The Paradox of Betrayal in Life and Psychotherapy, or the Twists and Turns of Transformation
The concept of “betrayal” applies not only to interpersonal relationships but also to everything around us. Abandoning old views and patterns of behavior, becoming disillusioned with current values, changing employers, and even reading a text in translation—all of this forces us, at least for a time, to look at things from a new perspective and discover that everything around us is fluid and ever-changing. Recognizing this fact often leads us to wonder: does the concept of “betrayal” carry only negative connotations? And does every act of betrayal necessarily lead to growth and change? Let’s explore what this experience offers us.
The words “betrayal” and “treachery” carry negative connotations in modern language. When we utter them, the most unpleasant scenarios come to mind: romantic and marital infidelity, betrayal by friends or partners, moral betrayal, political or religious apostasy, and much more. We avoid these things and usually condemn them.
Sometimes we view betrayal even more harshly than murder, which can occur through negligence or in the heat of the moment, whereas betrayal is, for the most part, a premeditated act.
An important characteristic of betrayal: it can only be committed by someone who is deeply significant, close, and dear to you—someone you trust unconditionally, just as you trust yourself. All these figures—Brutus, Lucifer, Judas—meant a great deal to those they betrayed, and for that they were punished in the ninth circle of Dante Alighieri’s Hell.
The phenomenon of betrayal is directly linked to a breach of loyalty—literally, “treachery.” It can be the collapse of faith in a person—a friend, partner, or loved one—or faith in abstract concepts that once gave life meaning but are now meaningless. In this case, we see a shift in religious views, the choice of a different social system, or adherence to different beliefs.
Betrayal may not even require the presence of a specific person being betrayed. One does not necessarily have to commit an act of betrayal to be accused of it. One might do nothing at all; it is enough simply to fail to meet a partner’s expectations or their conception of an “ideal and unbreakable contract.”
In light of the above, concepts such as doubt, exploration, and transformation—which are also associated with infidelity but are perceived in a positive and constructive light—may not immediately come to mind.
Giordano Bruno, Galileo, Einstein…
By removing humanity from the center of the universe, Galileo changed the Church, but in doing so, he also changed society itself. Our contemporary, Steve Jobs, changed the consumer: he questioned the notion that the customer is always right. By assuming that the customer doesn’t actually know what they want, he brought about one of the greatest revolutions in the understanding of the very essence of marketing.
All these examples are about doubt, challenging the status quo, and breaking with tradition—but they’re also about the courage and risk-taking that lead to new ways of thinking and a new way of organizing life.
Where do you think the most die-hard rebels work? Among translators. When we plan to translate anything from one language to another, we are immediately planning a “crime.” By filtering something through our own system of thought, we become traitors simply because—even with good intentions—we still wish to permanently alter the original state of a message.
And although translation—through the union of two languages, cultures, or ways of thinking—always yields something new, something is irretrievably lost in the process.
In Italian, the words for “translation” are tradurre, for “betrayal” are tradire, and for “treason” are tradimento, where the Latin root tradire has two meanings: 1) to hand something over to the enemy through deception; 2) to pass on by inheritance.
Professor Fulvio Mazzacane, an Italian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, once gave the following example in one of his lectures: it is no coincidence that Italians say tradurre e tradire—“translation is betrayal.” And in all likelihood, the difficulties of translation lie primarily in mustering the courage to let go of some of the meanings that cannot be conveyed in another language or woven into the fabric of another cultural tradition.
According to Mazzacane, a striking example of such a symbolic betrayal of the original meaning is Umberto Eco’s Italian translation of Exercises in Stylistics by the French writer Raymond Queneau.
Queneau wrote a short text about a trivial incident from everyday life—an encounter with a stranger on public transportation, and then again at the train station. What made the idea unusual was that he set out to describe this situation in 90 different ways: as a detective story, an erotic tale, a fantasy, an official letter, a metaphor, a dream, and so on. And in one of the passages, he simply did not use the vowel “e.” Time and again, Keno transformed that brief moment of perception within the framework he had set for himself. By deviating from the original, he repeatedly distorted its initial meaning, yet by the end, he achieved an unprecedented depth of understanding of that moment.
