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The Interpretation of Dreams Chapter 7 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DREAM PROCESSES B. Regression Psychology
VII. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DREAM PROCESSES (continued)
D. Waking Caused by Dreams -- The Function of Dreams -- The Anxiety Dream
Now that we know that throughout the night the preconscious is orientated to the
wish to sleep, we can follow the dream-process with proper understanding. But
let us first summarize what we already know about this process. We have seen
that day-residues are left over from the waking activity of the mind, residues
from which it has not been possible to withdraw all cathexis. Either one of the
unconscious wishes has been aroused through the waking activity during the day
or it so happens that the two coincide; we have already discussed the
multifarious possibilities. Either already during the day or only on the
establishment of the state of sleep the unconscious wish has made its way to the
day- residues, and has effected a transference to them. Thus there arises a wish
transferred to recent material; or the suppressed recent wish is revived by a
reinforcement from the unconscious. This wish now endeavours to make its way to
consciousness along the normal path of the thought processes, through the
preconscious, to which indeed it belongs by virtue of one of its constituent
elements. It is, however, confronted by the censorship which still subsists, and
to whose influence it soon succumbs. It now takes on the distortion for which
the way has already been paved by the transference to recent material. So far it
is on the way to becoming something resembling an obsession, a delusion, or the
like, i.e., a thought reinforced by a transference, and distorted in expression
owing to the censorship. But its further progress is now checked by the state of
sleep of the preconscious; this system has presumably protected itself against
invasion by diminishing its excitations. The dream-process, therefore, takes the
regressive course, which is just opened up by the peculiarity of the sleeping
state, and in so doing follows the attraction exerted on it by memory- groups,
which are, in part only, themselves present as visual cathexis, not as
translations into the symbols of the later systems. On its way to regression it
acquires representability. The subject of compression will be discussed later.
The dream- process has by this time covered the second part of its contorted
course. The first part threads its way progressively from the unconscious scenes
or phantasies to the preconscious, while the second part struggles back from the
boundary of the censorship to the tract of the perceptions. But when the
dream-process becomes a perception-content, it has, so to speak, eluded the
obstacle set up in the Pcs by the censorship and the sleeping state. It succeeds
in drawing attention to itself, and in being remarked by consciousness. For
consciousness, which for us means a sense- organ for the apprehension of psychic
qualities, can be excited in waking life from two sources: firstly, from the
periphery of the whole apparatus, the perceptive system; and secondly, from the
excitations of pleasure and pain which emerge as the sole psychic qualities
yielded by the transpositions of energy in the interior of the apparatus. All
other processes in the Psi- systems, even those in the preconscious, are devoid
of all psychic quality, and are therefore not objects of consciousness, inasmuch
as they do not provide either pleasure or pain for its perception. We shall have
to assume that these releases of pleasure and pain automatically regulate the
course of the cathectic processes. But in order to make possible more delicate
performances, it subsequently proved necessary to render the flow of ideas more
independent of pain-signals. To accomplish this, the Pcs system needed qualities
of its own which could attract consciousness, and most probably received them
through the connection of the preconscious processes with the memory-system of
speech-symbols, which was not devoid of quality. Through the qualities of this
system, consciousness, hitherto only a sense- organ for perceptions, now becomes
also a sense-organ for a part of our thought-processes. There are now, as it
were, two sensory surfaces, one turned toward perception and the other toward
the preconscious thought-processes.
I must assume that the sensory surface of consciousness which is turned to the
preconscious is rendered far more unexcitable by sleep than the surface turned
toward the P-system. The giving up of interest in the nocturnal thought-process
is, of course, an appropriate procedure. Nothing is to happen in thought; the
preconscious wants to sleep. But once the dream becomes perception, it is
capable of exciting consciousness through the qualities now gained. The sensory
excitation performs what is in fact its function; namely, it directs a part of
the cathectic energy available in the Pcs to the exciting cause in the form of
attention. We must therefore admit that the dream always has a waking effect-
that is, it calls into activity part of the quiescent energy of the Pcs. Under
the influence of this energy, it now undergoes the process which we have
described as secondary elaboration with a view to coherence and
comprehensibility. This means that the dream is treated by this energy like any
other perception-content; it is subjected to the same anticipatory ideas as far,
at least, as the material allows. As far as this third part of the dream-process
has any direction, this is once more progressive.
