Schizoid Processes: Working with the Defenses of the Withdrawn Child Ego State

Schizoid Processes: Working with the Defenses of the Withdrawn Child Ego State

Ray Little

Abstract

This article examines the defenses of the withdrawn Child ego state as described by both transactional analysis and British object relations theory. The process of withdrawal is considered, and the principles of therapy from a relational perspective are explored.

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Theoretical Views on Schizoid Processes

I will start by examining several theoretical descriptions of schizoid processes that have influenced my thinking in my work with the withdrawn Child Ego State.

The term “schizoid” has been used in the psychotherapy literature to describe both a personality structure and psychological processes.

Melanie Klein (1946/1986), from the British object relations school, employed the term both to refer to the splitting mechanism used by the infant to organize his or her experience and to describe a developmental position. In discussing what she saw as “the violent splitting of the self,” she highlighted the “excessive projection” (p. 187) that resulted in the other being experienced as a persecutor. She thus described the terror that some clients experience when they feel the whole world is about to attack them.

Fairbairn’s (1940/1952c) paper “Schizoid Factors in the Personality” described three prominent characteristics of schizoid personalities: (1) an attitude of omnipotence, (2) an attitude of detachment, and (3) a preoccupation with fantasy and inner reality. In a later paper, “Endopsychic Structure Considered in Terms ofObject-Relationships” (1944/1952a), he went on to describe an intrapsychic structure that consisted of the splitting of the ego and repression as a defense. He also pointed out that schizoid personalities may appear to fulfill a social role with others with what seems to be appropriate emotion and contact while in actuality remaining detached.

Guntrip (1968/1992) developed Fairbairn’s endopsychic ideas further and listed characteristics of the schizoid personality. He also elaborated on Fairbairn’s concept of the schizoid’s dilemma and spoke of the compromise that people engage in to manage that dilemma. He described a further split in the ego that he called “the passive regressed ego” (p. 144), which he saw as a retreat to an objectless world.

Ralph Klein (1995) built on the work of Fairbairn and Guntrip, and from the perspective of the Masterson (1988) approach, he used the term “schizoid” to describe another disorder of the self (in addition to borderline and narcissistic personality disorders). In taking an object relations view, Klein saw the schizoid as either in a self-object relations unit as a slave attached to a master or as a self-in-exile fearful of a sadistic object.

Horney (1945) described three “neurotic trends” (p. 42): moving toward people, moving against people, or moving away from people in a way that involves withdrawal from contact. She saw people who manifested these trends as estranged from themselves and others.

In Principles of Group Treatment Eric Berne (1966) used the term “schizoid” to describe one of the four life positions, which he called a “futile and schizoid” position (p. 270). A game typical of that position would be “Look What They Did To Me.” In describing clients who occupy this position and who are at the limit of their endurance, Berne wrote that the schizoid position “leads ultimately to thechoice of aesthetic or spiteful suicide” (p. 271).

Paul Ware (1983) developed a classification of personality types or adaptations that described psychopathology and maladjustment and listed various driver behaviors and injunctions that were typical of each type. He described the schizoid adaptation as characterized by withdrawn passivity, daydreaming, avoidance, and detachment and people who exhibit these characteristics as shy, overly sensitive, and eccentric. Their driver behavior is “Be strong,” “Try hard,” or “Please others.” Vann Joines (1985), further developing Ware’s work, viewed individuals with the schizoid adaptation as creative daydreamers, referring to their highly developed capacity to think internally.

In talking about three styles of the Adapted Child—compliance, rebellion, and withdrawal—Vallejo (1986) described withdrawal as “the adaptive behavior that accompanies despair and resignation after loss, deprivation, destruction, abandonment, or the failure of something, whether it be a person, thing, or situation” (p. 116).

The schizoid character is a defensive position that results in a detached interpersonal style. Johnson (1994) viewed character structure as existing on a continuum. At one end is the personality disorder and at the other is a higher level of functioning that he calls a “character style” (p. 11). He saw schizoid personality at the disorder end and avoidant personality at the style end (p. 11) of this continuum.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV) (American Psychiatric Association, 1994) lists the diagnostic criteria for the schizoid personality disorder:

A pervasive pattern of detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of expression of emotions in interpersonal settings, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:

neither desires nor enjoys close relationships, including being part of a family

almost always chooses solitary activities

has little, if any, interest in having sexual experiences with another person

takes pleasure in few, if any, activities

lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives

appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others

shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity. (p. 641)

The DSM-IV focuses on behavioral manifestations, whereas Fairbairn and the British object relations theorists focus more on intrapsychic dynamics. In my view, the various behavioral and descriptive elements of the DSM-IV need to be supported by a developmental and intrapsychic perspective.

Defenses and Processes

In my reading of the aforementioned authors, it became clear that certain defensive processes are common in relation to schizoid phenomena. One of these is splitting, a “process by which a mental structure loses its integrity and becomes replaced by two or more part-structures” (Rycroft, 1968, p. 156). Several writers also speak of repression or the process of rendering something unconscious. A further defense, projection, is highlighted by a number of authors; it consists of “viewing a mental image as objective REALITY” (Rycroft, 1968, p. 125). Withdrawal and detachment from the world, coupled with self-reliance, may create an impression of aloofness. This may be seen as a defense against the perceived dangers and anxieties that inevitably accompany reliance on others and is supported by a lack of affect and coldness (noted by several writers). Regression, a further defensive process, is characterized by a flight inward and backward, even to the point of contemplating suicide. Schizoid personalities are often introverted and live primarily in an internal world. They may experience themselves as lonely, which may be felt as a longing for contact and love. In contrast to this longing, a common feature is terror of destroying others and of being destroyed by others. Often these people may appear outwardly contactful but are, in fact, emotionally withdrawn. Overall, there is a sense of futility and emptiness and a lack of integration (J. Klein, 1987, pp. 171-172).

Case Example: Some of these processes are demonstrated by Sebastian, who usually startsthe session by feeding me something that we can talk about or “chew” on but that does not reveal his vulnerability. In so doing he is checking to see whether he recognizes and can trust me this hour. Sessions seem to be isolated experiences for him, without continuity. He often seems to have forgotten the previous session and to have wiped out his experience of connecting with me.

During sessions, Sebastian often withdraws and seems to be watching me. It is as if he is on the inside of his head looking out of his eyes watching my every move. He has described having retreated into a castle, in the dungeon where he feels safe. He leaves a guard on duty. The drawbridge is down but can be raised at any time. If I see an expression of emotion on his face and respond, he is moved at having been seen but feels he cannot call out. He feels it would be dangerous and frightening to do so.

Sebastian has retreated from the world and is detached from interpersonal relations. He has numbed his emotional responses to people and events. Initially, when we explored his feelings about our breaks, they did not mean anything to him. Now he seems to have some feeling about our endings, and more recently when we spoke of my going away, he acknowledged that he will miss me. This indicates that he is beginning to emerge from hiding into a contactful relationship with me.

The Process of Withdrawal

Attachment: Various authors have described our need for others (Bowlby, 1969; Erskine, 1989; Fairbairn, 1952b; Guntrip, 1968/1992) and suggested that we are relationship- and attachment-seeking from birth. Berne (1966) referred to this need for others as “recognition hunger” (p. 230) (for a detailed overview, see Erskine, 1989).

The helpless infant needs a holding, containing environment to make sense of his or her experience as well as an attuned response to his or her feelings and relational needs. An attuned holding environment enables the infant to emotionally attach to the other (Bowlby, 1969; Fairbairn, 1952b). A bond forms between the unitary ego of the infant and the attachment figure, and these fulfilling experiences of contact become memories.

Johnson (1994) described research that shows that the infant is “ ‘hardwired’ at birth for social interaction” (p. 21) and is attuned to the social responses he or she will encounter. He suggested that the infant “will be able to track the affective tone with which he is handled and the attunements, or lack of it [sic], to his needs, emotional states, etc.” (p. 22). Chamberlain (1987, p. 58) cited experiments in which the mothers of infants were asked to be silent and “still faced” for just three minutes. The infants tried to influence the mother within 15 seconds, as if to elicit a normal response. If they were unsuccessful, they withdrew. D. Stern (1985, p. 73) also found that when a parent does not respond appropriately, a baby can become disturbed or withdrawn.

Disruption and Withdrawal: A contactful attachment to another is the basis of the development of the self for the growing infant (Kohut, 1977; D. Stern, 1985). When the infant experiences neglect, impingement, or lack of attunement accompanied by a lack of reparation, the child may go into hiding with his or her feelings and relational needs. This painful disruption in the relationship may halt or slow the process of integration (J. Klein, 1987, p. 171) and the ego may fragment. Fairbairn described the infant’s response to this disruption as taking the relationship inside where she or he divides the experience into tolerable and intolerable elements (Fairbairn as cited in Gomez, 1997, p. 61). The tolerable self-object experiences are projected out onto the world and the intolerable are kept inside. This is the first phase of withdrawal and splitting. A coping/everyday self is left to maintain a relationship with the world while the withdrawn, vulnerable self goes into hiding (Figure 1).

To provide a sense of well-being and safety, the infant’s coping/everyday self attempts to maintain a tolerable relationship with the external object. To achieve this the infant must abolish negative experiences, which it does by splitting and later repressing the bad experiences so that he or she can control them. Tolerable experiences of the everyday self are repeated and internalized; this reinforces the repression of the vulnerable self. The infant thus upholds his or her sense of security by maintaining a relationship with the external object. However, this relationship is now impoverished. The vulnerable infant part of the ego is now split off and will be repressed and hidden from that part of the ego that maintains contact with the world. This coping/everyday self is similar to Winnicott’s (1965) false self as well as to the adapted Child described by Berne (1961, p. 69).

