Somatic Psychology & the Liberation of Libido

This was a final paper for Introduction to the Theories of the Depth Tradition, a course in my masters in counseling program at Pacifica Graduate Institute. It was written in December 2023.

The Body in Psychotherapy

One of the most foundational premises of psychoanalytic theory is the commonness of repression and its link with unwellness (Mitchell & Black, 1995). In a sense, this premise is also the foundation of somatic psychology, which explores the embodiment of repression. Freud (1899/1997) argued that libido–instinctual life force energy–was often thwarted by familial and societal taboo. That energy pours instead into neuroses, the psyche’s symbolic expression of the unconscious conflict (Freud, 1899/1997). Freud’s student Wilhelm Reich (1949) believed that all psychological illness was caused by damming the river of libido. How each person is organized to hold life force energy at bay is what Reich called character, which for him was physical–the way the body itself armored and contracted (Reich, 1949). Reichian somatic therapist John Conger (1994) wrote, “Our character is evidence of our accommodation to a world that denied us honest expression” (p. 142). Somatic psychotherapy works by bringing attention to those habitual and constricting physical accommodations (Hartley, 2004). Contemporary practitioner Tina Stomstead (1998) described it succinctly: “People come into Body-Oriented Psychotherapy to reconnect with their instincts'' (149). In other words, to uncover repressed life force energy.

That being said, Freud was not exactly a friend of the instincts or of the body. Body-oriented psychotherapist Linda Hartley (2004) offered this critique: 

One basic tenet of classical psychoanalysis, the mastery and control of repressed instinct by the ego through mental analysis, is a way towards transcendence of bodily function by the mind. The body and its instinctual energies are viewed as base and inferior – through analysis of them, we can gain some degree of control and thus transcendence over our ‘animal’ nature. (p. 18)

Although psychoanalyst Christine Downing (2005) argued that for Freud the instincts came to occupy the place of the gods, at least for Hartley (2004), Freud did not treat the body and its instinctual energies as gods at all, but rather as subordinates. Freud’s cultural milieu was not unlike modern times in that the body was often reduced or ignored (Hartley, 2004).

The Body in Modernity

Modernity tends to split the human into disciplines–medicine for the body, therapy for the mind, clergy for the spirit–betraying the integrated whole of human experience (Hartley, 2004). A major strength of somatic psychotherapies is their position that each facet of the self affects all others–health must be tended on all levels of experience (Hartley, 2004). In contrast, physical symptoms in the modern medical paradigm are often treated solely as malfunctions of the body, to be addressed as one would a leaky pipe (Zeigler, 1983). This has resulted in a sense of the body as somehow separate. Conger (1994) used the metaphor of modern humans as renters in a dilapidated house, their body. Ken Wilber agreed, “The body is reduced from self to property, something which is ‘mine’ but not ‘me’” (as cited in Hartley, 2004, p. 5). The medical field has become the consensus authority on the body, and its approach is reactionary and literal (Ziegler, 1983).

There is a violence to this approach, which does not listen to the body so much as attempt to tame it. Jessica Benjamin (2004) might call this a relationship of doer and done to between the self and the body. Jungian Marion Woodman (1985) wrote regretfully, “When this magnificent animal [the body] attempts to send up warning signals, it is silenced with pills” (p. 25). For Woodman (1985), physical symptoms are often a last resort cry for help from the soul begging for individuation. “It is possible,” she remarked, “that the scream that comes from the forsaken body, the scream that manifests in a symptom, is the cry of the soul that can find no other way to be heard” (Woodman, 1985, p. 25). Yet instead of listening to this cry, the doctor is visited, and the symptom squashed. 

Not only does this ignore the call from the depths, but it is disenfranchising, as all confidence is given over to the doctor. Bemoaning the prevalent dualistic split between psyche and soma, Hartley (2004) elucidated, “This form of dualism has given such precedence to ‘objective’ scientific data over ‘subjective’ embodied experience that the individual has been disempowered in the hands of ‘experts’ in the field of mental and physical health” (p. 13). Somatic therapies and approaches like Alfred Ziegler’s (1983) Archetypal Medicine bring the personal back into the room, listening on the symbolic level to give physical symptoms a voice instead of silencing them.

