Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is for the meek.
Of course, we can all fall prey, in the heightened intensity of that which we call intimacy, to an unlinking of thought from meaning, a momentary lapse in our ability to remain grounded in the truth of the present. Sure, we may call upon a manualized interpretation, a rigid clinical diagnosis once, twice in our moments of greatest weakness.
But as the foundation upon which one bases their theory of mind, the epitome of one’s standard of care? For shame.
Let me take a step back. What is this cognitive behavioral therapy? This “CBT,” as it is so digestibly nicknamed? Like DBT or EFT, its abbreviated form calls forth images of precision, efficacy. It is a notion of “therapy” that decouples past from present, severs the thread connecting the concrete and the symbolic, rendering cultural, historical, political context insignificant.
The method? Identify the problematic thoughts that lead to problematic behaviors. Change the behaviors by correcting the thoughts via a prescriptive set of techniques, executed with surgical precision.
In fact, with online programs such as CCBT Limited, a therapist is no longer even needed! We now have the technology to eliminate the grueling slippage that is the result of human-to-human relating, now replaced by the evidence-based certainty that only ones and zeroes can provide.
And oh how our society flocks!
But can we fault the client? An unwitting member of our Pringle-chomping, Kardashian-watching, shake-weight-purchasing public? I dare say not. Has she not slipped into the seemingly insurmountable muskeg of consumption — corpulent, slovenly — helpless to maintain her thinking mind in the face of the mighty forces of corporate America?
So what does he offer, this CBT therapist? A series of techniques whose names beget their purpose — distraction, motivational self-talk, redirection.
“Do not ponder your condition,” he says to them. “Do not examine the circumstances of your life. Shut up. Shut down. Use thought-stopping to turn off those niggling anxieties about melting icebergs, fracking, Monsanto, Guantanamo, the school-to-prison pipeline. Bah! Simply employ cognitive restructuring.”
Simply continue forward in your path of subordination, lemmings.
It hardly seems there is any other way. Cymbalta, hypnotherapy, REBT, DBT, EFT, CBA, ACT!
But we, my friends, know of another way — this thing called Psychoanalysis. One might hear whispers of it in dimly lit wine bars, rumors of underground salons where people speak in a language foreign to all but the most learn-ed.
This Psychoanalysis, an attempt over a century in the making, to empower individuals to… think — make meaning, mentalize, become aware of their condition within the larger socio-political context. Psychoanalysis asserts that there are parts of our own psyche that are unknown, that speak to us in the form of symptoms and, with an attuned guide, we can come to discover mysteries within.
If this thing is true, then why do we keep it a secret?! Why do we remain in our towers of ivory, polishing our red books over and again? How are we not bursting forth, shouting from the rooftops that psychoanalysis is sexy?!
Psychoanalysis is bold, alluring, seductive, generative. It can bring the people, their souls desiccated from a one-size fits all model of the mind, into a world of lush, erotic tension. From French-fries to flirtation, from Carl’s Jr. to creativity.
Do not let yourselves be cowed by the media propagandists who push psychopharmaceuticals, behavioralism, self-help. We must employ all of the channels at our disposal to fight back, not just our insular articles, esoteric books and brilliant but inaccessible theses that preach to the choir, but through pop culture, through social media, through a much broader engagement that seeds the notion in the great wide world that psychoanalytic thought has NOT disappeared but is still vital, still relevant, still sexy.
