Category Archives: Personal Growth

How does Therapy Help — The New

In my last blog, I considered psychoanalytic theorizing and its core understanding of repetition.  Today I’d like to consider the uniqueness of the therapeutic situation itself and the ways that it is different from whatever we presume happened between mother and infant, toddler and parents, etc.

For it may not be, as we largely assume, that parents have not had the ability to contain/digest/understand/empathize with what our client has brought to us to deal with.  Perhaps, they haven’t been given a chance.

For there is a profound difference between infanthood/childhood/teenagerdom and what happens in a therapeutic situation:  the client has chosen to be there, however ambivalently and reluctantly.

Even if our clients arrive expecting magical understanding or advice, they must, after some time, recognize that what we offer is more modest – the chance to think about and re-explore their lives and history, a chance to reinterpret events.  If they persist beyond this initial stage of disillusionment, they are choosing to go on a journey of understanding with us.

When the client continues to come, they are saying, however ambivalently, “bring it on.” And this may well be something that they have never been in a position to say, or think, or do, before.  It makes for an entirely new situation.

I don’t believe we have adequately thought through what this means and how it makes therapy essentially different from that of a child/infant with his/her parents.

A client who persists with therapy says “I choose you to be the person with whom:

  • I will attempt to feel and think things I have always avoided,
  • go to places no right-minded person will go,
  • share experiences that drive me  (and will probably drive you) crazy,
  • and if you prove understanding and trustworthy enough, to whom I will say things I have never said before.

It’s very likely our client has never said/done this before.  It is new, and will have profound consequences in enabling our client to find resources within themselves which they had never previously had cause to discover.

Though this new situation may inevitably involve repetition (for our behaviour/thought and feelings are not starting from scratch), it is profoundly different from what occurs with our parents, who are there, as a given, from the beginning.  If we’re lucky, they’re loving and thoughtful and mean well.  If we’re even luckier, they have some sense of what they have taken on in this most impossible of jobs, and are, in most ways, adequate to it

But I believe what parents sign up for is fundamentally different from that which analysts offer.  And so retrospectively understanding parents as inadequate analysts is a profound mistake.

If this isn’t obvious, there are a number of things that should make it more so:

  • It’s simply out of order for parents to “interpret” their children. I speak from experience here:  my daughter bristles (rightly, I’m afraid) whenever I’m tempted to do so.  She simply has not given me permission to do so, in the way a client gives a therapist.   Interpreting, in the words of Jay Haley, is a “power tactic,” and not one parents should use. I have permission to be her parent, but not her therapist. Thus the fundamental activity of therapists is denied to parents.
  • Of course, much of the “containing” that analysts feel parents haven’t done would be pre-verbal, from the earliest days, months and years of an infant’s life. But even here, I’m not sure we’ve adequately thought the difference between containing/digesting feelings which are formed before significant contact with language (what early mothers have to do) with containing “early” feelings of adults who are swimming in the sea of language, which is what therapists, at their best, do.
  • If being a good parent was simply a question of being an adequate analyst, you wouldn’t find many children of therapists who are messed up. Unfortunately, it is quite easy to do so.

Of course, I am not saying that there aren’t many ways bad or inadequate parents or even good parents in bad moments can’t mess up a child in ways they will still be struggling with years later.  In many of these cases, there will be a clear line of causation which it is possible to make:  for example, if a parent physically/verbally/sexually abuses a child, the scars which the adult bears years later can be traced back to the abuse, and what it meant to the child.

But a great deal of what analysts do, or take themselves to be doing, is dealing with  feelings/thoughts/perceptions/fears that are pre-verbal.   For example, Klein and Bion talk about the primitive fear of dying, which is attributed to the earliest months of a person’s life.   Such feelings may indeed need to be contained/digested/processed in a good analysis.

But here we are in quite different territory as far as causation goes.  We have no way of knowing whether this client’s early mother couldn’t deal with/contain/digest, his early hatred/fear of dying, etc.  This is true even if there is evidence the mother was depressed, preoccupied, grieving – absent in some major way.

