Class and money have an obvious and fundamental intertwining: lack of money is a powerful aspect of class exclusion from psychoanalysis, for intending therapists as well as for patients. To a large extent, it structures the whole field. Several of the therapists in my study from working-class backgrounds mentioned the costs of their training, and the difficulties of doing this alongside others who were much better off. One, for example, said: ‘I was just struggling to pay for my training… and I tried to bring it up, but I don’t think it was really worked with.… I think it was interpreted… it was perceived not as a reality but as just my own way of seeing myself.’ Money is also an increasingly significant financial issue for many from middle-class backgrounds within the psychoanalytic field, with the downward trends in middle-class incomes.
The symbolic meanings of money and of the payment of fees are areas of rich and extensive psychoanalytic exploration within clinical work. However, the status of self-employed practitioners as sole traders in a competitive field, the acts of monetary exchange that psychoanalysis involves and the class aspects are all much less examined. This represents another disavowal of the material bases of psychoanalysis, which I attempt to rectify here. How we are formed and perceive ourselves (or not) as workers in a psychoanalytic economy, with different identifications and material circumstances, merits thought, especially given present economic pressures.
Private practice, Michael Rustin (2001) argues, has always been and still is the ‘positive condition’ for the development and survival of psychoanalysis. It is undeniably also the source of professional satisfaction and creativity for many practitioners. However, it is also an important source of the limited popularity of psychoanalysis, and something that does cause dissonance for many of its practitioners. Money, like class, has been named the last taboo (Krueger, 1986), something more shameful to talk about than sex, a dirty secret. The situation is, as would be expected, highly contradictory. Fenichel (1938), whose article on money still remains relevant, points out that discussion about money is often regarded as ‘indelicate’, both because of the (assumed) unconscious equivalence of money with faeces and also because this attribution of ‘indelicacy’ helps perpetuate conventional social ideology and illusions about money. His invocation of delicacy and shame recalls Elias’ naming of these emotions as key aspects of class distinction. As Dimen (1994) persuasively argues, there is reluctance and coyness surrounding the subject. Crick (2007), in a review of low-fee issues, also notes how reluctant analysts are generally to explore financial realities, and how the ‘awkward’ matter of fees can become a blind spot. Many writings do however bemoan the falling incomes of analysts, the increased difficulty of securing patients and a reliable living and the growing competition from other therapies. There is the beginning of a discourse around the political economies of psychoanalytic work, and what the exchange of money in psychoanalytic work signifies, as some therapists have addressed the felt contradictions of their positions in a market economy. Here I consider the terms in which such discourses are framed, drawing on both the more abstract literature and the experiences of therapists at work.
Michael Schneider addresses the economy of psychoanalysis in class terms. He refers to the ‘ambivalent class situation of the analyst’, the ways in which psychoanalysis can be both subversive of normative social orders and also a force for conformity and adaptation (Schneider, 1973/1975). Both these aspects are evident within the history of psychoanalysis. Schneider sees the initial social marginality of psychoanalysis as necessitating its institutionalisation in psychoanalytic organisations and official trainings. This created pressure for conformity and patronage within the organisations, and a diminution of their radical or critical nature, all familiar phenomena, widely commented on. Psychoanalytic organisations embody a concentration of social capital in networks of affiliation, which, with the power to confer acceptance and work, have important effects on the livelihoods of practitioners.
Schneider underlines the dependence of most analysts for their livelihood on high-fee patients, and their exposure to the laws of supply and demand of this marketplace. This increases their investments in the status quo. Alexander Mitscherlich, in discussing the relationship between sociology and psychoanalysis, describes the ‘naïve identification, on the part of many analysts, with their privileged status, instead of a reflective attention to the conditions of their society’ (Mitscherlich, 1970: 34), something still recognisable now. What these authors do not address, however, is the consciousness many practitioners do have of their situation and its class and other contradictions. Rather, practitioners are simply portrayed as unwitting subjects in the face of overall economic and ideological forces. However, it is probably true that each practitioner rather privately finds their own accommodation with the often contradictory demands of their need to make a living, their ethics and political commitments, their enjoyment of their work and the circumstances of their patients. Very few discuss their fee-charging practices openly, and there is little collective framework for discussion about money, which some recent writers have tried to remedy.
