Whether it be shallow or not, commitment is the foundation, the bedrock of any genuinely loving relationship. Deep commitment does not guarantee the success of the relationship but does help more than any other factor to assure it . Initially shallow commitments may grow deep with time; if not, the relationship will likely crumble(崩塌) or else be inevitably sickly(不健康的) or chronically frail(脆弱的). Frequently we are not consciously aware of the immensity(巨大) of the risk involved in making a deep commitment. I have already suggested that one of the functions served by the instinctual(本能的) phenomenon of falling in love is to provide the participants with a magic cloak(掩盖) of omnipotence which blissfully(幸福地) blinds them to the riskiness of what they are doing when they undertake(承担) marriage. For my own part I was reasonably calm until the very moment that my wife joined me before the altar(圣坛), when my whole body began to tremble. I then became so frightened that I can remember almost nothing of the ceremony or the reception(招待会) following. In any case it is our sense of commitment after the wedding which makes possible the transition from falling in love to genuine love. And it is our commitment after conception(怀孕) which transforms us from biological into psychological parents.
The importance of the distinction between biological and psychological parenting is elegantly(优美地) elaborated(用心制作) and concretized(具体化) in Goldstein Freud and Solnit, Beyond the Best Interests of the Child(Macmillan, 19)。
Commitment is inherent in any genuine loving relationship. Anyone who is truly concerned(关心) for the spiritual growth of another knows consciously or instinctively(本能地), that he or she can significantly foster(促进) that growth only through a relationship of constancy(坚定不移). Children cannot grow to psychological maturity in an atmosphere of unpredictability, haunted(忧心忡忡的) by the specter(幽灵) of abandonment. Couples cannot resolve in any healthy way the universal issues of marriage-dependency and independency, dominance and submission(屈服), freedom and fidelity(忠贞), for example-without the security of knowing that the act of struggling over these issues will not itself destroy the relation.
Problems of commitment are a major, inherent part of most psychiatric disorders, and issues of commitment are crucial(至关重要的) in the course of psychotherapy. Character-disordered individuals tend to form only shallow commitments, and when their disorders are severe these individuals seem to lack totally the capacity to form commitments at all. It is not so much that they fear the risk of committing themselves as that they basically do not understand what commitment is all about. Because their parents failed to commit(承诺) themselves to them as children in any meaningful way, they grew up without experience of commitment. Commitment for them represents an abstract beyond their ken(知识范围), a phenomenon of which they cannot fully conceive(设想). Neurotics, on the other hand, are generally aware of the nature of commitment but are frequently paralyzed(瘫痪的) by the fear of it. Usually their experience of early childhood was one in which their parents were sufficiently committed to them for them to form a commitment to their parents in return. Subsequently, however, a cessation(停止) of parental love through death, abandonment or chronic rejection, has the effect of making the child’s unrequited(无回报的) commitment a experience of intolerable pain. New commitments, then, are naturally dreaded. Such injuries can be healed only if it is possible for the person to have basic and more satisfying experience with commitment at a later date. It is for this reason, among others, that commitment is the cornerstone of the psychotherapeutic relationship. There are times when I shudder(发抖) at the enormity(艰巨性) of what I am doing when I accept another patient for long-term therapy, For basic healing to take place it is necessary for the psychotherapist to bring to his or her relationship with a new patient the same high sense and degree of commitment that genuinely loving parents bring to their children. The therapist’s sense of commitment and constancy of concern will usually be tested and inevitably made manifest(显明) to the patient in myriad(无数的) ways over the course of months or years of therapy.
Rachel, a cold and distantly(冷淡地) proper(合乎体统的) young woman of twenty-seven, came to see me at the end of a brief marriage. Her husband, Mark, had left her because of her frigidity(性冷淡). “I know I’m frigid(冷淡的),” Rachel acknowledged. “I thought I would warm up to Mark in time, but it never happened. I don’t think it’s just Mark. I’ve never enjoyed sex with anyone. And, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to. One part of me wants to, because I’d like to have a happy marriage someday, and I’d like to be normal-normal people seem to find something wonderful in sex. But another part of me is quite content(满意的) to stay the way I am. Mark always said, ‘Relax and let go.’ Well, maybe I don’t want to relax and let go even if I could.”
