“I’m not an anxious person,” I told my new social work supervisor a couple weeks into our sessions. We met weekly to review my caseload of clients and to discuss transference (the client’s projections onto the therapist) and countertransference (the therapist’s projections onto the client). Joe felt that my lack of progress with a particular patient was the result of some anxiety, “completely natural for the unseasoned clinician,” he said, glossing over the fact I’d already been in the field for several years.
“But I’m not an anxious person, Joe,” I insisted.
He wasn’t the kind of person to say “Yeah, right,” but his eyes gave him away.
I’m not an anxious person. I let in worries, acknowledge them, and let them pass. As long as the stresses won’t kill me or someone else, I figure they’ll be resolved somehow.
But being pregnant and facing motherhood, I think I’m getting in touch with some anxieties, though they’re still not articulated.
Since I learned I was pregnant, I’ve had three vivid nightmares, the most recent being last night. They’ve all involved children. Two have involved miscarriage. And the one last night clearly channeled my anxieties about today’s doctor appointment- my first.
I wake from these pesadillas unsettled, unsure, for just a moment, whether something fearsome and irreversible really has happened, or if I’m in the liminal state between sleep and wake.
I suppose it’s time to go back and read Jung.