The withdrawn self splits further to create the internal saboteur (Fairbairn, 1952b), which turns against the vulnerable self. The internal saboteur serves to keep the vulnerable self hidden and repressed. It is the anti-wanting self that is contemptuous and despising of neediness and ensures we neither seek nor get what we want (J. Klein, 1987). The vulnerable self is repressed further and splits off from the coping/everyday self that maintains a relationship with the external world (Figure 2). As a defense against an attack from the external world or an attacking and rejecting object, the internal saboteur may launch a preemptive strike against the vulnerable self to forestall such an attack. This has the effect of shutting down the vulnerable self to prevent an attack.

This process of withdrawal describes a defensive retreat from the world of rejecting objects and painful experiences, with a subsequent withdrawal from contact and taking inside the important and precious parts of the self to protect them from the unresponsive world.

Fairbairn (1944/1952a) described a psychic structure that he saw evolving out of this disruption to the early relationship with the primary caretaker (Figure 3); he called it the “endopsychic structure” (p. 82). In this structure, each aspect of the self is attached to an object by affect. Thus we have three basic self-object representations. First, the coping/everyday self was described by Fairbairn as the central ego, which is attached to the idealized object. I prefer to call this the “preserved object” to distinguish it from Kohut’s (1977) idealized selfobject and because it is more descriptive of the everyday self’s attempt to maintain and preserve the nature of the relationship. Often the countertransferential response to this representation is feeling controlled and limited by the attempt to preserve the relationship. Second, the vulnerable self/libidinal ego is attached to the exciting object, which is inevitably disappointing; therefore, I call it the “exciting/disappointing object.” J. Klein (1987, p. 161) described it as the frustrating exciting object for similar reasons.

Third, the internal saboteur, which Fairbairn later called the antilibidinal ego, is attached to the rejecting object, which may also be experienced as an attacking object. The coping/everyday self uses aggression to keep the rest of the structure out of conscious awareness, and further aggression from the rejecting/attacking object and the internal saboteur maintains the repression of the vulnerable self. Although the structure is repressed, it is there all the time, overhearing the process of therapy even if it is not active or manifest in the therapeutic relationship.

Ego States: In Blackstone’s (1993) excellent article, “The Dynamic Child: Integration of Second-Order Structure, Object Relations, and Self Psychology,” she suggested that the introjected object of Fairbairn’s theory is analogous to the Parent ego state. She quoted Berne (1972) as stating that “Fairbairn is one of the best heuristic bridges between transactional analysis and psychoanalysis” (p. 134). One of the points Fairbairn made is how the self is bonded to the object/Parent ego state by affect, and it is the affect that keeps the two glued together to form a self-object representational unit.

Therefore, the three self-object units of Fairbairn’s psychic structure represent three introjected units in the second order of the Child ego state. These units are archaic states of the Child ego state resulting from “developmental arrest which occurred when critical early childhood needs for contact were not met” (Erskine, 1988, p. 17). When the contact is need fulfilling, the experience becomes integrated and assimilated as memory (R. Erskine, personal communication, August 1999). These self-object representational units may simply be relics of a relationship that once existed. However, if, for example, the infant projected onto the other his or her rage at not being met, then the other is imbued with that rage in addition to whatever anger the person was expressing toward the infant. The self will then be depleted and impoverished, and it is this relationship that will be introjected in the Child ego state.

In Exile: In developing Fairbairn’s theory, Guntrip (1968/1992) suggested that the infant may feel so persecuted by internal objects that there is a further split in the ego that results in the infant making a second retreat deeper into his or her mind to avoid the internalized world of self-object representations (Figure 4). The repressed vulnerable infant self is thus further split as it once again leaves part of itself to deal with the internal bad objects while the rest retreats into its “citadel.” This is a fantasy of a retreat to an antenatal existence in a symbolic womb. Security is, therefore, established through fantasies of enclosure in a womb-like state. “Womb fantasies cancel postnatal object relations” (p. 53) and represent a flight from life. As mentioned earlier, Guntrip described this aspect of the ego as the “passive regressed ego” (p. 144), which I describe as the “hidden vulnerable self.” At each stage of the withdrawal, defenses are employed to protect the self from further humiliation, attack, or injury. The regression may also be the self’s flight from its own murderous rage and hatred of the object; therefore, the self is retreating not only from the aggression of the internal objects, but also from its own aggression. Repression and withdrawal prevent further normal development of the self.

R. Klein (1995) described this position as being in exile—-a retreat from being in prison with others to being in an objectless world. While being with others entails a loss of self, being in exile entails a loss of others. Therefore, the retreat may represent safety, but it also encompasses the fear of objectlessness. The womb-like state may be described by clients as a citadel, a castle, a fortress, or even a freezer. The state of being in exile has been described as being adrift in a boat without a rudder or a sail on an ocean a long way from land with no wind. However, as several theorists have observed (Scharff & Fairbairn-Birtles, 1994; Seinfeld, 1996), describing this womb-like state as objectless may be confusing. The retreat is not to an objectless state but to an antenatal state where there are no demands or attacks and there is no need to adapt. “An objectless state remains something the individual dreads” (Seinfeld, 1996, p. 14).

In addition to a client presenting as having gone into hiding, Seinfeld (1993) also described a retreat and regression in therapy as the client relaxes his or her defenses. This retreat is in response to a holding relationshipand the seeking of a psychological rebirth. As the client relinquishes his or her defenses, he or she may allow regression to an earlier self-object relationship.

Schizoid Dilemma: Retreating from contact leaves the individual isolated, lonely, and in pain. In some cases the longing for contact will reemerge and the person may move toward others; however, such movement also brings with it the anxiety of being close. Guntrip (1968/1992) described this as the “in and out program” (p. 36), an expression of the hunger for and terror of contact and closeness. Some individuals manage this dilemma by establishing what Guntrip called the “schizoid compromise” (p. 58), which is a way of keeping others around but preventing them from getting too close or becoming endangered. This may be achieved by keeping contact at an intellectual level, by being present physically but absent emotionally, or by looking away when expressing emotions.

Therapeutic Principles: Reaching the

Withdrawn Child Ego State

Working relationally with these processes entails working in the here and now with the client, working with the transference (both the needed and repeated relationship [S. Stern, 1994]), and working with the various defenses used to protect the vulnerable self from further pain. It entails the therapist being involved, being available to be impacted and affected by the client (Erskine, Moursund, & Trautmann, 1999), and offering a reparative experience.

Creating a Safety Zone: Therapeutic goals include creating a safe, holding environment that is both not wounding and unobtrusive and that will enable the hidden vulnerable self to reemerge. The therapist needs to understand why the client went into hiding and what his or her terror is about. In addition, it is important to comprehend how attempts at contact may be experienced by the client as intrusive. The schizoid compromise is the individual’s attempt to create safety and to manage the tension between isolation and being trapped or enslaved. The therapist needs to demonstrate an understanding of the schizoid dilemma and compromise (R. Klein, 1995) and offer an attuned interpretation. Ware (1983) adjured us to go slowly: “It must be remembered that the cure of Schizoids is a slow, painstaking process, taking only small steps at a time” (p. 15).

The therapist must track the relationship, noticing and responding to the vulnerable self as it reveals itself as well as monitoring the defensive interruptions to contact. The therapist needs to listen to and notice when the client withdraws or dissociates and to explore what behavior in the therapist prompted the client’s retreat from contact. In supporting the relaxation of defenses and the reemergence of the self, the therapist will enable the self to come out of hiding and to leave its fortress or castle. The therapist thus takes on the function of the defense. For example, with someone who uses intellectualization as a defense, the therapist might offer, “May I do the thinking, while you feel?”

As therapists working with these clients, we need to be available for connection by responding to the withdrawn Child ego state (R. Klein, 1995) and by offering an attuned empathic relationship (Erskine & Trautmann, 1996). We must also be available as an object, creating a space in which the client can use us until he or she feels safe enough to let us into the “citadel.” Then we can help the client out of hiding. This entails the client emerging into a relationship with the therapist through forming an attachment with him or her. The therapist then eventually supports the client’s separation by pointing out the client’s anger and thus disillusioning him or her. At times, we need to be as still as possible, to sit quietly and be willing to not know what is happening. We need to allow ourselves to wonder silently about them and about our countertransference responses. We need to shift between centering on the client and noticing our own feelings, thoughts, and fantasies. We need to be curious and offer reverie (Bion, 1962), and as we begin to understand, show them what they feel or want and create a space in which they can experience love and hate. Speaking of the schizoid personality, Joines (1985) wrote of the need to go “in after them and bring them out” (p. 48). Rather than “going in,” perhaps itmight be more appropriate to wait to be invited so as to avoid a reenactment as the intrusive object.

