In your clinical practice, are there ever times when something comes up in a patient that has no identifiable cause? How do you deal with that?
The cause is very often invisible, so I view this as a starting point for the work. I remain calm and proceed as if a cause definitely exists, even if it is currently in the shadows. I explore whatever the person's consciousness allows them to share at that moment.
I accept that the cause has the right to remain hidden for as long as the psyche needs to gather the strength to face it.
Have you ever had a patient who couldn’t remember where they started?
Yes, it’s a common stage: after working together for some time, a person can’t recall what they originally came in with — as if their consciousness is obscuring the reason why he came. I have it in my notes, but I would never insist that we focus solely on that. Instead, I’ll bring it out into the open: "Look, this keeps getting forgotten — how do you want us to handle that?"
What is the difference between a wound whose cause is known and one whose cause is unknown?
A wound with a known source stops aching. A wound with a known source calls for mourning — a process that tends to subside over time. A wound of unknown origin, however, is shrouded in mystification; it is frightening in its alien nature and in the sense of being cursed that it imposes on the bearer (for when a person does not know "why," they mistakenly conclude that it is "because of them").
Yet the reality is that the cause is often multifaceted. A wound is a complex set of circumstances involving chance, a confluence of events, and the will and morality of others. And inflicting the trauma is the responsibility of the actor, not the victim.
How does trauma affect a person’s sense of where they come from?
If we are talking about a physical place — home turf, family — these are precisely the things that can bring a person back from the isolation of trauma and restore wholeness through a sense of connection (provided, of course, that a strong bond with these things existed BEFORE the trauma). Human beings were not designed for solitary existence; therefore, a context that reminds us of this serves as a remedy for our wounds.
But there are also metaphysical "roots": a sense of belonging to life itself, and to the creative, generative nature of humanity. This connection can become tenuous. It is as if one loses one's sense of place in a cosmic sense. Here, too, it is crucial not to remain alone — to seek out those with whom you can reclaim your vitality.
Is there a source of identity, or does identity only become apparent when it begins to fracture?
I have the sense that this source is dynamic — not something frozen or rigid, but something alive and fluid. We certainly look to the outside world for models of the life we wish to lead and the kind of person we want to be in. However, it is vital that these external images touch the soul and spark a vivid, unequivocal thirst for life.
When someone is in contact with such an internal "Bzin," a person's identity will always remain stable = the person is identical to their internal concepts of what is good (concepts which, incidentally, may change).