Symptom as Symbol

Archetypal Medicine (Ziegler, 1983) and somatic psychotherapies work toward understanding the meaning of physical symptoms, rather than focusing only on their resolution. Ziegler (1983) described his approach:

Archetypal medicine does not depend as much on objectivity as upon subjectivity where the accent, in varying degrees, is clearly upon individual experience and its priority. It does not concern itself principally with the observation of symptoms but moves toward phenomenological amplification, toward the symbolic essence of what is observed. In the process, archetypal medicine turns up images which carry the symbolic essence and are accompanied by a perceptible physical resonance. (p.3)

Instead of understanding symptoms literally, Ziegler (1983) urged approaching them symbolically. Perhaps it is more important to see pain, for example, as an expression of trapped aggression, than it is to understand the physical process of pain (Ziegler, 1983). What is possible if a shared intersubjective alliance with symptoms is formed, what Benjamin (2004) called the therapeutic third?

In dialogue with symptoms, symbols can emerge. Carl Jung (1951/1969) remarked on the powerful symbolic experience of the body: 

From the psychopathology of the individuation process we know that the formation of symbols is frequently associated with physical disorders of a psychic origin, which in some cases are felt as decidedly ‘real’....The symbols of the self arise in the depths of the body, and they express in its materiality every bit as much as the structure of the perceiving consciousness. The symbol is thus a living body, corpus et anima. (CW9i para 290-291)

Encountering and working with symbols is the alchemical center of the process of individuation (Jung, 1911/1967). Following the symbols that arise from one’s own body can be seen as living into one’s personal mythology or hero’s journey, as one claims “the inconvenient or resisted psychological powers that we have not thought or dared to integrate into our lives” (Campbell, 2008, p. 5). Indeed, even Freud (1933/1965) said, “The theory of the instincts is so to say our mythology” (p. 95). Turning toward the symbolic voice of the symptom and surrendering to its wisdom brings about healing and growth, while feeding an intersubjective, rather than objectifying relationship with the body.

Engaging symbolically is likely to be at odds with modern western cultural conditioning. In cultures that do not compartmentalize the mind and body, healers such as shamans address all interrelated systems–physical, emotional, and spiritual–at once (Hartley, 2004).  Western cultural relationship with the body is much more reductionist and mechanistic–many modern humans might rather take a pill than engage intersubjectively with their symptoms, or be reluctant or offended to consider physical distress as having psychological roots. 

The medical paradigm might view the symbolic approach as dangerous, fearing the mistake of serious illness with psychosomatics. Yet this worry falls prey to that paradigm’s own too easy reductionism. Physical symptoms with roots in the psyche are still very much real. Psychological trouble has profound effects on the body, often bringing about medically identifiable syndromes (Ziegler, 1983). Of course, not all physical illness is psychological and engaging symbolically is not necessarily at odds with medical treatment. Yet, symptoms can become intractable and bewildering to the medical profession specifically because they are more complex than merely physical (Zeigler, 1983). Or perhaps, as was the case in my story, doctors call someone completely healthy even while excruciating physical pain persists.

My Story: The Symbolic Significance of Skin

When I saw doctors for my vulvar pain, I very much related to my body and my pussy as ‘mine’, but not ‘me’. Through decades of pain, I felt my body was betraying me or against me. I was definitely in a doer and done-to relationship (Benjamin, 2004) with my pussy and I did my best to be the doer–applying prescription steroids, prescription hormones, and prescription numbing agents, while otherwise doing my best to ignore my symptoms. Meanwhile, my condition worsened and I felt the victim–jeans and other pants were completely out of the question as they rubbed against me painfully, and sex was all but ruled out as well. At the peak of my pain, I found that meticulously cleaning my vulva offered minimal relief, which put me very close up with my pussy. I discovered that my clitoral hood was fusing to my clitoris. This was a massive wake up call. I learned that women have suffered losing their clitoris in this way. The fact that my access to pleasure might get swallowed by my body terrified me and shook me from the sleep I had been in–content with numbing this most preciously sensitive area and just bearing the pain that remained. I felt a new resolve to stand up for and with my pussy.