Defenses: In working with the schizoid’s defenses, the goal is for the client and therapist to discover the function of the defensive process and to move through the defenses to the repressed and hidden elements of the vulnerable self. Fixated defenses are an attempt to take care of the self in the absence of a reparative relationship but at the expense of some capacities, which results in the self being impoverished in some way. Manfield (1992) described defenses as follows: “Defenses are patterns of behavior or thoughts that people use to protect themselves from emotional pain or discomfort arising from present life situations usually linked to painful childhood memories” (p. 32). In his article on defense mechanisms, Erskine (1988) wrote, “It is because of the fixation of defense mechanisms that the archaic (Child) or introjected (Parent) aspects of the ego remain separate states and do not become integrated into the neopsychic (Adult) awareness” (p. 18). These defenses, therefore, keep the vulnerable self with its feelings and relational needs repressed. In addition to repression, splitting, and regression, other early defenses include avoidance, freezing, fighting, the transformation of affect, and reversal of aggression (Fraiberg, 1987). When talking about the defense of avoidance, Fraiberg cited Kaufman’s description of how an infant, when faced with danger, will feel helpless and “employ(s) a ‘flight-fight’ response(s), followed by conservation-withdrawal” (p. 191) to defend and sustain himself or herself.

The appropriate therapeutic response to such processes is to acknowledge, name, validate, and normalize the defenses and to understand their function, pacing movement through the defenses to the vulnerable self in such a way that the client can accommodate the change. The role of the therapist is to take on the function of the defense, thus leaving the client free to express vulnerability. Since defenses serve to offer the individual stability, consistency, identity, and predictability (Erskine, Moursund, & Trautmann, 1999), all these functions need to be taken over by thetherapist. However, care must be taken in working with defenses so that the client and therapist can handle the underlying affect. Offering a contactful relationship in which the therapist is inquiring and attuned may trigger memories for the client of not being met in the past and may be a challenge to his or her script. The client may therefore defend against the current contact to avoid emotional memories.

When working in an attuned manner with clients, they may begin to relax their defenses and cathect a part of their mind in which they feel terrified; they may then experience what M. Klein (1986/1946) described as “persecutory anxiety” (p. 182). The whole world becomes a dangerous place, and even the therapist becomes an attacking object. When this happens the client has cathected an early defensive split in the ego, and rather than the therapist being a helpful person, he or she becomes unhelpful and even dangerous or attacking. The client may feel he or she is in a torture chamber, and the therapist may be seen as the sadistic torturer or jailer.

Working within the Transference: Working therapeutically within the transference relationship with the withdrawn Child ego state involves creating an opportunity for the client to relive, in the present with the therapist, the emotions, conflicts, and relational longings of the past. The feelings must be reexperienced and expressed in the present toward the therapist, who becomes the focus for the old feelings. He or she must be willing to respond nondefensively (Gill, 1982) by offering a validating, attuned empathic response. Working within the transference allows the intrapsychic conflict to be expressed within the therapeutic relationship (Erskine, 1993). For the withdrawn Child ego state this means possibly experiencing both the fear of and the hunger for contact as well as the fear of isolation.

As the work develops, the focus may shift to decisive archaic scenes. The therapist then functions as the “secondarily longed-for, receptive, and understanding” (Stolorow, 1994, p. 51) other, who, through attuned responsiveness, offers a reparative relationship. For example, in the case ofinhibited aggression, the therapist might support the undoing of the inhibition and the expression of fighting back.

The Needed and Repeated Relationship: In the transference relationship clients will invite the therapist to repeat old experiences, but they are also longing to be exposed to new experiences. For therapy to be effective, the therapist needs to be experienced as both someone new as well as someone from the past (Cooper & Levit, 1998). If the therapist tends to focus exclusively on repetitions of the past in the form of games (Berne, 1966), he or she may overlook how new capacities for relating are emerging out of the old. On the other hand, the therapist using a relational model may too quickly offer a new relationship, therefore defensively welcoming aspects of the new while seeking relief from the old, repetitive, problematic relationship with its games. We need to balance staying with the old while offering the new so that the new may emerge out of the old. Therapy is the search for the transformational experience (Bollas, 1987) that enables the repeated relationship to be understood and the needed relationship to be experienced.

Negative Therapeutic Reaction: As the therapist attunes to the client’s withdrawn vulnerable self, the latter will probably relax his or her defenses, and in doing so, the endopsychic structure will be disrupted. Attunement mobilizes the withdrawn self’s relational needs, particularly if the therapist takes on some of the functions of the defenses, thus leaving the client to experience the vulnerable self. In other words, this process disturbs the equilibrium of the psychic structure, and elements of that structure will probably react against the disturbance. The “gang” of the rejecting object, the coping/everyday self, and the internal saboteur will attack the previously repressed self. This is the essence of the negative therapeutic reaction.

This defensive process was described by Freud (1923) as the most serious obstacle to psychotherapy. It comprises the client’s lack of “receptivity to an alien, unfamiliar positive experience” (Seinfeld, 1990, p. 13) with a therapist, reinforced by the client’s activerejection of the need for the experience “in identification with the original external rejecting object” (p. 13). The negative therapeutic reaction describes the mechanics of juxtaposition as identified by Erskine and Trautmann (1996), and the internal saboteur is similar to Erskine’s (1988, p. 17) self-generated ego state.

Activation of the internal saboteur and the rejecting object serves to protect against the emergence in the relationship of the vulnerable self’s relational needs. Attacks from members of the “gang” may result in the client shutting down, annihilating self or other, and forgetting. More serious attacks may lead to drug abuse and self-harm. I think this is similar to Bion’s (1967) observation that psychotic clients attack the link between self and object. The “gang” may attack the link the therapist forms with the repressed self and its relational needs. The therapist must work with the attacks on the link between self and other, exploring the aggressive denial of need. The client must also experience the therapist as the exciting object in order to separate and individuate. The client’s inevitable frustrations and disappointments with the therapeutic relationship require a nondefensive response from the therapist. In fact, therapeutic efforts by either the client or the therapist to avoid regression and dependence in the transference may be an avoidance of the exciting object transference.

The hidden vulnerable self may be experienced as deadened, and an attuned, understanding attitude from the therapist may lead the client to feel like the deadened self is being brought back to life. It is as if the therapist is giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the client, who may fear an attack if he or she does come back to life. These individuals may also be frightened of their own aggression and hatred of the other, which in the past may have been projected onto the attacking object so that the other became a terrifying monster. At one time, survival may have depended on being dead to the world, so the therapist’s attempts at resuscitation may be resisted because the client fears what might happen if he or she camealive. A lively infant may have not been welcome in the client’s family of origin, and the infant’s angry reaction to the unwelcoming response may also be experienced as a danger to existence.

If the rejecting object and internal saboteur are activated in the transference, the therapist has the option of interpreting the attack (Seinfeld, 1993), thus differentiating these two parts from the vulnerable self. For example, the therapist may say, “What we’re seeing right now is how, as we form a bond, the attacking part of you becomes critical.” Therapist and client can then work to understand the reason that an aspect of the person would reject efforts to activate the self and to invite the rejecting object/Parent ego state (Erskine & Moursund, 1988) to express itself directly to the therapist. The therapist can also interpose himself or herself between the rejecting object and the vulnerable self (p. 191). Therapy with the internal saboteur, however, may consist of echoing its statements in order to mobilize the energy of the vulnerable self so that it can emerge and fight back.

Therapy needs to combine an attuned, empathic, involved relationship; a holding, containing environment; and interpretation and transformation of the bad objects. Attuned interpretations that breach the closed system allow clients to incorporate a good object relationship with the therapist (Seinfeld, 1993).

Conclusion

The purpose of the type of therapy described in this article is to create an opportunity for the client to reown his or her repressed, disavowed, hidden capacities and to integrate these into here-and-now functioning. Further, it is an opportunity for the client to reemerge from withdrawal, to integrate the split and fragmented ego, and to resolve the conflicting pulls between a self that seeks predictability, continuity, and safety and a self that seeks spontaneity, authenticity, and contact.

The capacity for growth and development may be hampered by the prior reinforcement of the closed system, and, like a muscle that is underused, it may have become wasted and will require exercise and support to rebuild it. Thisinvolves rebuilding the attachment-seeking behavior that may have atrophied over time as a result of not being sustained in earlier relationship (Sutherland, 1994).

Therapy needs to combine an attuned, empathic, involved relationship; a holding and containing environment; and interpretation and transformation of the bad objects. Attuned interpretations that breach the closed system allow clients to incorporate a good object relationship with the therapist (Seinfeld, 1993).

Ray Little is a Certified Transactional Analyst working as a psychotherapist in private practice in London. Please send reprint requests to Enderby Psychotherapy & Counselling Associates, 16 Hatfield Road, London W4 1AF, United Kingdom.

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The author wishes to extend special thanks to Richard Erskine for his support in the development of the ideas presented in this article and his encouragement to write it. The author also wishes to thank Shirley Spitz for her comments and support in the development and application of these ideas.


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This article was first published in the Transactional Analysis Journal, Vol. 31, No. 1, pp. 33-43. Reprinted with permission of the ITAA

The Institute for Integrative Psychotherapy is approved by the American Psychological Association to sponsor continuing education for psychologists, by the National Board of Certified Counselors for counselors and by the American Board of Examiners in Pastoral Counseling for pastoral counselors. The Institute for Integrative Psychotherapy maintains responsibility for this program and its content.

difficult session with psychiatrist 11/24/08

On November 24, 2008 I had a difficult session with my psychiatrist, Dr. Abraha, at the DC Department of Mental Health, Spring Road Clinic. Here are my thoughts about the session.