In the third month of our work together I pointed out to Rachel that she always said “Thank you” to me at least twice before she even sat down to begin a session-first when I met her in the waiting room and again as she passed through the door into my office. “What’s wrong with being polite?” She asked.
“Nothing per se(本身),” I replied. “But in this particular case it seems so unnecessary. You are acting as if you were a guest in here and not even sure of your welcome.”
“But I am a guest in here. it’s your house.”
“True,” I said. “But it’s also true that you’re paying me forty dollars an hour for your time in here. You have purchased this time and this office space, and because you’ve purchased it, you have a right to it. You’re not a guest. This office, this waiting room, and our time together are your right. It’s yours. You’ve paid me for this right, so why thank me for what is yours?”
“I can’t believe you really feel that way,” Rachel exclaimed(大叫).
“Then you must believe that I can kick you out of here any time I want to,” I countered(反驳). “You must feel that it’s possible for you to come in here some morning and have me tell you, ‘Rachel, working with you has become a bore. I’ve decided not to see you again. Goodbye and good luck.’”
“That’s exactly the way I feel,” Rachel agreed. “I’ve never thought of anything being my right before, at least not in regard to(就…而论) any person. You mean you couldn’t kick me out?”
“Oh, I suppose(猜) I could. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to. It wouldn’t be ethical(合乎道德的), among other things. Look, Rachel,” I said, “When I take on a case such as yours in long-term therapy I make a commitment to that case, that person. And I’ve made a commitment to you. I will work with you as long as is necessary, whether it takes one year or five years or ten years or whatever. I don’t know whether you will quit our work together when you’re ready or before you’re ready. But whichever it is, you are the one who will terminate our relationship. Short of(除……以外) my death, my services will be available to you as long as your want them.”
It was not difficult for me to understand Rachel’s problem. At the beginning of her therapy her ex-husband, Mark, had said to me: “I think Rachel’s mother has a lot to do with this. She’s a remarkable(非凡的) woman. She’d make a great president of General Motors, but I’m not sure she’s a very good mother.” Quite so. Rachel had been raised, or rather ruled, with the feeling that she might be fired at any moment if she didn’t toe the line(听从). Rather than giving Rachel the sense that her place in the home as a child was secure-a sense that can come solely from committed parents-Rachel’s mother had instead consistently communicated the opposite: like that of an employee, Rachel’s position was guaranteed only insofar as she produced what was required and behaved according to expectations. Since her place in the home was not secure as a child, how could she feel that her place with me was secure?
Such injuries caused by a parental failure of commitment are not healed by a few words, a few superficial reassurances(安慰). On successively deeper levels they must be worked through(解决) again and again. One such working-through, for instance, occurred more than a year later. We had been focusing on the fact that Rachel never cried in my presence-another way in which she could not allow herself to “let go.” One day as she was talking of the terrible loneliness that came from having to constantly be on guard(戒备), I sensed that she was on the brink(边缘) of weeping but that some slight push was needed from me, so I did something out of the ordinary: I reached over to where she was lying on the couch and gently stroked(轻抚) her head, murmuring(悄声说话), “Poor Rachel. Poor Rachel.” The gesture failed. Rachel immediately stiffened(挺直) and sat up, dry-eyed. “I cannot do it,” she said. “I cannot let myself go.” This was toward the end of the session. At her next session Rachel came in and sat on the couch instead of lying down. “Well, now it’s your time to talk,” she announced.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’re going to tell me all the things that are wrong with me.”
I was puzzled. “I still don’t understand what you mean, Rachel.”
“This is our last session. You’re going to sum up all the things wrong with me, all the reasons why you can’t treat me any more.”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea what’s going on,” I said.
It was Rachel’s turn to be puzzled. “Well,” she said, “last session you wanted me to cry. You’ve wanted me to cry for a long time. last session you did everything you could to help me to cry and I still wouldn’t do it, so you’re going to give up on me. I can’t do what you want me to do. That’s why today will be our last session.”
“You really believe I’m going to fire you, don’t you, Rachel?”
“Yes. Anyone would.”
“No, Rachel, not anyone. Your mother might have. But I’m not your mother. Not everyone in this world is like your mother. You’re not my employee. You’re not here to do what I want you to do. You’re here to do what you want to do it. I may push you, but I have no power over you. I will never fire you. You’re here for as long as you want to be.”
