Bleak House

When a dreamer dreams of wandering through a house in search of something unknown, I prick up my ears.  Such dreams indicate the client is deeply engaged with the process. Twenty-five year old Veronica, tired of the single life, could not grasp her antipathy towards relationships.  One week she complained of restless nights and dreams of wandering through what appeared to be a mansion of several stories.  In one room she battled with an unknown woman.  Her best efforts could not make this woman understand her need to get out of this house.  Suddenly the dream shifted and she was wandering through endless dark passages.  Noel, a radio announcer, dreamed of searching under his car bonnet for the solution to why the car was faltering.  We travel through life inside the vehicle of our psyches, and live in the deep recesses of our unconscious.  Each element of such dreams should be attended to very carefully.  Spark plugs need changing; batteries are flat; the steering wheel is unusable.  The car is travelling rapidly backwards. The house is dark except for one room.  Its layout is so complex the dreamer holds no hope of success.

Part of every human being wanders lost amongst the rooms of the house of the psyche. This wandering appears dark and pointless, and the wanderer wonders when a way out, or forward, may clear. While a car attempts to alert the dreamer to aspects of the journey needing attention e.g. lack of direction, houses often suggest a deeper search for forgotten aspects of the psyche drawing attention to the many rooms to be explored. Just as some rooms are dark and dingy, so others are bright and inviting.  It is important as a psychotherapist to remain in touch with various elements of the client and avoid coming to conclusions which wrap up a person in a single and constricting construct.  I am reminded of going with two friends to see the film Life of Pi. The three of us left the theatre in that wonderful state of silence following a beautiful movie.  Once outside in the sunshine, my two companions began the analysis.  I began to think of peeling off to go home.  Once they reached the animation techniques used for the animals, I excused myself.  I thought the tiger was real.  I wanted to believe in the tiger.  I wanted the story to sink deep inside me and there, later, to consider a journey alone with an adult Bengal tiger as one’s only companion.

A more bleak and soulless text is seldom found than J.K. Rowlings’ new book A casual vacancy.  There appear to be very few redeeming qualities in any of her characters, bar the central one who is dead.  Nevertheless, I continued reading, convincing myself that just around the next corner at least one of these characters will attract me.  In contrast, Call the midwife written by Jennifer Worth, could never be referred to as bleak.

The midwives are tending to the excruciatingly poor.  If I hadn’t been assured the tale was extremely funny, I would never have sought out this book.  I find reading about misery very unappealing.  Once, I could work my way through Dostoyevsky, or bear with tales of rape, but now after all these years of working with human misery, I avoid reading about it for recreation.  Midwifery in the East End of London in the first half of the twentieth century was filled with loss and hardship of an extreme variety.  Yet I was gripped.  Loved it!  Read way into my sleep time!  I began asking myself what it was that so attracted me to the stories and characters which were extremely real, and very clearly and expertly portrayed.  There is a beauty about the human soul amidst the deepest suffering and the depths of poverty.  Light shines from the hearts of the women tending to this suffering.  Stories of riding bicycles through the East End of London in the middle of winter nights in order to reach families where the new baby will be the fourteenth hungry mouth to feed, could be very dark indeed.  Yet midwives full of faults and frailties find beauty and humour, and a very real sense of purpose in their work. Whilst being clearly set in the heart of the reality of the ordinary human being, even the story of the old crazy woman wearing no underwear, who squats to wee in the middle of the street, ignites loving compassion in the reader.  This is what gives our work soul life.  Connections made with the broken.  And there are always the humorous moments.

Thank goodness for inside voices.  Mine come on a stream of consciousness bringing with them critical thoughts about many people with whom I interact.  People can be lazy, unloving, stupid, grasping, competitive, obtuse, and above all self-centred. We all can. People are, at many moments, selfish, pig-headed and perhaps stupid; but that is not all.  People are also very beautiful and the world is exquisite.  It is the eccentricities that make us so interesting. But it is the light of the soul, covered perhaps with dust and grime, to which we are drawn.  Our job as therapists is to listen to stories about what dulled the light, and perhaps to work with a few polishing rags.  My favourite people are like many faceted crystals, some faces clear and polished, others less so.  It doesn’t matter how often I meet them, I am entranced by something new.