1. Authoritarian -- The psychiatrist appears to be conventional in his attitudes, and doesn't accept differing opinions.

2. shame -- "I don't engage in countertransference." "I have never masturbated in my life." The psychiatrist presumably will tend to deny any quality or behavior that is shame endowed. Both of the psychiatrist's statements are not particularly credible. The psychiatrist is a supervised resident who has never undergone a didactic analysis. For him to assert that he does not engage in countertransference is not credible. (On December 1, 2008 the psychiatrist commented on this point. He said: "I have never felt shame in my life. I don't even know what shame is. I have never experienced shame. I might feel shame if I made a big mistake about a patient, but I've never made a big mistake about a patient.)

3. Resistance -- It is inappropriate to tell a patient that he is engaging in "resistance" without interpreting the resistance. Characterizing the patient's behavior as "resistance" without interpretation amounts to psychiatric character assassination. It's simply a form of devaluation. In psychoanalysis, analysis of the resistance and the transference are major parts of the analysis.

4. Competitiveness -- During the session I told the doctor that he had a tendency to show resistance to the materials I gave him. Then I used the phrase, "Those are separate issues--a few weeks ago I said you engaged in countertransference, now I am saying you don't allow opposing opinions. Interestingly later in the session the psychiatrist used those same phrases in relation to me. "You are showing signs of resistance." "Those are separate issues." Suggests a tit for tat approach by the psychiatrist that is suggestive of his feeling competitive with me. Possible sign of Oedipal conflict in the psychiatrist.

5. Oedipal Conflict -- The psychiatrist said angrily: "I'm not your student. Don't bring me any more papers to read. I'M NOT YOUR STUDENT." Note the similarity of the statement "I am not your student" ("You are not my teacher") to the reproach of the child, especially teenager, who is criticized by a nonparental figure. "You're not my father. I don't have to listen to what you say." This is the most clear sign of Oedipal conflict in the psychiatrist, and the clearest indicator of countertransference.

6. Insincerity -- From the beginning of the therapy in July 2007 the patient had been giving papers to the psychiatrist to read. The psychiatrist was effusive in his praise of the patient. "Thank you so much Mr. Freedman for giving me that paper. I really appreciate that. I discussed this paper with my supervisor. Thank you so much Mr. Freedman." Now, the psychiatrist, in anger, tells the patient that he's not interested in accepting any more papers from the patient. The psychiatrist's turn-around in attitude raises questions about the psychiatrist's sincerity.

7. Vindictiveness -- The psychiatrist said he wouldn't accept any more papers from the patient in retaliation for the patient's statement that a paper that the patient gave to the psychiatrist several weeks earlier was an instance of countertransference.

8. Relationship between Psychiatrist and Patient -- It is fully appropriate for a patient to discuss his feelings and thoughts about the therapy and the therapeutic relationship. Instead of chastizing the patient about his opinions, the psychiatrist should have had the patient elaborate his opinions, with a statement such as, "You seem to have negative feelings about me and our relationship. Would you share those thoughts with me?"

Further, under the Clinic's Patient's Bill of Rights a patient is permitted to complain about the quality of care he is receiving. It is totally inappropriate to chastize a patient about his valid concerns about the therapy and the psychiatrist.

9. Failure to see patient's behavior as symptomatic of schizoid disorder -- One of the central fears of the schizoid individual is his fear of not being understood, his fear of being misunderstood. Isn't it possible that the patient's behavior of sharing papers with the psychiatrist is an attempt by the patient to make himself understood by the psychiatrist and not an attempt to place himself in a superior position to the psychiatrist? Was the patient trying to assume the role of teacher and place the psychiatrist in the subordinate role of student by giving papers to the doctor or was the patient trying to make himself comprehensible to the psychiatrist consistent with schizoid personality disorder?

Neurotic Mothers

My early family life was a cornucopia of antagonism, guilt and soul-deadening criticism. My mother, in particular, was an eternal source of pain in childhood.

A critical issue for me as a child was the extent to which I was drawn into the service of my mother's neurotic needs. Neurotic mothers commonly present themselves as the self-sacrificial victims who bear the loving burden of having and raising the children. The willingness to suffer and sacrifice and suffer pain and sorrow thus becomes the hallmark of her mother's love. However this puts a terrible burden of guilt on the child who is the object of such loving sacrifice.

Neurotic mothers are notorious for their martyred agonies, their self-pitying dramatic displays, their exploitation of the theme of sacrifice. In actuality, however, martyred mothers make no sacrifice. If anything, they do precisely the opposite. They exploit their children. They exact an emotional sacrifice. They press upon the children with their imagined wounds, with constant reminders of all they have done for them. Neurotic children take this maternal display seriously; they are mowed down by guilt and seek penance in propitiatory behavior. They attempt in a futile way to make up to their mothers for the presumed sacrifice. Such patterns of neurotic interaction bind the child to mother, deform the quality of togetherness, and sharply restrict the range of development toward a mature autonomy.

Schizoid Personality Disorder: Between Two Worlds--The Encapsulated Self

Between Two Worlds:
The Encapsulated Self

Marye O’Reilly-Knapp

Abstract

This article explores the nature of the schizoid process, in which withdrawal serves to protect the individual in the face of psychological collapse. Someone who uses schizoid defenses for survival fears living in relationship and splits off from both the external world of experiences and the inner self. Caught between external and internal conflicts, the person may withdraw into autistic encapsulation, a primitive method of protection, and life is endured in a state of isolation, ambivalence, and confusion. This article considers how the schizoid condition may manifest as dissociative and autistic states, and a fourth pattern of insecure attachment is introduced. Case vignettes are used to illustrate the phenomenological experiences of the schizoid’s unspoken and sequestered world and to identify how contact and the methods of inquiry, involvement, and attunement are used in an intensive therapeutic relationship.

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In the schizoid condition, a person lives an isolated and insulated existence with the outer world cut off and the inner world compartmentalized. This invisible fortress, as it was described by Bettleheim (1967), severely restricts the person’s contact with others and reinforces ideas that are self-generated and based on fantasy. Participation in living is seen as threatening, so others are only tolerated in order to survive. For schizoid individuals, the emergence of the self was arrested in childhood, and the self is now maintained in an encapsulated state that supports the integrity and continuity of a self, however limited and confined this may be.

Understanding how the schizoid condition develops requires examining early stages of development, formation of the script system, and the impact of relationships on the organization and consolidation of a sense of self and self with others.

In the earliest years, experience is known and organized in terms of sensation or the body ego. The very spirit of the infant is experienced in felt body experiences and the early relationship with the primary caregiver. Within that relationship, a sense of interrelatedness evolves in which the infant experiences a “me.” When the child’s earliest experiences consist of impingements and threats, with no one around to offer protection or comfort, and subsequent life experiences reinforce the world as dangerous and undependable, a large part of the person’s potential for fully experiencing the self is affected. Shut out of awareness, fundamental parts of self-states (states of “me-ness”) are stored as encapsulated mental structures that preserve the integrity and the continuity of a subjective sense of self. Archaic fixations—those parts of childhood experiences that have not been integrated—are also closed out of awareness as dissociative states.

What is required in a therapeutic relationship so that the uncommunicable, walled-off parts of the schizoid client can be spoken, heard, and understood? And, at the same time, how can the integrity and consistency of the client be maintained so that self-emergence is facilitated? These two questions, along with a description of the schizoid world as dissociative and autistic, are the central subject of this article.

As transactional analysts, we are in a unique position to work with both the intrapsychic and interpersonal components of a self hidden from the world and even from the person himself or herself. We understand the formation of ego states (Berne, 1961), the script system (Erskine & Zalcman, 1979), and the theory and methods of an integrative transactional analysis (Erskine, Moursund, & Trautmann, 1999), all ofwhich support an in-depth, relational psychotherapy. I find that an effective way to reach the withdrawn, isolated part of the person is to use Berne’s archaic Child ego state construct, a script system analysis, and the methods of inquiry, attunement, and involvement—the last of which are central to integrative psychotherapy as developed by Erskine and Trautmann.

Splits in the Self: Constructs from

Fairbairn and Guntrip

In describing schizoid withdrawal, object relations theorists Fairbairn (1952) and Guntrip (1968/1995) suggested that the ego splits into four parts. Fairbairn described two splits. In the first, there is the central ego in touch with the outer world and another part of the ego that withdraws into the inner world. The second split occurs when the withdrawn ego splits into the libidinal ego and the antilibidinal ego. As the central ego desperately tries to cope with the outer world, the needs and wants of the child (libidinal ego) are obstructed by a persecutory ego (antilibidinal ego). The inner conflict created between needs desired and needs diminished or discounted leaves the intrapsychic domain in confusion and turmoil. When asked what they need, these schizoid individuals usually answer, “I don’t know” or “It really does not matter.”

Guntrip added a third, ultimate split of the libidinal ego into the oral ego and the regressed ego. This then is the dilemma of the schizoid position:

The primitive wholeness of the ego is now lost in a fourfold split, a depleted Central Ego coping with the outer world; a demanding Libidinal Ego inside persecuted by an angry Antilibidinal Ego; and finally a Regressed Ego which knows and accepts the fact that it is overwhelmed by fear and in a state of exhaustion, and that it will never be fit to live unless it can, so to speak, escape into a mental convalescence where it can be quiet, protected, and be given a chance to recuperate. (Hazell, 1994, p. 178)

A person who has split off parts of the self has lost perspective on the outer world as well as on inner experience. Ego formation becomescompromised. Erskine (1997) described how a part of the self becomes lost; I characterize it as the hidden self. In fact, the withdrawn part of the person is both lost and hidden.

