ABSTRACT
Patrick was 32 when he came into therapy. His internal world was silent-no dreams that could be shared, no spontaneity, and a strikingly reluctant manner. I took him to be in permanent fear of attack. A great deal of what I later understood as his paranoia got into me, and I felt singularly unimaginative, angry and heavy in the body. My interpretations and speculations fell on barren ground. I sensed that I was a contemptible and hated mother whose frightening power meant that nothing could be allowed to happen. It created a painful situation. Patrick needed very much to be reached. Part of me hated being with him and understood graphically how assaulted he felt. The problem with interpretation was that it relieved me but not him, or so it appeared.
