Psychoanalysis of the self

30 Mar

In astrology they discovered a comet with an erratic orbit which they called Chiron; Chiron the wounded healer. Each of us has a Chiron, an achilles heal, a deep wound that may never be healed. It is this wound that we strive our whole lives to heal and in doing so we learn the art of healing and therefore, while we may not ever fully heal ourselves we may learn to heal others.

If I am right, my Chiron is in Taurus, meaning a wound of neglect. For me this means I am prone to feelings of loneliness, I can be loved by others but I find it hard to understand my substance when I strip away accomplishments, abilities, achievements… what is left? It has taken me a long time to believe I have an inner self that has worth unto itself when you strip away the accoutrements that create my outer shell. 

When I was very young, my mother took my twin sister and I to preschool for the first time. Upon arrival my sister spotted a little boy, who in my memory was maybe Lebanese or African, she ran over and instantly struck up a friendship which held her in good stead for the next two years. In fact, I think she also met her primary school best friend whilst still in preschool. I, on the other hand, proceeded to cry. The good ladies of the preschool, having seen it all before, informed my mother that it was normal for children to cry when left for the first time and that as soon she was out of sight I would perk up and go and play with the other children. On this advice my mother left me. Several hours later, on her return, she found me huddled in a corner still hiccuping away through my tears, bright red spots on my forehead (a makeshift birthmark I have when I cry to make up for the lack of any real birthmark).

As a result of that incident my sister went to preschool for a full year longer than I did. I was allowed to stay home providing I would sit quietly with my mother so she could have some time to herself to read and relax, which of course I could having always been a daydreamer.

I don’t suppose there’s any moral to that story except that it serves to illustrate the self-indulgent depths of despair that I can sometimes allow myself to fall so completely into.

Today is a slightly overcast day, which lends itself to a sort of melancholy introspection. I wouldn’t say I’m sad, just slightly distant. And my thoughts are with that part of myself that can be so lonely, so alone, even when surrounded by those who love me. The part that questions how anyone could truly love someone like me, someone who isn’t perfect despite my best efforts, someone vague and forgetful and not critical or analytical enough. As I said, it has taken a long time for me to start to believe that the things you care about are what create a self.

Added to these underlying causes I am currently reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being and To Define True Madness, both of which add to a desire to self-analyse. Which brings me to the motivation for this post. My sister thinks I should see a psychologist, not in a bad way but because this loneliness resurfaces throughout my life and maybe by talking to someone I can heal it. I’m not sure whether or not that is the case. Some people swear by psychologists, for me it’s seems like an expensive and time consuming venture, to unravel your soul with a stranger on a couch. So I wonder, what does a psychologist truly do? If they are only there to listen than isn’t this forum as good as any a place to start? What questions would I have to ask myself to understand the depths of my soul and heal them?


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