To avoid misunderstanding, it will not be amiss to say a few words as to the
temporal characteristics of these dream- processes. In a very interesting
discussion, evidently suggested by Maury's puzzling guillotine dream, Goblot
tries to demonstrate that a dream takes up no other time than the transition
period between sleeping and waking. The process of waking up requires time;
during this time the dream occurs. It is supposed that the final picture of the
dream is so vivid that it forces the dreamer to wake; in reality it is so vivid
only because when it appears the dreamer is already very near waking. "Un reve,
c'est un reveil qui commence." *
* A dream is the beginning of wakening.
It has already been pointed out by Dugas that Goblot, in order to generalize his
theory, was forced to ignore a great many facts. There are also dreams from
which we do not awaken; for example, many dreams in which we dream that we
dream. From our knowledge of the dream-work, we can by no means admit that it
extends only over the period of waking. On the contrary, we must consider it
probable that the first part of the dream-work is already begun during the day,
when we are still under the domination of the preconscious. The second phase of
the dream-work, viz., the alteration by the censorship, the attraction exercised
by unconscious scenes, and the penetration to perception, continues probably all
through the night, and accordingly we may always be correct when we report a
feeling that we have been dreaming all night, even although we cannot say what
we have dreamed. I do not however, think that it is necessary to assume that up
to the time of becoming conscious the dream-processes really follow the temporal
sequence which we have described; viz., that there is first the transferred
dream-wish, then the process of distortion due to the censorship, and then the
change of direction to regression, etc. We were obliged to construct such a
sequence for the sake of description; in reality, however, it is probably rather
a question of simultaneously trying this path and that, and of the excitation
fluctuating to and fro, until finally, because it has attained the most apposite
concentration, one particular grouping remains in the field. Certain personal
experiences even incline me to believe that the dream-work often requires more
than one day and one night to produce its result, in which case the
extraordinary art manifested in the construction of the dream is shorn of its
miraculous character. In my opinion, even the regard for the comprehensibility
of the dream as a perceptual event may exert its influence before the dream
attracts consciousness to itself. From this point, however, the process is
accelerated, since the dream is henceforth subjected to the same treatment as
any other perception. It is like fire works, which require hours for their
preparation and then flare up in a moment.
Through the dream-work, the dream-process now either gains sufficient intensity
to attract consciousness to itself and to arouse the preconscious (quite
independently of the time or profundity of sleep), or its intensity is
insufficient, and it must wait in readiness until attion, becoming more alert
immediately before waking, meets it half-way. Most dreams seem to operate with
relatively slight psychic intensities, for they wait for the process of waking.
This, then, explains the fact that as a rule we perceive something dreamed if we
are suddenly roused from a deep sleep. Here, as well as in spontaneous waking,
our first glance lights upon the perception-content created by the dream-work,
while the next falls on that provided by the outer world.
But of greater theoretical interest are those dreams which are capable of waking
us in the midst of our sleep. We may bear in mind the purposefulness which can
be demonstrated in all other cases, and ask ourselves why the dream, that is,
the unconscious wish, is granted the power to disturb our sleep, i.e., the
fulfilment of the preconscious wish. The explanation is probably to be found in
certain relations of energy which we do not yet understand. If we did so, we
should probably find that the freedom given to the dream and the expenditure
upon it of a certain detached attention represent a saving of energy as against
the alternative case of the unconscious having to be held in check at night just
as it is during the day. As experience shows, dreaming, even if it interrupts
our sleep several times a night, still remains compatible with sleep. We wake up
for a moment, and immediately fall asleep again. It is like driving off a fly in
our sleep; we awake ad hoc. When we fall asleep again we have removed the cause
of disturbance. The familiar examples of the sleep of wet-nurses, etc., show
that the fulfilment of the wish to sleep is quite compatible with the
maintenance of a certain amount of attention in a given direction.
But we must here take note of an objection which is based on a greater knowledge
of the unconscious processes. We have ourselves described the unconscious wishes
as always active, whilst nevertheless asserting that in the daytime they are not
strong enough to make themselves perceptible. But when the state of sleep
supervenes, and the unconscious wish has shown its power to form a dream, and
with it to awaken the preconscious, why does this power lapse after cognizance
has been taken of the dream? Would it not seem more probable that the dream
should continually renew itself, like the disturbing fly which, when driven
away, takes pleasure in returning again and again? What justification have we
for our assertion that the dream removes the disturbance to sleep?
It is quite true that the unconscious wishes are always active. They represent
paths which are always practicable, whenever a quantum of excitation makes use
of them. It is indeed an outstanding peculiarity of the unconscious processes
that they are indestructible. Nothing can be brought to an end in the
unconscious; nothing is past or forgotten. This is impressed upon us
emphatically in the study of the neuroses, and especially of hysteria. The
unconscious path of thought which leads to the discharge through an attack is
forthwith passable again when there is a sufficient accumulation of excitation.