One of the problems that people commonly have in their adult relationships if they have never received a firm commitment from their parents is the “I’ll desert(抛弃) you before you desert me” syndrome(合征). This syndrome will take many forms or disguises( 伪装). One form was Rachel’s frigidity. Although it was never on a conscious level, what Rachel’s frigidity was expressing to her husband and previous boyfriends was, “I’m not going to give myself to you when I know damn well that you’re going to dump(丢弃) me one of these days.” For Rachel, “Letting go,” sexually or otherwise, represented a commitment of herself, and she was unwilling to make a commitment when the map of her past experience made it seem certain she would not receive any commitment in return.
The “I’ll desert(抛弃) you before you desert me” syndrome(症状) becomes more and more powerful the closer such a person as Rachel comes to another. After a year of therapy on a twice-a-week basis Rachel announced to me that she could no longer afford eighty dollars a week. Since her divorce, she said, she was having a difficult time making ends meet(平衡收支), and she would simply have to stop seeing me or cut back to once a week. On a realistic level this was ridiculous. I knew that Rachel had an inheritance(遗产) of fifty thousand dollars in addition to the modest(适中的) salary she earned at her job, and in the community she was known to be a member of an old and wealthy family. Ordinarily I would have confronted her vigorously(坚决地) with the fact that she could afford my services more easily than many patients and was clearly using the issue of money spuriously(虚假地) to feel from an increasing closeness to me. On the other hand, I also knew that her inheritance represented something more for Rachel than just money; it was hers, something that would desert her, a bulwark(保障) of security in an uncommitted world. Although it was quite reasonable for me to ask her to dip into(动用) her inheritance to pay my standard fee, I guessed that that was a risk she was not yet ready to make and that if I insisted she would indeed flee. She had said she thought that on her income she could afford to pay fifty dollars a week, and she offered me that amount for just one session. I told her I would reduce my fee to twenty-five dollars a session and continue to see her twice weekly. She looked at me with a mixture of fear, disbelief and joy. “You’d really do that?” She asked. I nodded. A long period of silence followed. Finally, closer to tears than she had ever yet been, Rachel said, “Because I came from a wealthy family, the merchants in town have always charged me the highest the traffic would bear. You are offering me a break. No one ever offered me a break before.”
Actually, Rachel quit therapy several times during the following year in the struggle over whether she could permit our mutual(相互的) commitment to grow. Each time, through a combination of letters and phone calls over a week or two, I was able to persuade her to return. Finally, by the end of the second year of therapy we were able to deal more directly with the issues involved. I’d learned that Rachel wrote poetry and I asked her to show it to me. First she refused. Then she agreed, but week after week she would “forget” to bring it to me. I pointed out that withholding her poetry from me had the same significance as withholding(克制) her sexuality(性欲) from Mark and other men. Why did she feel that the offering of her poems to me represented a total commitment of herself? Why did she feel that the sharing of her sexuality was as similar total commitment? Even if I were not responsive to her poetry, would that mean a total rejection of her? Would I terminate our friendship because she was not a great poet? Perhaps the sharing of her poetry would deepen our relationship. Why was she fearful of such deepening? Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
Finally coming to accept the fact that she did have a commitment from me, in the third year of her therapy Rachel began to “let go.” She finally took the risk of letting me see her poetry. Then she was able to giggle and laugh and tease. Our relationship, which had previously been stiff(生硬的) and formal, became warm, spontaneous and often light-hearted(轻松的) and joyful. “I never knew what it was like to be relaxed with another person before,” she said. “This is the first place in my life I’ve ever felt secure.” From the security of my office and our time together she was rapidly able to venture(敢于去) forth into other relationships. She realized that sex was not a matter of commitment but one of self-expression and play and exploration and learning and joyful abandonment(放纵). Knowing that I would always be available to her if she became bruised(受伤的), like the good mother she had never had, she was free to allow her sexuality to burst forth. her frigidity(性冷淡) melted(溶解). By the time she terminated therapy in the fourth year, Rachel had become a vivacious(活泼的) and openly passionate(热情的) person who was busily enjoying all that human relationships have to offer.
