ABSTRACT
Zara came to her session one Friday morning in July exactly on time. She had been in analysis for nearly nine years. Her barely audible double ring of the bell alerted me to the fact that she was feeling particularly raw. She had perfected a technique whereby she could make the bell vibrate just enough to let me know she was there without making it utter its harsh, shrill sound, which could completely annihilate her fragile sense of self. I tried to respond to her two short rings with a response played on my door buzzer that followed the allegro con vivo beat she had established. Her appearance confirmed my suspicions that today was a difficult day for her. She came into the consulting room with her pillow clutched tightly to her front, her clear nail varnish bottle in one clenched fist and her “see-through” key ring in the other. After taking up a position on the floor to the side of my desk, she began to gather herself. With her compelling wish to communicate however difficult it might be, she told me that she wasn’t normal today and that she had a list of items to talk about.