All we really know is that there is work to be done, and if we, and the client are fortunate, we will be able to do it together, in a way that has never proved possible before.  But my suspicion is that a big part of why we are able to do that work is because the client has walked into our room under their own steam, sat in our chair (or laid on our couch) day after day, and has continued to do that until what they want/need has been accomplished.

For our clients, in our consulting room, everything they do/say/feel is understood as part of the work they have come to do.  This is an ennobling understanding. What has previously been understood as pathology is seen as attempted communication, as co-operation.  Even when clients seem to be working against us (resisting in its many forms), it is our belief as therapists that this is essentially working with us, presenting us with what we need to grapple with to help them.

All this makes for a unique situation, a proper “job” that clients can find themselves able to do however much previous “jobs” have been beyond them.  Being able to work with someone, in such a difficult situation with such difficult “material,” again, may be new for a client.  The sense of achievement they get from this and the support they get from being party to discovering the “truth” about themselves, may, and I believe is, much more important in their “cure” than the explanations in terms of repetition which we provide for them.

Repetition and Psychoanalytic Theorizing

A lot of psychoanalytic theorizing follows this basic path:  you try to understand (made a model for) what happens in the consulting room, say when a client who has been consumed by self-hatred gradually comes to hate themselves less, and then, you project backwards (often to early childhood) the absence of what you believe has happened between you and your client.

For example, some time ago I wrote about a “nightmare client” and of the moment in which, on reflection, her therapy changed.    However much a one-off this experience was, it’s inevitable I’ll find myself turning it over in my mind, trying to figure out what it was about this moment that made a difference.  And why it made a difference.  In other words, trying to understand what was lacking in my client’s history that was remedied by what happened between us.

But my success in doing the latter (trying to understand what was lacking in my client’s history), would very much depend on the “correctness” of my understanding of the moment where everything changed.  And there’s the rub.

First of all, unlike in the movies, (Ordinary People being a prime offender) there is rarely one blinding moment of insight, in which everything becomes clear (for both client and therapist). Further, in such movies, there is only one possible interpretation of this moment.

Secondly, the only instrument I have for understanding what happened is my own being – my thoughts/feelings/perceptions and ability to resonate (consciously and unconsciously) with the moment and my client.  Even if she should give an account of what happened for her, this too would be limited by her capacity to conceptualize what may essentially be an experience beyond her understanding/experience.

Third, it’s inevitable that my understanding will be shaped by the thinking of those who were involved in my education as a therapist – my analyst, my supervisors, teachers, and of course, what I’ve understood of the writings of the founders of my field – for me, Freud, Klein, Bion, Lacan on the psychoanalytic side, and Heidegger, Farber, Merleau-Ponty on the phenomenological.

So, when I try to understand correctly any moment of change, I am doing so through the lenses of my own perceptions and (my reaction to/comprehension of) the theories with which I have been graced/saddled with.

The “truth” of any psychoanalytic explanation that I arrive at, in other words is highly shaped/constrained by my personal openness to my thoughts/feelings/fantasies and by the theories/understandings that have become part of me.

For example, I’ve written in an earlier blog about a moment when a “nightmare client” walked out of a session to sit on the stairs outside my office.  I followed, sat down next to her, and then, consumed by despair at my inability to help/reach her, found tears running down my face.

Psychoanalytically speaking, I would say that this moment was one in which I allowed myself to fully experience/suffer my client’s utter despair at ever reaching me (or originally, I assume, her psychotic mother).   And that when she felt this, and my capacity to “contain” this moment, in a way that neither her mother nor her adopted parents had been able to do, something in her changed.

Her “undigested” maddening experience became one which had been altered by my taking it “in,” with compassion and love. (Those familiar with Bion can easily view this in terms of β elements and α elements.