Bennett argues that the disciplinary disconnection of psychoanalysis from political economy means that many practitioners find it hard to reconcile their therapeutic with their economic selves, by ‘owning up to being at once rational and self-interested subjects’ (Bennett, 2012: 21). He describes how Freudo-Marxist psychoanalytic writers, such as Reich or Fromm, who theorised as one and the same subject what Bennett calls economic man (sic) and psychoanalytic man, have for the most part been excommunicated or sidelined from the mainstream of the psychoanalytic profession. He also argues that the disconnection between radical social thought and psychoanalysis that grew greatly from the mid-twentieth century left a vacuum of thinking regarding the political economies of psychoanalysis. Bennett suggests that the grip of neo-liberalism today is such that:
[I]t is hard to imagine any professional analyst today insisting, as Fenichel insisted in 1938, that the ‘correct’ application of psychoanalysis to social issues is that of investigating how the dominant ideology of exploitative class-society is reproduced in the psychology of all classes.
(Bennett, 2012: 21)
Current practitioners, Bennett avers, do not readily see themselves as inevitably working within the context of neo-liberalism, even those who hold other values. Psychoanalysts, he claims, are ‘more comfortable discussing their patients’ unconscious attitudes to money as a transferential object than discussing the relationship between the economics and the ideology of their own profession’ (2012: 21). However, while there is much to agree with in this general sentiment, Bennett ignores all those contemporary analysts and therapists who are indeed viewing their clinical experiences through the prism of current neo-liberalism, and critically reflecting on the many ways in which this pervades their clients’ lives and inner worlds (see especially Chapters 4 and 8).
Different approaches to examining the tensions, contradictions and ambivalences surrounding money matters are illustrated by the following writers. Although much of it floats strangely free of class considerations, I have tried to identify important class resonances.
Viewing psychoanalysis as a financial transaction does raise the question: what is being exchanged? Adam Phillips (1997) points to the paradoxical nature of money within psychoanalytic practice when he describes the patient as, in his view, agreeing to buy something that no one can describe in advance. This makes the transaction a different sort of contract from that usually obtaining. Dany Nobus (2013), in his ambivalently ironic consideration of Lacan’s pecuniary arrangements and ostensible greed, also argues how different buying psychoanalysis is from other commercial transactions. There is no specifiable product or customer satisfaction that can be measured, and no money-back guarantee.1 The analysand pays to do work on him- or herself. Money, according to Nobus, ensures the presence of the analyst, not as a passive listener, but as ‘an open depository’ where the analysand can ‘store’ his or her conflicts without fear of being rejected. Rustin (2001) suggests that analysands are paying for a kind of work by the analyst that can only be done in this very particular way, centrally involving transference.
Nobus goes on to ask, why does the patient have to pay such a high fee? He answers it in terms of the necessity to avoid the analysand experiencing the analytic presence as a gift of love, or of feeling indebted to the analyst, seeing money as a neutralising signifier. This is an old, much disputed argument that Freud himself came to discount, in favour of acknowledging the analyst’s need for a living. As many have repeatedly pointed out, whatever is felt about either paid or free therapy can always itself be material for analysis, and there are many other aspects of the analytic situation that can disrupt such idealising attributions. Crick (2007) also suggests that the higher the fee, the less likely it is to be analysed, an instance of how this is regarded as the taken-for-granted normality. Giving figures for fees in London in 2013,2 Nobus argues that the cost of psychoanalysis depends much more on the presumed prestige of the analyst than on anything to do with the degree of complexity or difficulty of the work undertaken – that is, with the analyst’s accumulated social and cultural capital, rather than the work itself. Rustin argues that few analysts or therapists in the UK charge excessively, relatively speaking, but there is an absence of data here.
Frosh (2012) also argues that recognition of how money and trade are centrally involved punctuates the ‘imaginary’ situation in which it is possible for both analyst and patient to pretend that the relationship is one of love and care, separate from the material base of this relationship in a capitalist economy. This may counteract the more self-idealising aspects of psychoanalysis, but it does not adequately encompass the contradictions depicted by other writers, nor the very real emotional, ethical and professional investments analysts may have in their work, alongside the desire and necessity to earn money. Rustin (2001) depicts the contradiction as one in which the intimacy and emotions evoked by the analytic situation are felt to pertain to the kinds of relationships which are widely held not to be able to be bought or sold, and which are particular to the individuals concerned, not subject to the abstractions of the exchange of money.
