Voicelessness and Emotional Survival--Dreams, Imagined Dreams: Failed Therapy pg. 3

o.k.: therapy wasn't about being liked, it was about discovering oneself with the help of a wise person. And if I wanted to impress him, well that was my problem (or "transference" as they say in the Freudian vernacular)—after all, hadn’t I wanted to impress my mother and father? This was simply something to be "worked through." Sometimes to make his points more poignant, he made up names for me. Once, he called me Dr Jekyl and Mr. Hyde when I appeared in paint-spattered jeans and a sweatshirt after doing carpentry on my house all morning: usually I came from work in tie and jacket. But his favorite name for me was Cotton Mather, because he said I had the bad habit of criticizing people who had wronged or misheard me. After that, I dared not criticize him.

One day, a couple years into the treatment, Dr. Edberg reminded me I had had a sexual dream about him.

I was confused. I didn't remember any sexual dream I had had about him. "You mean the one in which I was sitting in front of you on a surf board?" I figured he could have interpreted this as a sexual dream—although what I felt was the wish for (non-sexual) intimacy and affection.

"No. I mean an overtly sexual dream."

I thought for a minute. "I don't think so--I had a dream about seeing a colleague in bed with his secretary, and somehow feeling neglected. You know, the one I had after my colleague canceled our squash game and I saw him leave the hospital with the young woman. You know it turns out they were having an affair. The dream was right.”

"No," he said again, unimpressed by the detective work of my
Page 4