This, I hasten to add, is only one possible interpretation of this moment, but it shows how the notion of repetition functions in psychoanalytic theorizing – that I, unlike her earlier parental figures, was able to contain (deal with emotionally) something which she had repeatedly tried to get someone to understand/feel/contain.  (I am very aware in writing this blog for the general public that this may not be convincing, or even much of an “explanation,” to someone not trained in my traditions.)

Another way repetition functions in psychoanalytic theorizing is in the notion of transference, basically, that clients “transfer” their past onto the therapist and thereby repeat it with them.

As it happens, my nightmare client spoke very little of her adopted family, and even less of her mother, who she only managed to trace and meet 2/3 of the way through therapy. In this case, psychoanalytic theorizing involves even more supposition, because I am trying to reconstruct her past by construing what is happening with me (or properly, what I understand of what is happening with me) as a repetition of it.

For example, early in the therapy, I frequently found myself reasoning with my client – explaining to her in reasonable terms why she shouldn’t be acting as she did.  (Often, as she was hanging out of my second floor window threatening to jump.)  Even as I did this, I recognized it was a rather stupid thing to do.  After a while, I began to think of this as something that my client’s adopted parents did with her, when she behaved passionately or angrily.  I made an interpretation based on this – “I seem to find myself trying to reason with you, even though I know it’s pointless.  I wonder if this isn’t something your father did, which drove you crazy in the same way as my being reasonable does.”  My client looked at me with soft eyes and nodded.   After this, I didn’t feel so compelled to be reasonable.

In other words, here the repetition of the past was played out in my behaviour.

The notion of repetition, in its many forms, dominates psychoanalytic interpretation, necessarily so, as psychoanalysis is based on trying to understand the present in terms of the past. But for all its power (and I don’t doubt that it’s real), such explanation involves repeatedly attributing to absent parents behaviour/thoughts/feelings/qualities for which we have very little external evidence.

I increasingly feel that this attribution is necessitated much more by our way of theorizing than by the “facts.”

Even if a client has spoken a great deal of their family (and clients vary enormously in this), I am very aware everything I hear is coming through a particular lens, and often is spoken to a particular end, to have me think/feel something.  More pointedly, most psychoanalytic theorizing focuses on the first year(s) of life, about which most clients “remember” almost nothing.

This time frame becomes the “blank screen” onto which analysts project their theories of repetition.

The “correctness” of these theories about early development becomes an issue of huge contention for analysts. I would argue that this is the wrong focus, as the “evidence” for these theories is not in early childhood but rather in the consulting room.

It is how we conceive of what goes on in the consulting room that is really important. And I increasingly feel that conceiving of this primarily in terms of repetition, underestimates the importance of the new. I will talk about this in my next blog.


I’ve noticed lately I’ve started using an expression that isn’t usually in a therapist’s vocabulary – “tough.” As in, “You don’t like that? Tough.”

I don’t use it about my behaviour – anything I do or say I am accountable for, and can be commented on, criticized or complained about.   So I wouldn’t say “tough” if a patient complained about my holidays or an interpretation. That would be cruel and an abuse of my position of power.

But when it comes to things people don’t like about life, other people, their parents, or their partners, I’m much more willing to say this. What I have in the back of my mind is Reinhold Niebuhr’s serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

The courage to change the things I can.

And wisdom to know the difference.

When I say “tough,” I’m saying “this is something you can’t change. You have to find a way to accept it.”

Our ability to change our thoughts, feelings and the world around us is largely based on our capacity to see things differently. This is the tiny lever with which we can change our world, and that of others.  Everything we know, or think we know, comes from a particular point of view. When that changes, so does our world.

Your pov is infinitely malleable. But reality isn’t. Some things you can’t change. You can’t change your mother’s postnatal depression, that depression that made her dead to your cries, smiles, need for her love, attention, and understanding. (Or your father’s alcoholism, or his preoccupation with work, sports, finances, his navel, etc.)

Some people spend their whole lives trying to do this, in their mothers, fathers, and her/his many subsequent substitutes.   You can be lively, pleasing, attentive, interested in football etc. It simply won’t work. You will always run aground on your mother/father’s deadness, which you will encounter again and again even as you try to escape.