Dimen, in her incisive, widely quoted and reproduced article, is exemplary in how she addresses the political economy of private practice (Dimen, 1994). She depicts the material basis of psychoanalysis as lying in commerce: ‘We sell our services to make our living… analysts engage in trade. Without money, then, there’s no psychoanalysis at all. But with it comes an unavoidable anxiety …’ (Dimen, 1994: 83). Psychoanalytic labour is seen as a commodity like any other work. Addressing the role of the analyst in a class-structured society, she argues that the economic insecurity experienced by analysts as self-employed practitioners has increased as middle-class incomes have decreased and as competition from other therapies has increased. A recent survey of American psychoanalysts showed how dissatisfied most of the respondents were with their earnings (Axelrod, 2012). Such a situation, Dimen argues, has created an ‘anxious elite’, in possession of a status that may confer some authority and influence, but which forms of capital depend on the acquisition of knowledge and skill. This constantly needs renewal through hard work and discipline, it cannot be readily bequeathed, and coexists with fear of loss of income and status. Dimen depicts the alienation and estrangement that the exchange of money and services can create, such that the analyst, paid by the hour, may feel he/she is doing piece work, and the personal satisfaction and benefit of the work can seem compromised.
Dimen attributes the implicit taboos and coyness about any discussion of money, fees and hours to several factors. These are: the anxiety about economic insecurity, the conflicts of analysts’ altruism and professional ethics versus their need and/or greed and the felt specialness of psychoanalysis versus basic material demands. To which we might also add any fears about reputation and status. The popularity of her insightful article is testimony to a great hunger for such discussion.
Dimen also argues that the confluence of money and love within the analytic relationship is a living contradiction that cannot be resolved, only addressed and transcended through analytic work. This contradiction of love and money needs transforming into the paradox of love and hate, for useful work to be done. This requires the acknowledgement and acceptance of hate. Such hatred might be stimulated by a perception, true or otherwise, of the analyst’s wealth as indicated by the environment of their consulting room,3 by the very act of paying for something so personal and individual as analytic work, or by the feeling that analysis is in some ways ‘just a job’ for the analyst. Hatred and confusion are stimulated by the contradiction that money is an abstract medium of exchange in a market economy, but nevertheless it is what engenders and makes possible analytic commitment and engagement, and the personal and intimate space of a therapeutic relationship, with its evocation of transferences.
Hatred, I suggest, can also be aroused by the common practice of requiring payment for sessions that are missed by the patient. This practice reflects the analyst’s desire not to be paid on zero hours contracts, as well as the maintenance of the integrity of the analytic space and frame. These factors are not unrelated, in that the continuity and consistency that is facilitated by this are part of therapeutic efficacy, but the analyst’s own needs for predictable payment are seldom overtly acknowledged. Orbach (2014) argues that the needs or convenience of the therapist should not become a ‘false god’ of the therapy, and that financial arrangements should be negotiated more democratically and flexibly, taking into account both parties’ constraints.
The psychoanalytic discourse around money contains many perspectives, but all comment on the need for much greater and franker discussion of it. One theme derives from Freud’s various comments. In letters to Fliess, he wrote that his mood depended very strongly on his earnings: ‘Money is laughing gas to me’ (Freud, 1899/1985: 374). He recommended speaking frankly about money at the outset of a psychoanalytic relationship (Freud, 1913). He also wrote to Jung: ‘I often appease my conscious mind by saying to myself: just give up wanting to cure; learn and make money, those are the most plausible conscious aims’ (Freud, 1909: 136).
This latter aspect has been picked up most overtly in various Lacanian writings about money, especially those eschewing therapeutic improvement as a plausible aim. Lacan, in Nobus’ account, can be seen as taking the pecuniary aspects of psychoanalysis to extremes, in the wealth he seemingly accumulated from very large numbers of patients seen for short sessions at high fees. Lacan’s reputed refusal to give change for larger denomination notes, and to interpret such payment as an indication of the higher fee the patient unconsciously wanted to pay, and therefore should pay, is an extreme and unusual example of the exploitative potential of psychoanalytic relationships.4 It underlines the wider ethical minefield, where what is being paid for involves a private transaction, with many hopes, vulnerabilities and dependencies involved, and with the symbolic power of interpretation invested in the analyst.
Freud’s robustly self-interested perspective, while certainly present and necessary to some degree for all practitioners, negates the potential for contradiction and conflict, which many describe. His insistence that money was primarily a psychological problem for the patient but only a practical one for the analyst, has contributed to the neglect of these complexities. In conditions of austerity and scarcity this can be reversed; analysts may become afraid to offer especially challenging interpretations for fear of losing their patients, as Nobus and other writers suggest.