Marie came to treatment because she was depressed and felt that she was alone and isolated. She reported that she always did things herself because there was never anyone there to help her. She said she felt like she was invisible when growing up. When asked what she wants or needs she has “no idea.” She experiences herself as “frozen in time and space.”

Between Objects: Withdrawal and

Dissociation as Defenses

With the schizoid defense there is no relationship with another, no connection even with oneself. In working with people who use the schizoid condition as a protective position, I observe that there is not only a primitive withdrawal (e.g., to an autistic state of being), but also a dissociative defensive stance used to protect the continuity of existence. The ability to separate experiences from awareness, to use dissociation when the self is being threatened, allows the individual to escape from perceived danger. Withdrawal, as well as separation from internal and external experiences, becomes the shield against overpowering circumstances.

In a study of 12 infants whose mothers were severely depressed, Fraiberg (1987) observed states of physiological shutdown in which withdrawal led to immobilization and freezing. Similarly, with schizoids, retreat into isolation and compartmentalization of unintegrated experiences allow them to continue to exist in a defensive system marked by continual vigilance, confusion, and solitude. Attempts to connect, followed by withdrawal from others and even the self, keep the person in perpetual isolation, revoking external object relations and living as what Guntrip (1968/1995) characterized as a “detached spectator” (p. 18).

Schizoid individuals withdraw from internal objects that are disturbing and powerful. They may find temporary relief in the encapsulated isolation, a place in which to rest from the exhaustion and intensity of both internal and external upheaval. However, this farthest andextreme withdrawal is so remote that the person is totally cut off: Wants, needs, and demands are unknown. Primitive barriers keep the person isolated and lost even from the self.

My premise is this: In the schizoid condition, the person lives in a world of isolation created by withdrawal from others; the person also lives in a matrix of unintegrated life experiences, while at the same time attempting to cope with the real world. He or she lives between—suspended as it were—because there is no sense of where to settle and what to call “me.” The withdrawal, along with the dissociated parts of the self, remains compartmentalized. For example, in recounting her autistic state, Williams (1993) described living in a world of perpetual blindness, deafness, and muteness even though she could see and hear and had the ability to speak. She used her withdrawal and dissociative states for protecting and sustaining her life. Such an autistic encapsulation is a protection of the child, and when maintained into adulthood, it constitutes a fixated, protective dynamic in the Child ego state. Being able to identify ego states, and especially Child ego states, has helped me to work with this early archaic position and to deal with the primary process that is inherent in the schizoid condition.

Understanding and appreciating Winnicott’s (1988) work on impingements has also been useful in working with schizoid individuals. One way to deal with an impingement is to try to get away from the disruption or shock because it is overwhelming. If there is no one to soothe or comfort, then another solution is attempted. It appears that the autistic encapsulation comes about because the world is too much, so the person retreats into a space described by clients as “nothingness,” “a black hole,” “a shell,” “frozen,” and “not belonging to the world.” Khan (1974) reported a client who described herself as “living in a blanket” (p. 142). One of my own clients wrote, “The pain is too much; I want it to go away. I can make it go away because I go away, even from me.”

For such individuals there can be little connection to the real world because there is no way to connect even with their own sense ofwho they really are. Fantasy supersedes reality. The world becomes dangerous, with no one to support, validate, or normalize thoughts and feelings. The norm becomes precarious attachment, at best, and most often avoidance of others. Such withdrawal to a fixated Child ego state enables the individual to cope; however, these adaptations reinforce archaic responses rather than enable the evolution of the self and new possibilities for dealing with problems. Often these individuals report feeling like an “it,” and they project this sense of being an object onto others, expecting to be treated in return as an object rather than a person.

In summary, the works of Fairbairn, Guntrip, Bettleheim, Khan, Ogden, and Winnicott support my conclusion that autistic encapsulation is the psyche’s most primitive form of organization and the earliest form of withdrawal. This withdrawn existence as a protection is at the core of the schizoid condition. Also at the core are the developmental fixations and the dissociative states that reinforce the withdrawal. These are discussed in the next part of this article.

Detachment and Encapsulation:

The Hidden Self

As a result of recent developmental research, we now know that the infant is a distinct, active participant in his or her environment (Cassidy & Shaver, 1999; Marrone, 1998; Stern, 1985). We also realize that for healthy development to proceed, babies need the presence of a loving mother figure who helps orient the baby to the world and eventually to his or her own being. As Bettleheim (1976) wrote: “The infant must first become important to a human being he can influence and who therefore becomes important to him” (p. 229). Mutual influence facilitates development by giving to the baby a sense of who “me” is. Through the infant’s actions and the appropriate responses from a caring other, the baby is invited to move out into the world with a beginning awareness of his or her self and a connection to others in the environment. In contrast, someone with a schizoid defense has no perception of invitations to be in theworld and with others. Within the schizoid structure the splitting keeps the need for contact and connection with others out of awareness.

Work on attachment may help us to understand how the isolation and detachment from others endures in the schizoid compromise. (The compromise involves remaining suspended between desired contact with others and withdrawal from others.) In developing his theory of attachment, Bowlby (1958, 1969, 1973, 1988) identified affectional bonds as the basis for the growth of a secure and self-reliant personality. When there is separation, threat of separation, or no response to a need for attachment, the child first protests by crying and moving his or her body in an attempt to recover the mother. The child is not only angry, but anxious. If there is no response, the child realizes that no one is going to come and he or she becomes sad and quiet. Exhausted and left alone, the child ultimately detaches from the situation and even from his or her own sense of being. With cumulative trauma (Kahn, 1974), in which there are breaches in the mother’s role and perhaps also trauma involving major boundary impingements, detachment may be one of the primary components for survival and coping. Responsiveness from another, usually a preferred other, is the reciprocal response that is needed when needs are activated. When a responsive caretaker is missing, detaching from the needs and wants may become the norm.

As Marie went back to her early years she began to realize how depressed her mother had been. Marie remembers when she was very small being told by her mother to “go to your father” when she asked for her mother’s help. She went to her father and was abused. She separated herself from everyone. She separated herself from the abuse memories by pushing them out of awareness. With no one there, she disowned her wants and needs.

As the child becomes detached, needs and desires from infancy through adolescence are solidified or frozen in time. Affect cannot be modulated and integrated. No sense of being a self can exist when internal and externalexperiences are perceived as chaotic; the wholeness of the ego states is lost, and the withdrawn, regressed part of the individual lies encapsulated. In his description of impingement on the child’s boundaries, Winnicott (1988) illustrated through his drawings the infant’s return to a state of “isolation in quiet” (p. 128) in order to gain some sense of being alive. For her part, Fraiberg (1987) described a “conservative withdrawal” after flight from threat (p. 200). This primitive isolated place is what sequesters the person in the withdrawn, schizoid position and protects a sensitive, vulnerable state of being from internal and external disturbances.

However, maintaining this protective position inhibits activity and has a profound effect on mastery and self-efficacy. A system of organizing experiences is constructed to avoid the feelings and memories of life experiences. An armor of detachment and indifference, along with withdrawal surrounded by an autistic barrier, places the person in a hidden world in which fantasy runs rampant and overwhelming feelings are the norm. Basic needs and wants become lost in a massive psychic withdrawal, and relationships are dismissed because what is most needed is also what is most feared. The person is left suspended between both internal and external world encounters with no real relationship with either. The inner world consists of object relations filled with fantasies and dreams and a shell created by primitive isolation; with regard to the external world, the person is uninvolved and neither wants another nor has any expectations of help from another. It is as if the person cannot stay in either place and ends up lost, frightened, and alone. Cut off from relationships, there is no authentic sense of self. The experience of self-loss is considered to be “the result of an intersubjective catastrophe in which sustaining relations have been broken down at their most basic level” (Orange, Atwood, & Stolorow, 1997, p. 55).

The Fixated Child Ego State

One of my intentions here is to help clarify some of the confusion that exists about archaic ego states, fixated defensive processes, and thepsychological neglect in trauma. It is useful for transactional analysts to consider Fairbairn’s and Guntrip’s levels of splitting in working with the archaic Child ego state. Berne (1961) stated that “the child includes an archaic Parent, an archaic Adult, and a still more archaic Child representing a still earlier ego state to which under stress it may return” (p. 301). Withdrawal as a protective procedure was described by Winnicott (1988) when he illustrated the infant’s return to a state of “isolation in quiet” in order to regain some sense of being alive. So it is with Guntrip’s model of splitting, which details an early preverbal withdrawal. Berne’s archaic Child contains a primitive state of being that becomes a place to maintain life; this seems identical to the considerations of Guntrip and Winnicott. The massive withdrawal, a temporary reprieve, becomes a way of life—an aspect of the life script. In transactional analysis, the script patterns of isolation, withdrawal, and splitting need to be considered when doing script analysis. Beliefs, feelings, desires, fantasies, behavioral patterns, and reinforcing memories are the focus of treatment in a therapeutic, relationship-oriented, integrative psychotherapy (Erskine & Moursund, 1988; Erskine & Zalcman, 1979). In the withdrawn and hidden place there is only existence, with no true sense of self and no sense of self with another. The person remains uninvolved, unintegrated, and lives in quiet desperation. Patterns of withdrawal and dissociation comprise the schizoid condition.