You have to accept the original reality was just “tough.” Or, as my childhood friend Richie would say, “tough titties.” (I have to admit never understanding this as a child, and I am the first to acknowledge that my current, psychoanalytic understanding, was probably not what Richie had in mind…)

This doesn’t mean you are helpless, that you have to throw up your hands in despair. Your potential potency is not in changing her or him (whoever the particular her or him it might be at the moment). It is in altering how you understand her/his deadness to you.

You can appreciate now (in a way that was clearly impossible then) that it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t that she didn’t love you. It’s just that she couldn’t love. Or that she/he was so narcissistic that they could only love what they took to be a likeness of them. Etc. Etc.

This was a disaster for you then, and you have spent many years reeling from that awful truth. Which felt much more awful because of course you did think it was personal. You took it as a judgement on yourself. It is only, now, on reflection, that you can see how you were mistaken. And you can let yourself, and Her/Him, off the hook.

There is always a pleasure in saying “tough.” It puts you in the position of the One Who Knows, the One Who Can Face Reality. And there is a transgressive pleasure too – therapists are not supposed to say this!

So it has to be used sparingly. And in full awareness that you are not the one being called to face this particular painful reality.

But when used in this way, “tough” has its place. In our practice, and in our lives. It’s even become part of my interior dialogue, where a full stop is called for.

“Tough love” is a cliché, often used to justify cruelty and mistreatment. But that doesn’t mean the words “tough” and “love” can’t go together. I hope that’s the way they are used in my practice, and in my self-talk.

What’s Wrong with Me?

This question, and the accompanying statement, “there must be something wrong with me,” are those that I hear most frequently in the course of a working day.

In some ways, perhaps this isn’t surprising. People generally don’t come to therapy when they are thriving and full of joy.   And yet… are unhappiness, depression, feeling alone, etc. best conceptualized as something “wrong” with you?

I would say not, and that this way of thinking about things, and oneself, is pernicious and destructive, and more importantly, a kind of violence to the truth.

Let me try to explain.

Let’s say you hate being in groups of over three people. You feel anxious, bored, foolish, or very alone. Thinking of this in terms like “what’s wrong with me?” may come easily to you – it seems to come awfully easily to most of us.

[Do take a moment now to substitute your own version of this – the kind of situation where you think: “something is wrong with me.”]

It may seem to you that thinking “something is wrong with me” adds something new to the original observation. But what exactly? What do you know now that you didn’t know when you noticed you were bored or anxious?

Nothing, I would say. You don’t know any more, but you have the illusion you do. You “know” that this bored/anxious person is defective – morally/ genetically/spiritually/psychologically, take your pick.

Why does this feel like knowledge? Why do we go to this place so easily?

I tend to locate the answers to these questions in our earliest thinking/feeling. I think the idea “there is something wrong with me” is a transform of one of the earliest proto-thoughts/feelings we have – “I’m not loved.”   In any normal, let alone abnormal, childhood there are literally thousands of moments where we might come to think this: when we’re terrified and crying during the night but no one comes, when we’re starving and there’s no mum/breast/bottle in sight, when we are overwhelmed by any feeling – love/hate/anger/aloneness/fear and there is no one there to hold us and help us digest the feeling. And of course these are just the earliest such moments where we might come to think “No one loves me.”  Later, there’s the arrival of a new sibling, the priority given to another over us at family gatherings and school, the lack of recognition of what we can offer to the world, etc.

I believe that thinking/feeling “I’m not loved” is just too painful, especially to our earliest consciousness. So we replace it with another, slightly less painful thought – “there is something wrong with me.” Initially, I imagine, this is also a hopeful thought – in that if there is something wrong with me I can discover and correct it. And then I Will Be Loved!

But as time goes on, the thought becomes more solid, and the hope fades. The link with its painful origin is forgotten. And, in the fullness of time, it becomes a part of our identity. There Is Something Wrong With Me.

