The opposite of love | The duty

I can no longer remember exactly from whom I received these words – was it from one of my supervisors, or my psychoanalyst, frankly? -, but I know that they continue to erase fragments of meaning to me, many years after they were declared: “the opposite of love is neither hatred nor even indifference, but good power”.

Once excluded from this logic all the steep slopes that leave room for any legitimacy of various forms of violence “in the name of a tendency to poorly expressed secret love”, remain , for me, all the perspectives it offers on possible outcomes. .of some conflicting dynamics.

Like a turtleneck that we unfold to the full length and that, once unfolded, will reveal an undoubted weakness under concrete defenses, the power, created within the outside, will finally be allowed. something of the “soft soft” to be found under sharp arguments. , a little pink under the dark, warm tears after a cold rain.

A little romantic as a vision? Sure! For the record, let me tell you that in August 1998, when I was accepted for baccalaureates in psychology and literature, it was a moose on a coin for no reason tossed from life that ended in deciding favor. of Freud. Literature has never disappeared from my life, though, and the romanticism with which I fell as a child has actually only exacerbated all this time spent loving people precisely where they couldn’t afford to love each other.

The childhood clinic took me to sit together, in all sorts of turmoil and heavy silence, parents who, in the past, loved each other enough to sustain one or more children who are now demanding we will change the thread of the story, we will link the versions, but above all we will distribute “in real life” the permissions of love and the similarity of both parents, regardless of schisms left by ravages breakups.

If my love for the sufferer and my faith in man sometimes seem heavenly, there are situations that can easily bring me back to the brutality of the floor of truth. These situations are those that can be grouped under the broad term “severe separation conflict”.

With more poems, I want to teach them, these situations that have clearly affected me deeply in my professional life, such as “Great Invisible Violence” and all their differences: hostage ”,“ wrong use of language “or even“ how to separate childhood by claiming to honor it? “. If words are harsh, the truths they teach in grief are a terrible source of suffering for children.

Like a huge magnifying mirror, this event being especially invited by our clinics sends us back a far from the bright image of our collective tendencies wanting to function well in our parenting roles, as if it were an Olympic competition. The “best parent”, the one who reads and absorbs all the mimicry well, without combining its essence, the one who captures his child’s heart for a boxing arena, where there is only room for his own reflection, it is about him that I speak.

If I choose not to give it even a genre or representation that is too close to a possible personalization, it’s because I want here to describe it more as a symbol that is, thankfully, rarely composed entirely of one person. I want us to dare to think about how much it sleeps, potentially, in each of us, when we are injured in “our areas of love” and when we are “playing with power”, so as not to feel others.

Hating someone who has left us, who has remarried, who has forgotten appointments with the dentist, who doesn’t know how to communicate more than when we were with him, who cheated on us, betrayed us, or rejected us after in use. feelings that are not only normal, but deep human.

It is not at this level that the distortion is played out.

He, he enters the scene when instead of being experienced, expressed, then melted, these somewhat embarrassing but real feelings freeze, denied or planned, to create a kind of “performance of the opposite”. The reality will then be flexible according to the needs of a reconstruction of a scenario that responds to the image of the perfect parent. We will no longer be responsible for our own harm, and it is “in the name of the child” that we will pursue what harms him, this child.

In this kind of dynamic, not only is love (or sorrow) no longer found in its path, but power becomes the only language spoken, behind, but above all, in the hearts of those who only need to unite with those. piece of identity attached to the continents at war: our children.

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