Many therapists, as well as Dimen, do exhibit an awareness of the contradictions they are caught up in. There appears to be an increasing analytic desire to discuss these, as witnessed in recent publications (e.g. Berger and Newman, 2012). From a Jungian perspective, Jane Haynes and Jan Wiener (1996) describe the widespread unease and silence about money, and the thinness of theoretical literature about it. Money, they argue, has an exceptional status in the analytic setting, being the only sustained concrete transaction that takes place, yet there is little or no training offered to trainees about this aspect of their work, and personal and collective ‘shadow forces’ inhibit realistic thinking. Theodore Jacobs describes this neglect as a collusive avoidance passed down intergenerationally from analyst to trainee (Jacobs, 2012).
For Haynes and Wiener, feelings about money are characterised by opposites, especially greed and altruism; and analysts are often unwilling to acknowledge their own dependence on patients’ fees, instead focusing on the needs and vulnerabilities of the latter. Irwin Hirsch also argues that financial and professional ambition are often denied within the psychoanalytic field, and may even be projected onto ‘bad’ others in different professions (Hirsch, 2012). He also provides examples of the conflict when a patient may wish to end the analytic relationship but the analyst wants to prolong it for (unacknowledged) financial reasons.
Haynes and Wiener observe how it can be difficult to simultaneously hold in mind the idea of an analytic relationship with that of a financial contract; a different rendition from that of Bennett’s (described earlier) about this dual aspect. They argue for a less shameful and less disavowed acknowledgement of analysts’ needs to make a living.
Several articles explore further aspects of money, class and clinical work. Many comment on the sense of taboo or shame surrounding efforts to broach these issues. Lawrence Josephs (2004) underlines how what he calls ‘normative standards of affluence’ can function as a seductive ideal, often now unattainable by most analytic practitioners, but rendering them vulnerable to invidious comparisons and envy with wealthy patients, the latter something some of the therapists from working-class backgrounds in my study also mentioned. Kachina Myers (2008) asks how money ‘got left behind’ in the relational journey to intersubjectivity, with the analyst’s monetary subjectivity remaining surprisingly unexamined: ‘As the analyst’s subjectivity gains respectability overall, the analyst’s desire for money remains dirty, debased and disreputable’ (Myers, 2008: 118). She sees the fee as being a real intrusion of the analyst’s need into the therapeutic situation, and that this is the dilemma of the analyst’s desire. In her view analysts frequently are unable to ask for and get their desired fees, even from those who could pay it: ‘Fear of losing patients, fear of patients’ rage, anxiety about having more, shame, guilt, and other apparently unbearable affects seem to prevent many analysts from getting their due’ (Myers, 2008: 119). Analysts, she argues, should accept they are running a business. Perhaps the only surprise is why this needs to be asserted so strongly. Like Haynes and Wiener, Myers argues this is something women particularly struggle with, a discussion expanded on by Shanok (2012). She also suggests, as does Schonbar (1967), that such anxieties are especially acute for therapists from working-class backgrounds.
Class and the business aspects of trying to gain work after graduation are considered by Christopher Bandini who struggled in the immediate post-graduation years (something which I hear increasingly). He suggests that his analytic training did nothing to prepare him for the ‘mundane and financial aspects’ of the ‘job’ (Bandini, 2011). These were seen as superfluous, maintaining the illusion that psychoanalytic work was somehow above money, but leaving it a mystery to him how analysts did build practices. It is, he says, seldom acknowledged that analysts may need to market themselves ‘aggressively’, nor that an enormous commitment of time, resources and networking are required to run a practice. From a blue-collar background, Bandini originally saw becoming a psychoanalyst as a way to transcend class; for him, it has not brought ‘upper-class affluence’, and he doubts whether the old high-fee model is any longer viable. Bandini concludes that success as a psychoanalyst depends on entrepreneurial skill, class advantage and social expertise. He emphasises the importance of social capital in the form of patronage and social networks, well known but seldom acknowledged in its class significance. The 2012 survey (Axelrod, 2012) confirms that the strategies for obtaining work depend greatly on within-profession contacts, rather than other forms of self-promotion. Those from working-class, non-white or immigrant backgrounds may find it harder to acquire such social capital, whereas for those within indigenous middle- or upper-class networks it is more readily, if not effortlessly, possessed.
The necessity to carry out unpaid or very low-fee work during training and afterwards adds to class disadvantage in becoming a psychoanalytic therapist. All training organisations have requirements for how much clinical work is necessary for qualification; mostly this is fulfilled by trainees working in voluntary unpaid placements or working in their own organisation’s low-fee clinics. Many continue with honorary placements and low-fee work after graduation. This is a source of accessible and affordable therapy for patients, albeit with less experienced clinicians, but like internships generally it privileges the already privileged. There is now the beginning of collective concern about this, with a 2016 conference organised by the Psychotherapy and Counselling Union, to campaign against unpaid and other inequitable conditions of work.