At this point, the thought comes very easily, and gives a kind of comfort – that of “knowing” ourselves.   I believe that for my patients, and indeed all of us, thinking, “there is something wrong with me” stops the pain of feeling anxious/bored/alone and substitutes Bitter But True Self Knowledge. We have come to conceive of ourselves as a malfunctioning machine, rather than a human being in pain.

But of course, there is no self-knowledge here, no truth.   As I’ve shown above, there is nothing added by this strangely reassuring thought to the original perception that we are anxious/bored/alone in a crowd.

Quite the contrary: it helps us avoid the truth. It stops us in our tracks and prevents us from enquiring into what is going on that makes us anxious/bored/alone. It prevents us from seeking our reasons for feeling what we do. In other words, it takes away our power to look at ourselves as rational creatures responding to something in an environment in a way that makes a particular sense to us.

It has become so obvious to me that thinking “there is something wrong with me” is a defence that I’ve become increasingly puzzled about why my clients are so attached to it, to this negative proclamation/conclusion about themselves.

It can take months, years even, to get past this repeated assertion, to get clients to focus on the phenomenology (a fancy word for “what is happening”) of a particular situation that makes them anxious, or bored, whatever.  It’s as if they cling on to this idea “there is something wrong with me” for dear life.

Of course, any identification, even a negative one, is hard to give up. Giving it up means facing the pain that was avoided by it. When people stop telling themselves there is something wrong with themselves they have to face something – a loneliness or self-effacement, for example, that echoes painfully through their lives into their pasts. We are pain-avoiding creatures.

But we are also fed in a powerful way by recognizing the truth. And getting past the empty identification “there is something wrong with me” can put us solidly, if temporarily painfully, on the earth, in our bodies and in our lives. It can give us the future this empty self-knowledge has deprived us of.

A price worth paying?

Confused? You Won’t Be!

Most of us locate confusion in our heads.  But that’s not what language, and our experience, when we look at them closely, tell us.

The word “confuse” comes from the Latin confound.  “Confusus,” a past participle, meant “to pour together, mix, mingle, to join together.” So confused literally means to be fused or joined together with someone else.

The dictionary meaning that comes closest to this is “to fail to distinguish between”” as in “he always confuses the twins.”

Confusion is therefore not something that exists “in your head” but is a result of you being uncertainly located between your head and another’s.

Don’t take my word for it.  Notice the next time you’re confused.  I bet you’ll discover that you’re trying to please/avoid annoying someone else, in a situation in which, if you know your own mind, there will be conflict.  So rather than know your own mind, you become con-fused.  Which, while unpleasant, does have the benefit of letting you avoid speaking and thus incurring the other’s displeasure.

Of course, the habit (or should we call it a strategy?) of being confused starts early.  The first person with whom we’re “fused” in our mother.  For a period, we cannot tell where we begin and they end.  Then gradually (if things go well) and abruptly (if they don’t), we begin to realize we are not self-sufficient, but rather scarily dependent on this person (who we later learn to call “mum”) to keep us alive.

And this is the origin of our later problems with confusion.  Because this kind of dependence, in which we need the other to keep us alive, becomes an unconscious template.  Which is evoked in later confusions.  Thirty/forty/fifty years later, it may be called into being when we’re with someone we “need” in some way — a partner, friend, colleague, boss, etc.

For example, you may become “confused” when your boss tells you that you don’t need a raise, because you’re already well paid.  In the moment of confusion, you’re conflating your boss with your mother, in that you feel you need his/her approval and incurring his displeasure is life-threateningly dangerous.  It doesn’t matter that your mother is dead or thousands of miles away — you’re still responding to an important “other” as if you’re a child and they are the adult crucial to your survival.

Rather than recognize an understandable conflict of interest — your boss may want one thing and you another — you get confused and think he/she knows best. You’re mixing and mingling yourself with him/her so that you don’t know where he/she ends and you begin.  Because if you do recognize that you and he/she are standing in different shoes, there is going to be conflict.  And you imagine, using your unconscious model, that this trouble will be life-threatening, that conflict/trouble will mean we will lose them forever/die/face an unknown but cataclysmic disaster.

