My experience in psychoanalysis so far

Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic couch

I have been in psychoanalysis for about one year. This is my first time in psychoanalysis, as opposed to psychotherapy, which I’d been going to on-and-off for over a decade. Therapy has always been a bit hit-or-miss for me. This time around, my partner recommended that I try psychoanalysis, so I did, and it has been quite positive for me so far. I want to describe my experience and how I’ve been changed by it, and how it’s been different from my experiences in therapy.

The general format of analysis and therapy are basically the same: I talk about my problems and the analyst or therapist responds, expresses sympathy or empathy, asks guiding questions, tries to help me work through my feelings, gives advice, and so on. But there are a number of important differences, which at first glance may seem small, but which make the experience qualitatively very different.

The first seemingly small difference is that in analysis I am on the couch, facing away from the analyst, whereas in therapy I am facing the therapist directly. What I like about this is that it allows me to be more open and truthful. When I am facing the therapist, no matter what happens, I feel that there will always be some part of me that’s trying to read their face to see if I’m saying the “right” thing or the “wrong” thing, if they approve of me or disapprove of me. But when I cannot see the analyst’s face, I am forced to not think about this anymore, which alleviates such burdens, and it is easier to be more open and truthful.

The second seemingly small difference is that in analysis I am lying on the couch. When I am lying down, my thoughts begin to feel more associational and less logical. My thoughts in this state feel more like dreaming. This makes certain things harder: It’s harder to put together complex chains of thought. But it also makes some things easier: When I am thinking “logically”, then that means that my preconceived notions of what are “valid” or “invalid” thoughts are active and on guard. These rules may be right but they may also be wrong! By being in a looser, more dream-like state, I can explore more possibilities than I would when I am sitting up, when the metaphorical walls are also sitting up. In analysis I am also encouraged to share my dreams and sexual thoughts, which I think can serve a similar purpose of exploring areas that tend to be more walled-off in conscious thought and ordinary life.

I sometimes didn’t like therapy because I sometimes felt like my therapists were just following an algorithm, and indeed some forms of therapy, like cognitive behavioral therapy, are basically just algorithms. There are even AI chatbots out there that do CBT. Of course, there is an extent to which this is appropriate — it’s true that we are in many ways like algorithms, but I’d like to at least imagine that in many other ways we’re not. My analyst also sometimes seems to follow an algorithm in some ways: For example, in a very stereotypically Freudian fashion, he always tries to tie everything I say to my childhood relationships with my parents. On the other hand, one thing I appreciate about my analyst is that he often seems willing to take risks and go off-script, to express his personal opinions, even to do so somewhat forcefully at times. I’m not sure if I would have taken well to this when I was younger, but at this point in my life, I really appreciate it when my analyst expresses a strong opinion, even when I disagree with him — or perhaps especially when I disagree with him — because it always affords me the opportunity to work out my beliefs more clearly. And since I can’t see his face, it feels almost as if he is not there, he is just an anonymous figure, an imaginary friend with whom I can work things through in a more objective fashion.

When I began analysis, I found even the name “analysis” to be a bit bothersome. I felt there was something a bit dehumanizing about the concept of being merely an “analysand”. To be an analysand sounded to me like being a passive object of academic study, rather than being the protagonist of my personal story. But as time has gone on, I have come to interpret the word “analysis” differently. I think of my analyst as listening to me talk about my problems, and in the end providing an analysis of the situation. It’s not a one-size-fits-all prescription like CBT, but a custom, unique, subjective interpretation in much the same way that one may make a subjective interpretation of a work of art. Then I, the analysand, may take this analysis and do something with it; I can absorb the parts that I agree with, and I can wrestle with the parts that I disagree with, and in this process I can develop into something new, with new possibilities. Through that development, I can build a personal system of principles that I can believe in, and that has been thoroughly tested conceptually. With such a system of principles, I am more able to take action in real life with confidence. Rather than a simplistic framework of preconceived inputs and outputs, as therapy often felt to me, analysis seems more like an unfolding process where the system isn’t known in advance and can change dynamically as appropriate.

Another thing I appreciate about psychoanalysis is the utilization of silence. My analyst often uses silence in a way that feels very strategic. There was a moment when I was telling him about an idea and I wanted his validation, so I asked, “Does that sound reasonable to you?” He responded, “Does it matter if I find it reasonable?” We then just sat in an awkward, uncomfortable silence for several minutes. This was very jarring and confusing, and my mind searched for an explanation. Why would he withhold validation his from me, for seemingly no reason? After our session, I came up with the idea that he was being silent to prove to me the point that I didn’t need his validation, or anyone else’s validation, that I could just go on with my own personal self-validation. The silence represented for me a recognition of my ultimate aloneness in the universe. In that moment I was forced to confront and accept that difficult truth. I found it to be a very powerful experience, one that I think I’ll return to when I feel insecure about myself in the future.

I’ve been trying to think about why I didn’t ever have such transformative experiences in therapy. One hypothesis is that therapy tends to focus on concepts like coping and validation. But coping is a short-term solution to short-term problems; you can’t cope your way into new frameworks by which to live. And validation from a therapist or anyone else only goes so far; the ultimate validation is self-validation, self-reliance, and independence. As the interaction with the analyst is minimized through the lack of visual cues and the use of silence, in my sessions I am more directly practicing my desired outcome: to be able to confront my problems on my own, without outside help. As my analyst’s presence in our sessions is just a disembodied voice, it is also easier to recall and reproduce his presence in my mind in my everyday life when he’s not physically around.

So my review of psychoanalysis so far is this: I like that it feels like a more open, less prescriptive system, and that it feels like it tries to find more custom solutions to the unique problems that I have in my unique life, as all lives are. It can be in many ways difficult and it’s definitely much more jarring and uncomfortable and strange than regular therapy, which takes some getting used to. But there seems to be something magical about it. It encourages a certain fearlessness in the face of both mundane conflict and deeper existential despair, and a certain bravery in making a comprehensive map of my personal history, including all of the most hidden parts. With this fearlessness comes a new freedom and independence. With the knowledge of my psychological landscape comes the ability to narrativize and plot new courses in my life.