‘I expected to become psychotic, but I didn’t, so somewhat surprised I got up, looked around, and then I left, what else could I do? It was a clear and sparkling August day, I hadn’t noticed that until now. The air was warm, I hadn’t noticed that before. I walked down Bogstadveien, what else could I do? I was surprisingly calm. It was late summer, the air was warm, the weather lovely, I hadn’t realised that until now, three weeks without analysis lay ahead of me, I turned into another street, what else could I do? I walked past a shop front and saw someone who looked like me in the window, but it couldn’t be me because she looked well. I stopped, retraced my steps and studied myself, a seemingly functioning woman. Could I see myself through her eyes? You’re clever, I said to her, and you don’t look too bad, I said to her. Shouldn’t you be out in the world doing things?’ (120)
This paragraph follows the moment when the narrator, a middle-aged theatre critic called Bergljot, realises that she has come to the end of the psychoanalysis which she is undergoing in the hope of recovering from childhood sexual abuse. The repetition of ‘what else could I do?’ marks an interesting phase of recovery – a kind of exhaustion with her pain. As humans we are designed to recover, to continue, to survive, despite hardship. Our self-preservation instincts kick in, and eventually (most of the time), we find the strength to simply continue, and find again a new kind of normality.
It seems that here, after undergoing an intensive 4x-week therapy, Bergljot was tired with reliving her pain (an aspect of psychoanalysis that has received criticism over the years), and because of this she ends up reaching the point at which she is able to move on. This is related to the idea that we must first accept our pain, confront it face-on, and only in doing so are we able to then move on from it. There are counter-arguments that suggest that in acknowledging our pain we give it too much attention, and run the risk of becoming trapped in it. But I find this situation equally plausible and worth noting, that there is only so much sadness a human can enduring, and in getting it out in the open we at least allow ourselves the opportunity of then exhausting it and ridding ourselves of at least its most debilitating aspects.
Once Bergljot accepts that she won’t be seeing her psychoanalyst that day, she finds a freedom that allows her to notice things she wasn’t able to before therapy. What strikes her is something as mundane as pleasant weather, a ‘clear and sparkling August day’. It seems that psychoanalysis worked precisely by returning to her pain so forcefully, and then once it stops, her mind was free enough to enjoy the world outside of her. It is as though the therapy absorbed all of her trauma, enveloped it so entirely, that once it ended, it took those feelings along with it. The assumption is that if, to the contrary, we avoid difficult feelings, they remain with us, subtly colouring everything we do. I thought that this was a really beautiful and poignant depiction of one aspect of recovery, the realisation that there is a whole world outside of us that does not have to do with our inner turmoil, and that our eyes have been opened to it. Trauma, in its invasive and all-enveloping character, can often overwhelm us, and make other parts of life hard to enjoy. Here, we see the narrator finally open up and start to appreciate life anew.
This book is predominantly about how to both live with and move on from traumatic and painful histories. It is most skilful in showing both how our past experiences inevitably shape us into the people that we are – and so, we are never truly ‘free’ from them – but that also, with time, eventually they become things that we can build on and recover from in creative and positive ways. Just because something forms us does not mean it has to trap us.
The book begins by describing the narrator before this healing process has taken place. At that earlier stage, her past is something that drags her down: ‘it was how I felt, how deep it went, how it pushed me into the abyss, how it weighed me down, how I started to sink’ (15). But through gradual unearthing and understanding, and when the narrator starts to insist that other people in her life join her in confronting these difficult memories, eventually, she is able to incorporate them into her life in productive ways. She describes a growing sense that the dark past must be seen and heard, it must be given space for insight and growth to occur: ‘What I was experiencing, I came to realise once I started to understand my life, was that a moment of insight was approaching like the tremors that precede an earthquake, and like an animal I could sense it before it happened’ (21). This ‘moment of insight’ will not be easy or pain-free, but it does bring with it a brightness and optimism.
Throughout the book the narrator speaks in terms of development, she fears ‘turning into a child again’ and often expresses the wish that she could feel and behave like an adult. Adulthood apparently represents clarity and understanding, while childhood is the dependent, naïve state where we are under the sway of others wishes and desires. This is a useful metaphor with which to think of this developmental growing process that occurs over time, and though it of course doesn’t map so neatly in real life, I think we can all appreciate the feeling that adulthood brings with it agency and independence, and it is this that she is seeking.
Another important contribution to the narrator’s recovery is that precisely with this ‘adult’ agency she starts to take her own wants and needs more seriously, and does not give in to the needs of others at the expense of her own. This is a valuable part of her recovery, her realisation that she must in some way stay true to herself in order to feel better:
‘Jung saw things the way his instinct encouraged him to. If he didn’t his snake would turn on him. I tried to look at things the way my instinct encouraged me to. If I didn’t, my snake would turn on me. My mum and sisters had acted in ways and said things which my snake disagreed with. I travel along the path my snake prescribes, I thought, because it’s good for me.’ (318).