Psychically separating from one’s mother is one of the most important elements in becoming your own person.  And naturally,  it’s one of the most complex and difficult to achieve.

Because amongst other things, it means coming to terms with all those feelings/thoughts that were unexpressed (and maybe even unthought) in relation to one’s mother as one grew up — wishing she was dead, hating/loving her with a scary passion, seeing her as the devil/god incarnate alternatively,  envying and being jealous of her, despising her, wanting to gobble her up and keep her forever in your tummy etc. etc.  We unconsciously fear that these thoughts make us bad and unworthy of anyone’s love, that if we allow ourselves to be separate, and voice our thoughts, this terrible truth will come out. And we will forfeit her life-giving love.

Patients often fear even speaking such thoughts in the consulting room — as if their mothers will know, or be stricken down, at a distance.

But avoiding the truth of us being separate beings doesn’t make life easier.  It produces a plague of other ills — anxiety, indecisiveness, confusion, hopelessness, despair.

When we are truly separate, we recognize there are inevitably differences between people, and that these will have consequences.  But we are not tempted to fuse with the other to avoid them.

This makes life simpler.  There’s what you want, your ability to say it, and the consequences you face for speaking your truth.  You don’t get caught up in the anxiety that agreement, or persuading the other that you’re right, is a life or death issue. Which means there is space which can result in understanding, compromise, or simply agreeing to disagree.

(For those of you who vaguely recognize the reference in my title, it’s from Soap, the American tv sitcom in the late 70’s.)


Why Do We Keep Going Round in Circles?

Why do we repeating the same old patterns of thinking, of emotional roller coasters, of relationships?  Especially when we recognize these patterns to be stupid or destructive?

Sometimes, of course, we don’t even recognize that there is a pattern.  It’s our friends (or therapists) who say, isn’t it a bit strange that this is the fourth time you’ve found yourself dating a man who is married, a woman who forms an intense relationship with you almost immediately but drops you within a month, a man who is unavailable, and the more unavailable, the more attractive he is to you?

Is it just bad luck when this happens?  Or perhaps something else?

Freud called this pattern “repetition”  and he spoke of a “repetition compulsion.”  It doesn’t just happen with our choice of partners – though it’s often most pronounced in these intimate relationships.

Other examples: when we repeatedly get embroiled in power struggles with our superiors at work, power struggles which leave us exhausted and anxious.  Or have intense friendships which end up with us feeling betrayed.

When you’re sick of all this repetition,

Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane…

Bob Dylan

Repetition is one of the most important concepts in psychoanalysis.  Freud wrote about it in the (very accessible) paper called “Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through,” about which, I taught a seminar recently.    (If you want to have a look at the paper, it’s available here:

The key to Freud’s thinking is in the title of the essay.  The aim of psychoanalysis is to remember, and reconstruct, one’s past so that we make sense of the choices we have made, but, have not,  perhaps, been aware of making.  This enables us to choose differently in the future. Repetition, for Freud, is best treated as a form of remembering.  In other words, repeating an action, relationship, or pattern of behaviour is a failed attempt at remembering.

To understand this, you need to have in mind that Freud’s concept of human being was that we are all meaning-making-entities, struggling to make meaning/sense of our pasts, presents and futures.  To make this meaning/sense, we have to be conscious, in his terms remember.

When we repeat a form of relationship – falling for unavailable men/women, for example – we are repeating a pattern from the past, rather than remembering it.  In therapy, we would first notice a pattern, then begin to locate associations to, or early examples of, this pattern.

We might realize that we have always been deeply involved with an unavailable mother or father.  That is to say we are still very alive to this past relationship (even if the parent is no longer around).

But this is just a start to making sense of the pattern.  Because we would have to remember what distress and other feelings are associated with this parent’s unavailability, how, perhaps, we might have felt painfully rejected, unloved.  How, perhaps we fought, were good or delinquent, to try to prevent the parent from disappearing, with no success.  (Even though this fighting, goodness or delinquency failed in its original aim, we might still be stuck with repeating these strategies too…)

Finally, we might arrive at the insight that we thought the unavailability of our parent was to do with us, was a judgement on us, was our fault.