However, even that was not the end of the story. Translating such a work faithfully to the original proved impossible; it had to be recreated from scratch. The text was altered once again. This time, the “traitor” was Umberto Eco, whose version can be considered a separate, independent work in its own right. Realizing this, he noted:
Fidelity in any translation lies not at all in being as accurate as possible, but in understanding the rules of the game and, while observing them, then playing a new game and a new move.
Such a symbolic encounter between two outstanding minds and two great texts would have been impossible if, from the very beginning, both participants had not allowed for the possibility of betrayal—as a willingness to go against the belief in the unbreakable, to leave the old behind in order to create something new. Is this not an acknowledgment of the laws of life and a display of courage in the face of the loss of original meanings?
In any profound encounter—be it between a parent and a child, a union of lovers, the bonds of longtime friends, the partnership between a boss and a subordinate, or even the highly specific relationship between a head of state and the people—every encounter holds the potential for both trust and betrayal, the chance to find faith in something and to let it go. And these psychological processes occur regardless of which real-life figures populate our lives.
Often in relationships, even when we adhere to moral norms and social conventions, we still feel discomfort; we are drawn to secrecy: that very feeling arises that we are doing something wrong or shameful, that certain actions of ours will lead to the destruction of trust, even though they are motivated by the best of intentions. This ambivalent and paradoxical feeling stirs anxiety and prevents us from making certain choices in life. And indeed, it is sometimes difficult for us to discern that clear line that allows us to understand that we are not being unfaithful, but are changing ourselves.
Moreover, our perception misleads us: we continue to view any interaction one-sidedly—either from a physical perspective (sex), or solely from an emotional one (jealousy, resentment), or rationally (what we think about it). When we believe we are able to pay attention to the workings of all three systems, we think we have finally become mindful. However, reality constantly makes its own adjustments, bombarding us with new stimuli. When we succumb to one stimulus or another from external or internal reality, we react too quickly; we act more than we think; we skillfully repeat ourselves and are more likely to reenact old scripts than to create new ones.
And, of course, it’s hard for all of us to accept that our loved ones don’t belong to us entirely, don’t share our views. Even if they do belong to us, as we think they do, we’re still assailed by suspicions and fantasies in which they’ve already abandoned us, deceived us, or betrayed us—even though in reality this isn’t the case at all. These thoughts are unbearable, so we strive to find confirmation of our suspicions in the behavior of our loved ones. It’s no surprise that sometimes we find this “evidence” in the inevitable drama that life presents to us.
As we become participants in this drama, we once again lose the ability to see the whole picture, and we have no idea just how extensive the psychological work we do every day is as we interact with one another in ordinary circumstances, let alone in times of crisis.
This work could be compared to the act of translation—translating from the language of one psychological universe into the language of another—in which some things become accessible to our understanding, while others are lost forever. Given how vast the universes of the unconscious are, it is astonishing that we have acquired the ability to communicate productively at all. Perhaps we were given this chance only because, from the moment of our birth, we participate in a countless cycle of large and small betrayals of language and meaning that accompany our attempts to understand one another. And these betrayals do not destroy us; rather, they help us grow.
This inner drama can perhaps be observed with varying degrees of clarity only in a psychotherapeutic setting. Here, there is space and time for it, stable and safe conditions, and a clean slate for each individual session. It is on this slate that the attempt to translate from the “original” to the “contemporary” takes place, accompanied by the gradual creation of a language of symbols—understandable only to the two of them, the psychotherapist and the patient—that allows for the interpretation and enrichment of the patient’s reality.
In psychoanalysis, there is a constant search for a balance between the desire to remain faithful to the original statement and that future-oriented unfolding of meaning for which both participants in the process may be ready at a given moment. For example, a client who is absolutely certain of the seemingly harmless truth that “family is the most important thing” discovers during the course of therapy that, by clinging to this belief, he is betraying himself. Their loyalty to the family takes on a harmful character and serves as a pathological refuge; although it protects them from feelings of vulnerability in new life circumstances, it nevertheless hinders their development. It is important to understand that it is not the family itself that is the hindering factor, but merely the belief, and a certain skill is needed to allow for the possibility of changing one’s perspective.
When, as a result of psychotherapy, a patient develops the ability to simultaneously engage their intrapsychic functions of observation, memory, and attention—reinforced by the capacity to tolerate doubt and uncertainty—then we can say that the conditions for the development of thinking and the enhancement of the quality of creative interaction with others have been met. In some ways, this is similar to the very act of translation: in psychotherapy, we do not convey meaning word for word, but rather learn the skill of “saying almost the same thing,” but in different words. And this “almost” creates the necessary space for new connections of meaning, the development of communication, and the enrichment of perception.