I was fortunately able to offer Rachel a sufficient degree of commitment to overcome the ill effects of the lack of commitment that she had never experienced during her childhood. I have often been not so fortunate. The computer technician I described in the first section as an example of transference was a case in point(相关的). His need for commitment from me was so total that I was not able, or willing, to meet it. If the therapist’s commitment is insufficient(不充分的) to survive(设法对付) the vicissitudes(变迁) of the relationship, basic healing will not occur. However, if the therapist’s commitment is sufficient, then usually-although not inevitably-the patient will respond sooner or later with a developing commitment of his or her own, a commitment to the therapist and to therapy itself. The point at which the patient begins to demonstrate this commitment is the turning point of therapy. For Rachel, I think this point came when she finally offered me her poetry. Strangely, some patients may come to therapy faithfully two or three hours a week for years and yet never reach this point. Others may reach it within the first few months. But reach it they must if they are to be healed. For the therapist it is a wonderful moment of relief(轻松) and joy when this point is reached, for then he or she knows that the patient has assumed(承担) the risk of commitment to getting well and that therefore therapy will succeed.
The risk of commitment to therapy is not only the risk of commitment itself but also the risk of self-confrontation and change. In the previous section, in the discussion of the discipline of dedication to the truth, I elaborated(详细说明) on the difficulties of changing one’s map of reality, world views and transferences. Yet changed they must be if one is to lead a life of loving involving frequent extensions of oneself into new dimensions and territories of involvement. There come many points on one’s journey of spiritual growth, whether one is alone or has a psychotherapist as guide, when one must take new and unfamiliar actions in consonance with(与……一致) one’s new world view. The taking of such new action-behaving differently from the way one has always behaved before-may represent an extraordinary personal risk. The passively homosexual young man for the first time summons(召唤) the initiative(倡议) to ask a girl for a date; the person who has never trusted anyone lies down for the first time on the analyst’s couch allowing the analyst to be hidden from his view; the previously dependent housewife announces to her controlling husband that she is obtaining a job whether he likes it or not, that she has her own life to live; the fifty-year-old mama’s boy tells his mother to stop addressing(对……讲话) him by his infantile(婴儿的) nickname; the emotionally distant, seemingly self-sufficient “strong” man first allows himself to weep in public; or Rachel “lets go” and cries for the first time in my office: these actions, and many more, involve a risk more personal and therefore frequently more fearsome and frightening than that of any soldier entering battle. The soldier cannot run because the gun is pointed at his back as well as his front. But the individual trying to grow can always retreat(后退) into the easy and familiar patterns of a more limited past.
It has been said that the successful psychotherapist must bring to the psychotherapeutic relationship the same courage and the same sense of commitment as the patient. The therapist must also risk change. Of all the good and useful rules of psychotherapy that I have been taught, there are very few that I have not chosen to break at one time or another, not out of laziness and lack of discipline but rather in fear and trembling, because my patient’s therapy seemed to require that, one way or another, I should step out of the safety of the prescribed(规定的) analyst’s role, be different and risk the unconventional. As I look back on every successful case I have had I can see that at some point or points in each case I had to lay myself on the line. The willingness of the therapist to suffer at such moments is perhaps the essence of therapy, and when perceived by the patient, as it usually is, it is always therapeutic(有疗效的). It is also through this willingness to extend themselves and suffer with and over their patients that therapists grow and change. Again as I look back on my successful cases, there is not one that did not result in some very meaningful, often radical(根本的), change in my attitudes and perspectives. It has to be this way. It is impossible to truly understand another without making room for that person within yourself. This making room, which once again is the discipline of bracketing, requires an extension of and therefore a changing of the self.
So it is in good parenting as well as in good psychotherapy. The same bracketing and extension of ourselves is involved in listening to our children. To respond to their healthy needs we must change ourselves. Only when we are willing to undergo(经受) the suffering of such changing can we become the parents our children need us to be. And since children are constantly growing and their needs are changing, we are obliged(必须做某事) to change and grow with them. Everyone is familiar with parents, for instance, who can deal effectively with their children until the time of adolescence, but who then become totally ineffective as parents because they are unable to change and adjust their attitudes toward their now older and different children. And, as in all other instances of love, it would be incorrect to view the suffering and changing involved in good parenting as some kind of self-sacrifice or martyrdom(殉难); to the contrary, parents have more to gain from the process than their children. Parents who are unwilling to risk the suffering of changing and growing and learning from their children are choosing a path of senility(老年期)-whether they know it or not-and their children and the world will leave them far behind. Learning from their children is the best opportunity most people have to assure(确保) themselves of a meaningful old age. Sadly, most do not take this opportunity.