcise their own pain because that would make them sense the person they never were.

Therapy that works at depth will lose clients who remain in their parent’s cupped hand. That would, I thought, be the case. But I’ve seen a strange consistent phenomenon: Clients who need to remain killed children are pulled to the idea or the wistful or dear or quixotic feeling of being a self, maybe of being born for the first time. They stay longer than many others do.

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* Margaret S. Mahler's book by that name.