The “Between” Space

An intensive psychotherapy is needed to affect the childhood core in individuals manifesting schizoid structures. Uncovering the conflicts underlying the problem, understanding the unconscious material, and creating a relationship are important in reaching the core of the Child ego state and its archaic content. Effective therapy with these clients requires working with both the hidden, sequestered part of the person’s being and the unintegrated historical experiences. It involves understanding the unconscious emotional conflicts, the unmet needs, and the loss ofrelationship. These individuals come to know and understand their experience through contact with their unmet needs and internal conflicts within the therapeutic relationship. Both the here-and-now relationship with the therapist and regression to stages of fixation and dissociation provide the path for unfreezing the early ego formation and the unfolding of a self. This is not an easy task, nor is it easy to put into words. For both client and therapy, the therapeutic process is unique to the relationship, and so it varies from moment to moment. Theory and technique are used as a guide, with the relationship as the medium.

The theory and methods I use derive from an integrative psychotherapy approach (Erskine & Moursund, 1988; Erskine, Moursund, Trautmann, 1999). For those struggling with schizoid symptoms, the therapeutic relationship provides the contact-in-relationship that facilitates healing and the emergence of the withdrawn, lost self. Through gentle inquiry, the person’s subjective experiences can be explored, historical content examined, ways of coping understood, and the vulnerability of a hidden, frightened self supported. The therapeutic relationship becomes the matrix in which meaning and affective memories can be constructed so that the person’s narrative can be better understand and integrated. Cognitive, affective, sensory, and behavioral components are analyzed through inquiry into the person’s phenomenological, historical, and script systems.

The ultimate purpose of the relational space created by the client and the therapist is to provide a place in which the client can reorganize an internal sense of being and emerge from isolation and historical detachment. Winnicott (1958) first described this place as “potential space” (p. 54); he identified this intersubjective field as an intermediate area of experiencing in which client and therapist work with the client’s repetitive patterns of feelings, thoughts, actions, and sensations. What is unknown and unthought becomes known and understood, what is disavowed and alienated becomes connected to feelings and sensations, and in this process, actions and behaviors arerecognized.

In the reorganization of the personality, therapeutic interventions that deal with regression must be considered.

In one session Marie’s finger was barely moving as she laid curled up in her withdrawn “nothingness.” I reached out and with the tip of my finger touched the tip of her finger. She responded by curling her finger against mine and increasing the skin-to-skin pressure. Contact was made.

In such situations, a secure foundation forms out of contact with another who is present, attentive, and responsive to the person’s wants and needs. Such merger or attachment allows for the feeling of one-with-the-world that may evolve into an immersion in relationship in which interpersonal involvement is sought and received. Clearly, relational needs are not present only in childhood; “they are components of relationship that are present every day of our lives” (Erskine & Trautmann, 1996, p. 322). In relationship we engage with others; in a secure relationship, spontaneity, flexibility, and intimacy can be exhibited, and each person can be who he or she is.

Patterns of Insecure Attachment

From our earliest attachments, we form a secure or insecure base. When relationships are not predictable and one’s sense of being is threatened, then uncertainty can result, and the child experiences that the sought-after relationship is sometimes there and sometimes not. This is called ambivalent attachment. A second type of insecure attachment, avoidant attachment (Bowlby, 1973), is characterized by minimizing the need for connection such that the child does not expect the other to be present or responsive. A third pattern of insecure or anxious attachment—disorganized attachment (Marrone, 1973)—has also been identified. In these cases the person’s life narrative is forgotten or confused, as seen in dissociative disorders (Barach, 1991; Liotti, 1992), and connection with the attachment object is haphazard.

I propose a fourth pattern of insecure attachment, which I call “isolated” attachment.” In this pattern, relationships with others are notsustained in the representational system of the psyche. Internalized objects are exterminated by a barrier or shell. Cut off from people and the world, cut off from his or her needs and wants, the person withdraws so far into “nothingness” that no one is there, and even the sense of one’s being is nullified. This annihilation of the sense of self, of one’s own personhood, makes this pattern of attachment different from ambivalent, avoidant, or disorganized attachment; with isolated attachment there are no objects, no relationship at all. The person may take on the appearance of disinterest, indifference, and/or disdain and seem unapproachable or unreachable.

Methods of Dealing with the Encapsulated

Self in Therapy

Because of the extreme isolation and annihilation of self and others that characterize those with schizoid disorders, therapy with such individuals needs to respectfully and consistently support the client’s unique position, deal with his or her motivation and the need for contact, and take into account intrapsychic processes such as ego states and life script. I have found the following methods to be particularly useful in this work.

Contact with the withdrawn ego state. Providing a safe place for the emergence of the self and the establishment of a therapeutic bond is primary in therapy with severely withdrawn individuals. A major premise of integrative psychotherapy is that humans are relational and that the need for relationship is a primary motivating factor. The way we experience relationship is through contact, both internally and externally (Erskine & Trautmann, 1996). By making and being aware of contact and disruptions to it, the fixations and withdrawal that are part of the schizoid person’s psychic system and the relationship with the therapist can be analyzed. What has been imbedded in a history of helplessness, disorganization, and the threat of disintegration of the person’s being can be carefully uncovered and understood in the context of today’s life experiences. In working at the boundaries of hidden self—but one that is being invited into the world—the schizoid dilemma is revealed: to stay inside orto surface into the world. How the individual, with the therapist’s support and encouragement, can move from a position of avoidance of contact to connection with others becomes a major focus of the therapeutic work. Inquiry into the schizoid experience will help the person recognize: (1) the existence of withdrawal; 2) the significance of interruptions to contact through withdrawal; (3) the use of withdrawal as a coping strategy; and (4) the vulnerable self, hiding and lost to contact.

The withdrawn space of encapsulation and the loss of relationship in the withdrawal need to be understood as an attempt to resolve internal and external conflicts experienced in the past.

Marie silently walked into my office and sat down on the couch. She withdrew into that empty and private space; she became more distant. I have often sat with her, usually in silence, honoring the withdrawal. Out of fear she withdraws and out of intense loneliness she reconnects.

Involvement. Involvement has been described as the therapist’s willingness to be affected by the client, a reciprocal affective response from the therapist, a sensitivity to the client’s developmental level, a commitment to the client’s welfare, and an appropriate therapeutic relationship (Erskine, 1993; Erskine, Moursund, & Trautmann, 1999). In therapy with severely withdrawn individuals, the therapist must have the capacity and willingness to enter into a merger with the client and to remain committed to the therapeutic relationship. In relation to schizoid withdrawal, involvement as a therapeutic method pertains to: (1) acknowledging the existence of withdrawal: “You have this withdrawal . . .”; (2) validating the importance of the withdrawal: “There are important reasons for your withdrawal”; (3) normalizing the withdrawal: “This was a way for you to maintain your self”; and (4) using the therapist’s attuned responses: “I am here with you.”

Involvement encourages acknowledging both the client’s internal process and the relationship with the therapist. This is crucial with schizoids because encapsulating reactions result when“attention has been deflected away from the objective world . . . in favor of a subjective, sensation dominated world which is under [the person’s] direct control” (Tustin, 1986, p. 25). Moving from the intrapsychic to the interpersonal realm allows the client to be heard, seen, and understood by another (the therapist) and to bring into consciousness the “black hole” or “shell” of disconnectedness. Finding points of contact and sharing the therapeutic space empowers the client to move out of the frozen, autistic shell. One client related to me that he had never before let anyone know about his hidden place; he was afraid if he did he would be labeled crazy and locked away just as his sister had been.

As clients begin to deal with their protective defenses, they will, at times, enter the archaic encapsulation. At such points the therapist’s involvement is crucial to the reorganization of internal experience. This merging was described by Little (1981) as “basic unity” or “primary total undifferentiatedness” (p. 109). There is no clear sense of self or other, no distinction between inner and outer stimuli (Pine, 1985). In such cases, there is a merging of client with therapist that is “near absolute” (Kahn, 1974, p. 149). In this fusion the therapist must “be there, alive, alert, embodied, and vital” (p. 157), but without impinging on the client’s experience.

If the therapist is successful, a magical state is created in which the illusion of uninterrupted unity through involvement exists. Such oneness allows the client’s emerging self to grow by interacting with the therapist as a part of the environment. A return to oneness gives the client a chance to find his or her psychic roots and to repair what Balint (1968) described as the “basic fault” (p. 21). One woman described her experience of oneness with the therapist as floating in an ocean—she had no boundaries, no beginning, and no end. From this place she reported she could begin to be in touch with herself.

In the therapeutic relationship the therapist joins with the client in experiencing the affective connections needed for oneness and for emergent self states. The therapist, who is actively involved in the process, invites theclient into relationship by monitoring the client’s experiences and the meaning given by the person to contact with the therapist. For individuals who have walled themselves off through massive withdrawal, as in the schizoid position, the therapeutic relationship can serve as the site of the “undisturbed, harmoniously functioning other . . . [where] ‘twines’ coexists with oneness” (Ogden, 1990, p. 212). What we as therapists perceive of our clients’ signals and our responses to these signals is important for the development and preservation of the therapeutic relationship. While working with a regressed client, body sensations and movements are monitored. The therapist responds with words, motions, or even physical contact to the client’s sounds or movements. As Brazelton and Barnard (1990) wrote, “Human experience originates in empathic forms of actual physical touch” (p. 57). Telling a client that I hear her silent cry or see the tear trickling down her cheek is often enough to let the person know I am there. A touch of a finger tip, as with Marie, permits contact. Focusing on sounds and movements also encourages activity that has been suppressed.

