If you had walked past me in the high street, you would never have guessed I needed help. By all exterior measures I appeared successful, happy and 'normal'. That's no surprise - after all, I worked hard for many years to make it look that way, both to the outside world and to myself. But sometime around my mid-thirties, I could still fool everyone else pretty well but it was getting harder and harder to convince myself that everything was ok. No matter how high up the corporate ladder I climbed, how much financial security I gained for myself, what I bought, where I went, who I knew - it didn't make a difference for more than a fleeting moment.  I just couldn't be happy. Nothing worked. I couldn't form lasting relationships, I couldn't make decisions, I was clueless as to what I wanted from life and I had no self-esteem.  In fact my life had absolutely no meaning.  

By the time I got to age 35, the lethargy I felt was debilitating. I couldn't get enough sleep, and no matter how many hours I slept I still rose every morning eagerly awaiting the moment I would get home from work later that so that I could climb right back into bed. I went to my GP - who tested me for every physiological possibility. Did I have anaemia? No. Diabetes? No. An infection? No. In the typical modus operandus of the British GP, she suggested I take more exercise and sent me on my way.  

That GP had just dismissed from her office a woman with clinical depression.  

Fortunately, I had recently made a new friend who was from the US; NYC to be precise. Therapists are like manicures in New York - everyone thinks it's odd if you don't have one. Sharing your recent session's discussion on 'boundary issues' is fairly standard dinner party conversation. So she suggested that maybe I get some help from a therapist to discover what was preventing me from finding that all-elusive happiness.   I took my American friend's advice and set about the task of finding the right therapist for me. I researched the differences between psychiatrists, psychotherapists, psychoanalysts, Freudian, Jungian..... the list went on. And because I am (was) useless at making decisions, I opted to try all of them, but after initial appointments I quickly decided on psychoanalysis.   

Psychoanalysis begins with an assessment session, lasting around 90 minutes. The person who assesses you will never become your analyst - but they listen to your issues, evaluate your ability to listen, respond and think with intellect, and based on that one session they advise whether analysis is right for you, and if so, make a recommendation of the right analyst.   

I sat down in the chair, not the couch, though I noted there was one in the room. I explained to her that I couldn't feel happy even when i was awake (which wasn't often), constantly felt either anxious or lethargic, and that I couldn't be happy despite my material successes. In addition, I felt like I needed the world to stop, so that I could catch up. I felt like I was sleepwalking through life.   I expected her to ask me about my job, my homelife, my social life. But she had interest in none of the above - all she asked was 'Tell me about your childhood'. So, I did.

I told her that my father had abandoned me, that my mother would call me names, regularly told me I had ruined her life, explained to me that I would never be loved by anyone, and when words weren't enough to relieve her violent temper, she would hit out at me.  When I was 4, she married a man who didn't like me  and who would watch her hit me or stand by while she called me those awful names. And finally, the one person in the world who consistently gave me love - my Grandmother - died. And this was all before I was aged 5.   

The analyst advised I was an emotionally abused child who suffered too many traumas in my formative years to be able to cope with adult issues and situations - a fact that shocked me but if you think about it, it shouldn't have shocked anyone, least of all me. She advised that yes, therapy would be helpful, and indeed probably essential, for my search for contentment.   

That was three years ago.    

What the assessment did not prepare me for was how difficult, painful and frustrating psychoanalysis would be. It told me nothing of how we would scrape back the layers of protection I had built up in order to live through my abuse, until I was back at the very moment of that early pain that I had been unable to deal with as a child. And that just when you think you have scraped off all the layers you can, and got to the very root of your pain, another layer peels away and the pain deepens.  And while I have been on this journey called analysis, I have found very little sources of advice and help on the process itself or more importantly, how to survive it.  I have found very few stories of people who have suffered with psychoanalysis but stuck with it, and succeeded. And besides, what is successful therapy anyway?

There are books written by doctors and analysts themselves on theoretical principles, and there are books and articles by reviewers of the therapy types. But what I wanted was to hear from other people who were going through, or had gone through, the same form of therapy as me - if only so that I could feel less alone.   During (some of) this time, I kept up a facade of normal daily life. I went to work, I sat in business meetings, I read the paper on the train, I watched movies, I had friends, I took vacations - all the usual. But inside, I was desperately unhappy. The pain was often unbearable and the depressive parts of the analytic cycle were agonising - but no-one ever knew the pain I was in. And that got me to thinking, I can't be the only person out there who has ever pretended I'm fine when in actual fact I am in analysis and my world is crumbling. The woman I sat across from on the bus just this morning, reading her book, may be going through the very same thing.   

So I have started this page. To share, to hear from others, to get it out there. To get help and to give help. To get and give hope.    

Jane