Instead, what appears to be of greatest benefit to patients is the genuineness and persuasiveness of therapists - qualities neither of which are especially flexible in professional training. But as counselling psychologist Paul Moloney points out, if warmth and confidence are the calling cards of successful psychotherapists, then it is worth observing that this principle - and I quote him with some reluctance - “applies equally to politicians, salespeople and prostitutes”.

The therapist is seeing the situation differently, and that itself may be helpful. When therapist and client are not in the same narrative, there is space for change.

I mentioned before that emotions can be contagious. If you are the helper and there is a transference from the past onto you, you are in danger of getting caught up in it and playing your role unconsciously in that narrative— countertransference. You may find yourself in the middle of a highly emotional drama and not aware of what is taking place. You don’t realize that your client has found a doctor or an uncle in you. I remember a client telling me that I reminded her of a former boyfriend who, like me, was interested in art and music and spirituality. That’s all it took for a transference to form. If I had unconsciously felt her interest in me through her old boyfriend, I might have developed a countertransference, an added layer of interest due to the eros flowing between us. That could be a useful complication, but it could also cause trouble. In this case I kept my wits about me and cautiously used the frisson of the boyfriend to keep the therapy warm and deep. A therapist always needs a seat in the back row, where she can watch the drama as it unfolds. She should have the skill to observe several levels playing out at once. At the same time, she has to play her part in the action. She has to be involved with a heightened level of awareness. It is particularly dangerous to get caught in a transference/countertransference because you may intensify the narrative that is causing the person so much pain, and, of course, in that state you can hardly find your way out to clarity and freedom.

Dr. Kernberg was kind to me and helped me to see that, while their deprivation may have been real, these patients had lots of internal conflict around anger that was holding them back. In showing me this, he also, without having to say it directly, made me see that I, too, was pushing anger away. He gave me language to use. “You might not be aware of how angry you are,” he suggested I say. “But you are in danger of destroying the very support you need the most.” By beginning my communication with “you might not be aware” rather than confronting my patients’ anger directly, I could encourage them to reflect upon something they were otherwise just acting out unawares. My skills as a therapist improved dramatically as a result. Kindness without the proper intelligence to back it up was of little use, but the use of kindness in the service of therapy’s insights was very helpful.

He [Winnicott] was by no means a Buddhist, but I believe he, too, healed by modeling being. He mostly used mother/infant vocabulary to describe his mode of relating, but this did not stop him from describing, in disarmingly frank terms, his own internal process:

It is only in recent years that I have become able to wait and

wait . . . and to avoid breaking up this natural process by making

interpretations. . . . It appals me to think how much deep change I

have prevented or delayed . . . by my personal need to interpret. If

only we can wait, the patient arrives at understanding creatively

and with immense joy, and I now enjoy this joy more than I used to

enjoy the sense of having been clever. I think I interpret mainly to let

the patient know the limits of my understanding. The principle is

that it is the patient and only the patient who has the answers. We

may or may not enable him or her to encompass what is known or

become aware of it with acceptance.