This regressive state, one of basic union as described by Balint, Little, Ogden, Pine, and Tustin, illustrates the essential role of the therapist in being with a client who has returned to the hidden self. A regression-in-relationship permits the client to be in the experience and at the same time to have someone present in a way that is enough, yet not too much. Therapists must be sensitive and respectful of the wants, needs, and fantasies that are awakened for the client in this regressed place and accepting of the intense affects that result without themselves becoming either overwhelmed or withdrawn in response.

There were times in session when Marie would not say a word. Even her body appeared lifeless. At other times she would pace or walk out of sessions in rage or panic. She reported watching me “from deep inside” to see how I responded when she was hopeless, raging, or fearful. She often expressed how important my aliveness was to her because it helped sustain her in her darkest moments. Myacceptance of her, wherever she was, was also important to our connection.

The relationship with a regressed, withdrawn person involves consummate patience, tact, and skill (Tustin, 1986). In his work, Arieti (1974) wrote that the therapist needed perseverance in reaching such individuals. With regression, the therapist needs to be aware of the moments when the client is reaching out of the isolation. Through the intersubjective field, the therapist can monitor his or her own personal experience as well as the client’s meanings and affective experiences in the enactments. Contact with the client is initiated gently through a calm, interested presence. In the shared space between client and therapist, activity and inquiry should be minimized so that the emergence of the withdrawn Child ego state is encouraged.

As the client moves through the psychic agony of loss and desolation and the physical pain of the regression, the therapist takes on a more active role in holding the desperate feelings. The therapist must bear both the client’s intense affects and his or her own countertransference reactions. Regression takes the client and therapist to “areas where psychotic anxieties predominate [and need to be] explored, early experiences uncovered, and delusional ideas recognized and resolved” (Little, 1990, p. 83). (Little is using the British term “psychotic anxieties” to refer to the child’s attempt to deal with a chaotic and unmanageable situation, one that overwhelms sensory perception.) The regression experiences enable the person to give meaning to what has not been reachable by encountering in the presence of another what was unknown and making meaning of these events. The experience of regression and relationship are both needed and dreaded for the client. However, working with the regression as regression-in-relationship facilitates awareness and growth in a person’s sense of being. Once constructed as a closed system, the person begins to slowly open up to the outside world.

Attunement. The method of attunement supports the development of a core self by providing the sensitivity necessary for establishing a basic oneness or basic unity.Erskine and Trautmann (1996) conceptualized attunement as “a two-part process: It begins with empathy—that is, being sensitive to and identifying with the other person’s sensations, needs, or feelings—and the communication of that sensitivity to the other person. . . . It is a process of communion and unity of interpersonal contact” (p. 320). Attunement is also categorized by the degree of resonance and reciprocity needed for contact-in-relationship. With the use of attunement the therapeutic relationship is enhanced by serving as the therapist’s inner guide to inquiry and the meanings that are given to the client’s experiences. Cognitive, affective, rhythmic, and developmental attunement are the major categories that the therapist blends into the therapeutic relationship to enhance contact (Erskine, Moursund, & Trautmann, 1999).

Another way to view attunement is to look at internal disruptions to contact on four levels: existence, importance, resolution, and the self. In this way I have identified four components of the attunement process: affect resonance, attentiveness, mutuality, and openness and sharing.

Affect resonance is the ability to resonate physically. The development of the self was described by Winnicott (1988) as moving from the merging of the infant with the environment, to the strengthening of the body-self as a unit dependent on physical care, to “the dawning of awareness” and recognition of another, and finally to the gradual development of socialization (p. 8). Affect resonance permits the client’s sounds and movements to be perceived and taken in by the therapist. “I hear you” and “I see you”—whether indicated verbally or nonverbally—acknowledge the client’s existence and strengthens his or her body ego. Much as the mother in the infant-mother dyad mirrors her child, the therapist reflects the client’s experiences, and the contact between the client and therapist thus becomes a pattern of relationship. Quiet moments (Pine, 1985) or “stillness at the center” (Little, 1981, p. 125) also facilitate a sense of body identity. In therapy, the strengthening of the body self is accomplished by the physical presence of the therapist and with words from the therapistsuch as: “I am here with you. You are here with me. I am aware of you in the space we are creating. You have an impact on me.” For the person who is withdrawn and lost to self and others, this is the beginning of a long process during which a self can begin to unfold.

Attentiveness or attention to the present and immediate circumstances involves the interest and consideration the therapist gives to contact patterns and responses in meeting the client’s aliveness. The therapist must be attentive in such a way that his or her responses are instantaneous, what Guntrip (1968/1995) called “immediate relatedness” (p. 312). Without this immediacy, the client may again withdraw. The therapist’s attention to the client’s patterns of disconnection and attempts at connection provide information on when contact can be initiated. The therapist must also attend to concrete symbols used by the client so that archaic subjective experiences can be given meaning and understood. The therapist’s inquiry into the client’s symbolic world validates the client’s symbols in the context of the client-therapist relationship and transforms these symbols cognitively into abstract thought. With the therapist’s guidance, the client becomes the interpreting subject (Ogden, 1990) who can generate his or her own thoughts and interpret his or her own symbols. This provides the individual with the necessary cognitive experience to move out of fantasy and imagination into the real world.

Mutuality is another important component in contacting the hidden self. Khan (1989) described “how the clinical process gradually involves two persons in a mutuality of relating and, if things fare well, in time enables them to part from each other in a state of grace and awakened unto their hidden selves” (p. 9). Mutuality focuses on the intersubjective field, that is, a sense of two people working together in a shared, reciprocal relationship. Much like the mother who teaches her young child to balance strong affects by supporting feelings for the child, the therapist absorbs (via countertransference) and embraces the affect through involvement in the client’s experience. Thus the organization of the client’s self comes about through the sustenance and help of another whoresponds to needs, wants, and feelings within the context of shared events. Both client and therapist benefit in a mutuality of relating.

Exploring how the client currently tries to get his or her needs met reveals the protective mechanisms established in relation to earlier objects. The therapist’s interest in and consideration of the client’s needs, wants, and fantasies communicates the therapist’s commitment to and responsibility for the client’s well-being and increases his or her awareness of internal processes. Attention to breaks in the relationship and to therapeutic failures provides the therapist with a guideline about where and when to connect with the client. Disruptions in contact also provide the client with information on how, when, and under what circumstances he or she disengages from contact.

Openness and sharing are also important elements in attunement. Not only does the client open himself or herself to the process, the therapist must also be an active part of the relationship, both candid and sensitive, vulnerable and open. Openness is facilitated by owning capabilities and limitations and acknowledging criticisms. The therapist’s participation in ongoing supervision allows for monitoring the course of treatment and supports an outcome of growth for both client and therapist.

Conclusion

We do not yet understand all the factors involved in psychic healing or psychotherapeutic failure. However, specific factors can be identified that help us as therapists to help clients in their growth and development. One variable that is well documented in the clinical literature is that a consistent and dependable relationship with another provides an organizing experience that facilitates the emergence of the self for the client. The chaos of a “broken line of being” (Winnicott, 1988, p. 135) lessens through the experience of continuity provided by a relationship with a caring and responsive other.

One of my clients, an artist, brought one of his sculptures to a session. On the outside were three pieces of clay that looked like rhinocerosskin, which he described as a protective wall. When he removed the outer shell he held a heart in his hand—his broken heart—which he had been able to uncover in the therapeutic relationship. Dealing in therapy with his isolation, withdrawal, dissociation, and developmental stages of fixation allowed him to reclaim himself. This illustrates how working with the dissociative parts of the schizoid position is not unlike working with dissociative identity disorder; both require integrating fragmented, compartmentalized experiences.

The secret citadel, described by some clients as a bunker or a fortress, is a survival adaptation, a compromise between isolation and commitment to relationships. Coming out of that citadel means giving up a familiar way of life and requires immense support and encouragement. In therapy, the relationship between client and therapist facilitates these experiences as the client discovers, “This is who I am, how I feel, what I believe, and what I do; this is my past and where I came from; and this is what I need to do now to be responsible for myself and others.” For seriously withdrawn clients, regression-in-relationship can provide a safe environment in which client and therapist work and live together safely over time while the client goes through the essential experiences required for the formation of a stable sense of self. As one client wrote: “In my withdrawal I can sense you [the therapist] and I do not feel so alone. I get to know and understand this place I created a long time ago. I am not as afraid of this place or of you as I used to be. I am beginning to come out a little. A place for me to be with you is growing.”

“The rebirth and regrowth of the lost living heart of the personality . . . is the ultimate problem” (Guntrip, 1968/1995, p. 12). As therapists we are entrusted with the very heart and spirit of the schizoid client, the part that has clung to a thread of hope, no matter how thin, that life can be different. We owe it to each of them to reach into our own hearts and souls as we do the therapeutic work, using our sensitivity, intelligence, and awareness as we invite their hidden, encapsulated selves to joinus in the real world.

Marye O’Reilly-Knapp, D.N.Sc., C.S., is a Certified Transactional Analyst, a psychotherapist in private practice, and codirector of Phoenix Centers, Devon, Pennsylvania. She is also an adjunct professor for Widener University in Chester, Pennsylvania, and an associate of the Institute for Integrative Psychotherapy, New York. Please send reprint requests to her at 905 Newtown Rd., Devon, PA 19333, U.S.A.

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Brazelton, T. B., & Barnard, K. E. (1990). Touch: The foundation of experience. Madison, CT: International Universities Press.

Cassidy, J., & Shaver, P. R. (Eds.). (1999). Handbook of attachment: Theory, research, and clinical applications. New York: Guilford Press.