In addition to the linguistic and semantic “betrayals” that accompany us on our life’s journey and contribute to our development, psychoanalysis—like life itself—is characterized by other forms of “betrayal” as well.
Perhaps the most common notion of “betrayal” in psychotherapy is the fantasy that inevitably arises in a patient to leave one therapist for another—one who will meet their ideal expectations and satisfy their early needs for love and acceptance. Sometimes this fantasy transforms into the idea of abandoning psychoanalysis altogether halfway through, thereby erasing this new understanding from consciousness. It is important to remember that, at the same time, a parallel desire exists within the person: for everything to work out so that the therapeutic work can continue.
Another paradox lies in the fact that, according to many who have undergone psychoanalysis, it is one of the most vivid experiences and, perhaps, an example of the closest relationships of trust and understanding that one can encounter in life. However, it is a relationship based on payment. This inevitably causes intense confusion on the part of the client and requires delicate handling on the part of the psychotherapist.
Ambivalent feelings are also triggered by the fact that, in a psychoanalytic setting, the patient is required to be as open as possible at a time when, more than anything else in the world, they want to hide and run away. At this moment, they may feel like a traitor to one part of themselves or another, and until a new understanding is reached and integration occurs, both the psychotherapist and the client will be forced to work under a barrage of resistance.
It is not only the patient who senses the paradoxical nature of psychotherapy. The psychotherapist also experiences mixed feelings. Remaining faithful to the client’s interests, the therapist temporarily sets aside the beliefs and values that form the foundation of his or her worldview. Although only briefly, at that moment the therapist, too, betrays his or her own “self.”
During psychoanalysis, participants repeatedly change in relation to one another and to themselves, yet they do not withdraw from the relationship, which, despite everything, continues. It is precisely this that ultimately allows the patient to find points of support and, upon completion of psychotherapy, to view themselves objectively, having cleared their perception of blinding emotions.
Returning to the question of how to discern that fine line that allows us to understand that we are not betraying others but are changing ourselves, the following must be said: change is always accompanied by a process of mourning. From the moment of birth, we are accompanied by partings: we develop by saying goodbye to someone or something, and the experience of healthy partings enables us—while reverently preserving our legacy and accepting the laws of life—to cope with subsequent losses. In contrast, at the heart of the phenomenon of betrayal lies a desire for destruction and immediate gratification. The experience of psychoanalytic relationships allows us to reclassify infidelity from a force that destroys everything in its path to a category of rational choice and acceptance of its consequences—which is a hallmark of healthy relationships.
Finally, it is necessary to note one more important contradiction in psychoanalysis. In psychotherapy, it is possible to achieve a very high degree of psychological interaction and a significant level of understanding and trust, to the point that a fantasy of the uniqueness and exclusivity of this relationship may even arise. However, not only does each individual session come to an end and another client arrive, but at some point, psychoanalysis itself ends, and it is time to part ways. And then we realize that we have always known the rules of this game, and the game itself was played with only one purpose—to explore and closely examine the minutest details of the interaction between the psychoanalytic pair of therapist and client, which serves as a reflection of the client’s psychological universe.
Both in life and in psychotherapy, as we experience betrayals both big and small—acknowledging what is fundamental without blindly following it—we gradually become our true selves, better prepared for new encounters, new and interesting experiences, and the risks they entail. Having reached this understanding, we may eventually be surprised to discover that, after everything we have been through, new horizons suddenly open up before us and the next levels of the reality-game become accessible.
This material is based on the seminar “The Clinical Application of Bion’s Theory” (Moscow, 2016), with gratitude to the Moscow office of the ECPP and personally to Professor Fulvio Mazzacane—a psychiatrist, psychoanalyst, member of the Italian Psychoanalytic Society (SPI), the American Psychoanalytic Association (APA), and scientific secretary of the Parma Psychoanalytic Society.
The author of the article is psychotherapist S.V. Belukhina. Read more…
Republishing is welcome provided the author’s last name and the website address http://167.235.57.68 are cited
Published in “Monocle” on May 1, 2018
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