ABSTRACT
As a clinician, I have had moments when I have lost my creative concern. When I’m in trouble, I consult my colleagues. I return to the cumulative wisdom of my training. I hear the inner guidance of my teachers and mentors. Usually, I am able to change directions and listen to my patient di›erently. But when I am really in trouble, my problem doesn’t seem to match what my teachers are telling me. I keep trying to do what they have taught me, but I simply can’t do it. Or I do it, but it doesn’t work. e more stuck I am, the more the voice of my training turns into a scold. Instructions and edicts grow loud, and the voices of my forebears become louder than the voice of my patient. I can hear them, but I can’t really hear what my patient is telling me. I keep doing what I already know, even though I know that I can’t do it. I recall some regrettable cases, in which things deteriorated and became unmanageable. Eventually, the patient le…, and I was le… with a memory of failure. I had failed my patient. I felt judged and condemned by what Dimen (2001) calls the “real analyst” and by my own “analytic ideal” (Slochower, 2006). As analysts, we all recognize this predicament. We actually come from a long legacy of such crises. But some of our forebears actually used this moment to question the wisdom of their forebears. ey cast doubt on their received “codes of honor.” Instead of becoming frozen, they took risks and embarked on their own inquiry.