Some of the monetary concerns described earlier are abrogated in contexts in which psychoanalysts or therapists are paid by some third body for their work, which may be in effect free for the patient at the point of consumption. However, from the point of view of the patient, the therapist may still be seen as being paid to care, and thus the felt contradictions of money and psychoanalysis as ‘just a job’ are still present.
The circumstances for therapists are mostly similar. Many are contracted as self-employed practitioners. Salaried jobs for psychotherapists are very rare, apart from some in the NHS. Most work on arrangements (seldom real contracts) where, although a certain number of hours of work may be specified, and the therapist may be paid for no-shows, he or she will not be paid for sickness or holidays. The amount of work is often insecure and subject to the vagaries of funding or reorganisation. The fees for such work are relatively low, especially in the voluntary sector and far less than what is possible in private practice, yet many therapists do commit themselves to and value public sector work. Many therapists now also find short-term work through various funded schemes, such as employee assistance in the UK, or managed care in the USA, where they will be subjected to diverse bureaucratic demands without necessarily any guarantee of filled hours. As well, private insurance-based work is possible, with restricted conditions of frequency and length. Recent years have seen the growth of private psychotherapy group practices and agencies, charging relatively high fees where the psychotherapist may be effectively on a zero hours contract.
The sidelining of financial concerns within the frameworks of psychoanalytic trainings and organisations suggests a fantasmatic and disdainful relationship to these economic realities, a split-off state of affairs, another disavowal. It is as if these vital economic concerns, income and how work is obtained, were not of interest, and could somehow be managed without any discussion, which is then deemed not to be merited. Such an attitude was probably typical of the bohemian, upper middle classes, with their disdain for money matters, whose cultural milieu was inextricably involved in the early evolution of UK psychoanalysis. This may have once been tenable when the class basis of those entering the psychoanalytic profession was mainly upper middle class and well off, when there was a plentiful supply of patients and less competition. I often wonder whether trainees embarking on a training have ever researched or been provided with any information about the prospects for making a living. Some trainings are now taking steps to include the business aspects of setting up a psychoanalytic practice in their curricula. A further step would be to carry out a survey of actual psychotherapeutic work and incomes, as has been initiated in the USA. Such information would open out a necessary debate by addressing the social and economic realities of psychoanalytic practice, its monetary and class basis. It might defray some of the inhibitions around discussing money and fee-setting policies. It would lessen its divorce from social realities, however unwelcome these are, and address the dual aspect of psychoanalytic subjecthood.
The considerations of this chapter have foregrounded the necessarily embedded nature of psychoanalysis within contemporary market economies. The various debates have tended to assert the primacy of the therapist’s need to earn, as a reaction to how this need has often been obscured or elided, considered in some way improper, embarrassing or too mundane to foreground, the legacy of a wider upper-class ethos of disdaining to talk about money, while having lots of it. It is true that many of the values and practices of psychoanalysis are countercultural to those of current neo-liberalism and the demands of a ruthless market economy. Its modus operandi of slow, detailed, reflective and open-ended thinking, of focus on the uniqueness of each individual, are often in conflict with a world in which time equals money, and in which most services are monetised and measured by their cost-effectiveness. Its value for its recipients cannot on the whole be measured in monetary terms, even if it can result in a more effective orientation to the rigours of reality. The temporary suspension of some of the demands of reality that is created by the frame of psychoanalytic sessions – where in principle anything can be said and felt – is essential to its efficacy. However, money is the one demand of reality that cannot, for the most part, be suspended for psychoanalysis to be possible. It is this nexus that seems to pose such difficulties; where the fault lines of psychoanalysis, as a discipline that radically separates material reality from psychic reality, are revealed.
1 Although clients are now required to complete a feedback form after every session in some IAPT services. And for many third-sector organisations, funding applications often require general client satisfaction ratings. While for many psychoanalysts such practices may be anathema, perhaps we should revisit the question of how patients can have a voice as to their satisfaction or otherwise with the therapy experiences. Despite all the evident complexities of this, why should it be so taboo?
2 Nobus quotes fees of between £30 and £300 per session. Generally, UK fees are considerably lower than US ones.
3 In which the patient described Dimen as ‘The Landlady of Time’.
4 As Movahedi (2013) says, there is no evidence that Lacan would have lowered his fee if the patient ‘unconsciously’ paid less with a smaller note.
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