Our repetitions of this relationship are a substitute for this remembering.  Rather than painfully remembering we are attempting to produce a different result from the same circumstances.  An attempt which, sadly, almost always fails.

(Warning to readers:   The above description is only one path this exploration might follow – it certainly doesn’t apply to everyone!)

All repetitions in our lives, all the circles we find ourselves going in, can be understood in this way.  It’s a powerful understanding because it shifts our focus from action to meaning, from attempting to will a different result each time we find the pattern repeating to engaging differently with the situation.

When you take this to heart, you aren’t just drawn powerfully to unavailable partners, impelled by an unexamined past, but rather see the past in the present, and can make a conscious choice to proceed differently.

Your thoughts might go from the wake up call:  this guy/girl is never there when I need them!  To the new ideas which are possible because of your awareness of the past:  Do I really want to get involved in protesting/complaining about their behaviour, or begging/pleasing/abnegating myself in the hopes that they will behave differently?

When you are not unconsciously driven to repeat, you can genuinely produce a different answer to these questions:  No!

And that’s what makes your life stop going around in circles.

Why We Don’t Carry Through Our Resolutions

At this time of year, the newspapers and web are full of advice about how to carry through your New Year’s resolutions.  There are also endless articles about how they don’t work. But there is little written about why we make these resolutions and why they fail.

New Year’s resolutions fall into two broad categories : trying to make yourself into something that you think you ought to be (or want others to think you are)  and trying to behave more lovingly to oneself. Examples of the first are: resolutions to lose weight, to exercise more, to read more, to not drink or eat so much.   Examples of the second : to not push oneself so much, to enjoy yourself more, to give yourself pleasures you usually deny yourself.  Resolutions to learn a new skill or language can fall into either category.

While it’s wrong to underestimate the power of our desire to look and act like we think we should/ought/must (or at least appear to do so), and our desire/belief that we can start anew,  these impulses rarely last the course: witness the sharp fall in new gym attendance between January and June.

Why is this the case?  Simply because the impulse to be what we take others want us to be is not a deep one, however much we wish it were.  I know this because a great deal of work with my clients is about distinguishing what they think they ought to be/do/have from what makes deeper sense to them.  And during the course of this exploration, clients also become aware of the resentment/anger/shame that they’re not what others want just as they are. Because often, these “others” we want to please are basically stand-ins for our parents, who couldn’t help but subject us to their values and judgement.

When we make a resolution to change our shape, appearance or image, however much we are convinced that this is what we want, an unconscious kickback starts almost immediately:  why do I have to do this?  why aren’t I loveable or good enough as I am?  And it is this kickback (more often than not based on our experience with our parents) and the feelings which go with it that undermine our resolutions, not, as we will tell ourselves later,  a lack of willpower.

Okay, so this sort of resolution doesn’t work.  But what about those resolutions based on the impulse to treat ourselves more lovingly?  To take better care of ourselves, to prioritize our own needs.

Often, such resolutions come from a reaction to insight  into how hatefully we behave towards ourselves. The ways we casually treat ourselves worse than someone we loathe: calling ourselves names (you idiot/moron, you pig, you slut), denying ourselves even inexpensive pleasures (the few extra pence we can well afford for a better quality or slightly more substantial treat or even necessity),  or even time off from the grind of daily life.

Sadly, these cruel ways of treating ourselves are not shifted simply by an insight into how hateful they are.  Because often, we unconsciously feel/know this hatefulness is justified and right.  And as long as this is the case, we will return to the hateful behaviours, however much we will ourselves not to.

It is only when we undo this “knowledge,” by understanding its origins and having an experience of what being loved for ourselves truly means that our resolutions to treat ourselves better can be carried through.

Of course, gaining this understanding is hard work.  But shouldn’t it be top of our resolution list?