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Special thanks to Richard G. Erskine, Ph.D., for his lectures and discussions on the schizoid process, to the Professional Development Seminar in Kent for their support, and to Robin Fryer for her editorial assistance.


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This article was first published in the Transactional Analysis Journal, Vol. 31, No. 1, pp. 44-54. Reprinted with permission of the ITAA

Goooooooooooo -- Bama

It's all over but the cryin'.

A Boring Life

After all the dislocation of my life, and the uncertainties of my existence, it is paradise to be in this quiet apartment in Washington. Some people say that my neighborhood is the dreariest part of northwest Washington. I am a stranger here, but I feel at home: it is life, and I am content--yes, miserable, but content with my misery.

I spend the day doing small things, drinking my morning cup of coffee, going to the library, then coming home and listening to music; afterwards going for a walk, shopping for dinner, cooking my evening meal. In between all this activity, when I have a quiet moment (as if all my moments were not quiet!), I look over my notes. I am daunted by them--the strange handwriting, the bizarre references, the bizarrely-boring notes about my life (if one might call it a life). There are two large notebooks, about two hundred pages, filled with my writing. There is too much of it. Some pruning is in order, I should think. There's enough material here for a hundred blog posts, at least.

It's a relief to have household chores to do. They keep me from thinking, just as thinking keeps me from living. My chores are brainless and tiring, they are just what I need.

I think of myself when I was a little boy coming home in the middle of the day for lunch. I had a very serious face, very pale from the Philadelphia winter and perfectly smooth. I had small beautiful hands and deep brown eyes that were so expressive my mother did all she could to please me. She gave me treats, bought me chocolate at the corner store, and cakes for my after-lunch dessert. She watched television with me, sitting next to me. When I was at school my mother missed me so much that sometimes she went early to meet me, and loitered until I appeared.

"What do you want for lunch?"

"A ham sandwich with Swiss cheese."

It delighted my mother that she could make me happy by being with me and offering me these simple things.

Actually, all this is a lie. My mother all but ignored me, and never picked me up at school. When I started kindergarten, my mother had a neighbor child walk me to school to acquaint me, no doubt, with the cruel reality of life that mother is not always there to offer comfort. I accommodated myself very early to the fact that my mother mostly ignored me, rarely tried to please me, and never offered an empathic observation to soothe my troubled heart.

Rules of Engagement for Librarians

Paragraph Two: Dress.

Librarians shall wear business attire. At no time during library hours shall any librarian remove any article of clothing, such as tie, belt, socks, suspenders, etc. Librarians shall not wear helmets, padding, or prosthetic devices (unless prescribed by a physician licensed to practice in the District of Columbia). Male librarians shall not wear girdles or "elevator"-type shoes. Per above, librarians shall not remove shoes or throw same at each other during regular library hours. Once the library is closed for the day, librarians shall be permitted to toss articles of clothing, excepting underwear, into the information desk drawer for keepsake purposes.

Paragraph Six: Hand gestures.

"Italian," "French," "Latino," "Bulgarian," or other ethnic-style gestures intended to demean, impugn, or otherwise derogate library patrons or other librarians by casting aspersions on patrons' or librarians' manhood (or womanhood), abilities as lover, or cuckold status are prohibited. Standard "American"-style gestures meant to convey honest bewilderment, doubt, etc., shall be permitted. Librarians shall not point rotating index fingers at their own temples to imply that other librarians or patrons are mentally deranged. Librarians shall at no time insert fingers in their own throats to signify urge to vomit. Librarians shall under no circumstances insert fingers into the throats of patrons or other librarians.

Paragraph Seventeen A: Bodily fluids-Perspiration.

The library branch manager shall make every effort to maintain a comfortable temperature in the library. Librarians shall make reasonable use of underarm deodorant and other antiperspirant measures, subject to review by the branch manager, before regular library hours. In the event that perspiration is unavoidable, librarians may deploy one plain white cotton handkerchief measuring eight inches square. Handkerchief may not be used to suggest that librarian wants to surrender to the capricious whims of patrons. Capricious whims of patrons include, but are not limited to, engaging in the prohibited act of saving personal documents on the hard-drive of the public access computers or using patrons' sputum to clean the computer screen.

Paragraph Forty-Two: Language.

Librarians shall address each other in terms of mutual respect ("Mr. Branch Librarian," "Ms. Assistant Librarian," etc.) Use of endearing modifiers ("my distinguished colleague," "the honorable branch manager," "Pookie," "Diddums," etc.) is permitted. The following terms are specifically forbidden and may not be used until after regular library hours: "girlie-man," "draft dodger," "drunk," "ignoramus," "Jesus freak," "frog," "bozo," "wimp," "toad," "Lickspittle," "rat bastard," "polluting bastard," "lying bastard," "demon spawn," "archfiend," or compound nouns ending in "-hole" or "-ucker."

Paragraph Fifty-eight: Spousal references

Each librarian may make sparing references to his or her spouse. All references to consist of boilerplate praise, e.g., "I would not be the librarian I am without [spouse's first name]" or "[spouse's name] patience and generosity allowed me to obtain my Master of Library Science degree."

Paragraph Seventy-two: Hypothetical scenarios

Librarians shall not pose hypothetical scenarios involving biographies, mysteries, dictionaries or other reference items, etc., so as to taunt other librarians with respect to their knowledge of the Dewey decimal system. Such hypothetical scenarios might include, but are not limited to, questions about the Kennedy assassination: "Where would you shelve a thesaurus of historical novels concerning the mystery of the second shooter?"

Paragraph Ninety-eight: Gary Freedman.

No librarian shall mention the name "Gary Freedman." In the event that any librarian utters said name in the course of regular library hours, said librarian shall be banned from ordering pizza for the next 72 hours.

A Writing Boy

The writer is a solitary traveler through life. As a boy I loved to sit alone on the curb, staring into the gutter. I would watch the iridescent colors shifting on the oil and water and I figured out that the slop of the Seventeenth Street gutter was reflecting the sunlight overhead. A small boy, just sitting there, I had emotional feelings, very powerful, of gladness and mystery, and I wanted to say something, to tell someone, about that. But there was no one to whom I could speak. I knew my sister would laugh; I feared my father would scoff; and my mother, well, maybe my mother would simply walk away and continue her housework. Or, if I felt that odd constriction in my chest and told her, she would tell me that children do not feel odd constrictions in their chest. To the present day, when I write about what I call the light within, the sense I've always had of the mystery of joy in life, I get the same tightness in my chest and with it, the old sense of trepidation. I am sometimes afraid to go on. I always knew I had the talent. I wanted to write but I was afraid of that talent. I knew I would cut myself off from my parents and my sister; and yet, how could I hide it? Lose the joy? I was always afraid that if I allowed the fire to burn, I would die. If I allowed the fire to go out, I would die. So the talent was dangerous. If I used it, I would kill myself. To confront it head-on would be too much to bear; but how could I throw it away?

Beethoven's Fifth

It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are a person who taps surreptitiously when the tunes come on--of course, not so as to disturb the others; or a person who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like a person who can only see the music; or like a person who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee; or like the person who remembers all the time that Beethoven is "echt Deutsch"; or who, like the young man seated in front of me who can think only of the young lady seated next to him and who plans to bed her later in the evening: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is cheap at any price. It is cheap, even if you hear it at Carnegie Hall, dreariest music-room in New York, though not as dreary as the Kennedy Center Concert Hall, Washington, DC; and even if you sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap.

The first movement had concluded and the Andante had begun--very beautiful, but bearing a family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes that Beethoven has written, and, to my mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. I hear the tune through once, and then my attention wanders, and I gaze at the audience, or the organ, or the architecture. Much do I censure the attenuated Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in sallow pantaloons, and which the October sunlight strikes. "How awful to have to paint a man like those Cupids!" I think. Here Beethoven started decorating the tune, so I hear through once more, and then smile at the conductor on the podium with his exaggerated gestures. But the conductor, listening to the music, with his back to the audience, cannot respond to my silent chuckles. An old man seated next to me, too looks as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there are lines across his forehead, his lips are parted, his glasses at right angles to his nose, and he has laid a thick, white hand on either knee. And next to him an old woman, so reserved, yet looking as though she wants to tap. How interesting that row of people is! What diverse influences have gone to the making. Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great sweetness, says "heigho," and the Andante comes to an end. Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and "prachtvolleying" from the German contingent. The young lady seated in front of me starts talking to her new young man; she says to him: "now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing"; and the young lady implores her young man to look out for the transitional passage on the drum.

"On the what, dear?"

"On the drum, sweetheart."

"No: look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breaths the young woman, as the music starts with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others follow him. They are not aggressive creatures; it is that that makes them so terrible. They merely observe in passing that there is no such thing as splendor or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they return and make the observation for the second time. They cannot be contradicted, for, once at all events, I feel the same, and have seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins are right.

The young man seated in front of me raises his finger: it is the transitional passage on the drum.

For, as if things are going too far, Beethoven takes hold of the goblins and makes them do what he wants. He appears in person. He gives them a little push, and they begin to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then--he blows with his mouth and they are scattered! Gusts of splendor, gods and demi-gods contending with vast swords, color and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all bursts before me, and I even stretch out my hands as if it is tangible. Any fate is titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered will alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars.

And the goblins--they have not really been there at all. There were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men of action, men of substance, rough-hewn men, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return--and they do. It is as if the splendor of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one hears the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walks quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.

Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendor, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.