The reverse side of love | The duty

I no longer remember exactly who I got these words from: was it from one of my supervisors, or was it my psychoanalyst, frankly? -, but I know that fragments of meaning continue to distill in me, many years after they were pronounced: “the reverse side of love is neither hate nor indifference, but good power”.

Once all the slippery paths that would leave room for any legitimation of various forms of violence “in the name of a potentially poorly expressed latent love” have been excluded from this logic, it seems to me that all the perspectives it offers on the possible outcomes of some remain. contrasting dynamics.

Like a turtleneck that we would like to unfold full-length and which, once opened, would reveal an unsuspected vulnerability under concrete defenses, power, upside down, would finally show something of the “soft soft” under sharp arguments. , a little pink under the dark, hot tears after cold showers.

A little romantic as a vision? Of course ! For the record, let me tell you that in August 1998, when I was admitted to the baccalaureate in psychology and literature, it was a moose on a randomly tossed coin from life that ended up deciding in Freud’s favor. Literature never left my life, however, and the romance I fell into as a child actually only got worse in all this time spent loving humans just where they couldn’t love each other.

The childhood clinic led me to sit together, in all sorts of discomfort and very heavy silence, parents who, in the past, had loved each other so much that they gave birth to one or more children who now pretended to redo the story, which we connect the versions, but above all that we redistribute “in real life” the permissions to love and resemble both parents, regardless of the schisms left by the ravages of breakups.

If my love for what is suffering and my faith in the human sometimes take on the aspect of the celestial, there are situations that quickly bring me brutally back to the floor of reality. These situations are what can be grouped under the broad term “severe separation conflict”.

With more poetry I would like to designate these situations, which are obviously those that have struck me most in my professional life, as the “Great Invisible Violence” and all its variants: hostage, “improper use of language” or even “how to alienate the childhood by pretending to honor it? “If the words are harsh, the realities they designate are sadly terrible sources of suffering for children.

Like a huge magnifying mirror, this phenomenon increasingly invited into our clinics gives us a far from bright image of our collective tendencies to want to play our parenting roles well, as if it were an Olympic competition. The “best parent”, the one who has read and absorbed all the mimicry well, without integrating its essence, the one who brings his son’s heart to a boxing arena, where there is only room for his own reflection, it is of him that I speak.

If I choose not to attribute to it either a gender or a representation that is too close to a possible personalization, it is because I want to represent it here more as a symbol which, fortunately, is only rarely fully embodied in a person. I would like us to dare to consider how much sleep, potentially, in each of us, when we are wounded in “our places of love” and when we “play for power”, so as not to feel rest.

Hating those who left us, those who remarry, those who forget their appointments with the dentist, those who cannot communicate more than when we were with him or her, those who betrayed us, cheated on us or threw us away after use are feelings who are not only normal, but deeply human.

It is not at this level that perversion is at stake.

She, she enters the scene when instead of being experienced, expressed, then digested, these somewhat shameful but authentic feelings freeze, are denied or projected, to give rise to a sort of “performance of the opposite”. The real then becomes flexible according to the needs of a reconstruction of a scenario that responds to the image of the perfect parent. We will no longer take responsibility for our own harm, and it is “in the name of the child” that we will precisely carry out what harms him, this child.

In this type of dynamic not only love (or heartbreak) no longer finds its way, but power becomes the only spoken language, behind, but above all, in the heart of those who only need to join pieces of identity. linked to the continents at war: our children.

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