Conger (1994) described the work of somatic therapy beginning at reclaiming one’s sense of dissent: “The suppression of our nature has taken place at the cost of our capacity to protest, to stand up for ourselves” (p. xxii). He is referring to the process of repressing life force, libido, described above. That repression may be necessary for surviving childhood, but it is a denial of one’s true instinctive nature. In order to reclaim that nature, the capacity to protest, to say no, must reawaken. My protest was taken away by early physical abuse, but my pussy demanded this capacity return to me.

The first protest I wagered was to stop eating gluten. This was a very big deal to me at the time, since my identity was rooted in an “I eat everything” philosophy, which extended into all areas of my life–I saw myself as easy going, low maintenance, and with few preferences. I am not convinced that giving up gluten had a physical effect on my pussy. It was, however, the first of many commitments to my pussy to maintain healthy boundaries, to be selective about what I let into my body, and to insist others accommodate me. Those commitments have had a massive impact on my physical well-being. 

If the skin is considered symbolically, it makes sense that boundary dysfunction would manifest there, as skin is designed for “containment, protection, communication, and boundary formation” (Hartley, 2004, p. 167). My body turned up the metaphor by focusing on my pussy, which is a poignant portal of connection between inner and outer, and the site of countless boundary violations in the form of unwanted intercourse that I could not protest verbally. Through pain, my pussy has convinced me to speak up for myself, to not give into the desires of others at my own expense, and to resist expectations. In the process I have learned what I want and gained the courage to ask for it. Listening to my painful skin taught me how to perform the symbolic function of skin psychologically and interpersonally.

Here is a story that illustrates part of my process. At this point I was already dedicated to listening to and in a reverential relationship with my pussy, considering her a Goddess I worship. Yet I still felt pulled in another direction. Wanting to look cute for a date with a potential new lover, I wore jean shorts even though I had been tender for days. This lover was a massage therapist and always said hello with a massage. I was really enjoying it, yet not fully able to surrender because I was in pain. Eventually we abandoned all clothes and danced naked, but I was still uncomfortable. “This is supposed to be super sexy,” I thought regretfully, “but I’m hurting instead of turned on.” He must have picked up on this internal conflict and asked how I was doing. I let out a big sigh and told him some of my story, all news to him. It was as if some part of me expected me to have sex and my pussy was afraid I would go along with it, so she protested. Or, my pussy would simply not permit me to have sex with someone who did not know I was working to heed her completely, and about my struggles to meet that intention. I felt immense relief after I shared this with my lover, both physically and emotionally. 

The more I engaged with my pussy, the more I became healthily uncompromising. I have developed a deep authority in my “NO!”, but also in my “YES!” Conger (1994) described:

When we surrender in sexual intercourse or to a Higher Power, the giving over of willful control is a remarkable and profound act, not possible without integrating the rage beneath our submission and grounding our protest, so that we are in contact with ourselves and others (p. 146).

This insight is especially poignant for me because my personal experience of a Higher Power is through pleasure and through my pussy–the experience of life force energy coursing through me, the way Earth longs for me to create. The pussy is a profound symbol for creativity, for libido (Gimbutas, 1991; Hartley, 2004). In order to be a channel for that life force, I had to tend to my pain by enlivening my protest and cultivating healthy boundaries. 

Practitioners can support this type of process through symbolic amplification of their client’s symptoms and by encouraging their clients to relate with their instincts as gods, as their personal mythology. My health and well being is forever indebted to this approach–a symbolic somatic depth psychology–which will continue to guide my development as a therapist. As I demonstrated, I am deeply informed by the Jungian individuation process, but perhaps equally concerned with the more Freudian perspective on the centrality of libido. Surrendering to the way life force wants to move through, the way of instinctive design, is perhaps at the heart of the journey in my burgeoning approach.

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