The problem, or a problem, with psychoanalysis, in my experience: the problem one comes in to solve becomes one. I am not working on something; I am that something. I came to analysis out of desperation to not sink into the problem, for it not to define my life so all would not be lost, and casually, my analyst tears away my capacity for wrestling, for resisting, for asserting my will to power, and feeds me to the monster. All pretense of freedom from it is lost. It owns my life; my life, now, is this problem. If I had thought the purpose of my life was something other– well, fuck me. It’s not even that figure has become ground, it’s that there is no figure anymore, but perhaps the figure of the analyst, whose ego now thrives on the energy I once dedicated to trying to remain free of the problem, who now has the privilege of a sick patient to cure.