The mortification suffered thirty years ago operates, after having gained access
to the unconscious sources of affect, during all these thirty years as though it
were a recent experience. Whenever its memory is touched, it revives, and shows
itself to be cathected with excitation which procures a motor discharge for
itself in an attack. It is precisely here that psychotherapy must intervene, its
task being to ensure that the unconscious processes are settled and forgotten.
Indeed, the fading of memories and the weak affect of impressions which are no
longer recent, which we are apt to take as self-evident, and to explain as a
primary effect of time on our psychic memory-residues, are in reality secondary
changes brought about by laborious work. It is the preconscious that
accomplishes this work; and the only course which psychotherapy can pursue is to
bring the Ucs under the dominion of the Pcs.
There are, therefore, two possible issues for any single unconscious
excitation-process. Either it is left to itself, in which case it ultimately
breaks through somewhere and secures, on this one occasion, a discharge for its
excitation into motility, or it succumbs to the influence of the preconscious,
and through this its excitation becomes bound instead of being discharged. It is
the latter case that occurs in the dream-process. The cathexis from the Pcs
which goes to meet the dream once this has attained to perception, because it
has been drawn thither by the excitation of consciousness, binds the unconscious
excitation of the dream and renders it harmless as a disturber of sleep. When
the dreamer wakes up for a moment, he has really chased away the fly that
threatened to disturb his sleep. We may now begin to suspect that it is really
more expedient and economical to give way to the unconscious wish, to leave
clear its path to regression so that and it may form a dream, and then to bind
and dispose of this dream by means of a small outlay of preconscious work, than
to hold the unconscious in check throughout the whole period of sleep. It was,
indeed, to be expected that the dream, even if originally it was not a
purposeful process, would have seized upon some definite function in the play of
forces of the psychic life. We now see what this function is. The dream has
taken over the task of bringing the excitation of the Ucs, which had been left
free, back under the domination of the preconscious; it thus discharges the
excitation of the Ucs, acts as a safety-valve for the latter, and at the same
time, by a slight outlay of waking activity, secures the sleep of the
preconscious. Thus, like the other psychic formations of its group, the dream
offers itself as a compromise, serving both systems simultaneously, by
fulfilling the wishes of both, in so far as they are mutually compatible. A
glance at Robert's "elimination theory" will show that we must agree with this
author on his main point, namely, the determination of the function of dreams,
though we differ from him in our general presuppositions and in our estimation
of the dream-process. * -
* Is this the only function which we can attribute to dreams? I know of no
other. A. Maeder, to be sure, has endeavoured to claim for the dream yet other
secondary functions. He started from the just observation that many dreams
contain attempts to provide solutions of conflicts, which are afterwards
actually carried through. They thus behave like preparatory practice for waking
activities. He therefore drew a parallel between dreaming and the play of
animals and children, which is to be conceived as a training of the inherited
instincts, and a preparation for their later serious activity, thus setting up a
fonction ludique for the dream. A little while before Maeder, Alfred Adler
likewise emphasized the function of thinking ahead in the dream. (An analysis
which I published in 1905 contained a dream which may be conceived as a
resolution-dream, which was repeated night after night until it was realized.)
But an obvious reflection must show us that this secondary function of the dream
has no claim to recognition within the framework of any dream-interpretation.
Thinking ahead, making resolutions, sketching out attempted solutions which can
then perhaps be realized in waking life- these and many more performances are
functions of the unconscious and preconscious activities of the mind which
continue as day-residues in the sleeping state, and can then combine with an
unconscious wish to form a dream (chapter VII., C.). The function of thinking
ahead in the dream is thus rather a function of preconscious waking thought, the
result of which may be disclosed to us by the analysis of dreams or other
phenomena. After the dream has so long been fused with its manifest content, one
must now guard against confusing it with the latent dream-thoughts.
The above qualification- in so far as the two wishes are mutually compatible-
contains a suggestion that there may be cases in which the function of the dream
fails. The dream-process is, to begin with, admitted as a wish-fulfilment of the
unconscious, but if this attempted wish-fulfilment disturbs the preconscious so
profoundly that the latter can no longer maintain its state of rest, the dream
has broken the compromise, and has failed to perform the second part of its
task. It is then at once broken off, and replaced by complete awakening. But
even here it is not really the fault of the dream if, though at other times the
guardian, it has now to appear as the disturber of sleep, nor need this
prejudice us against its averred purposive character. This is not the only
instance in the organism in which a contrivance that is usually to the purpose
becomes inappropriate and disturbing so soon as something is altered in the
conditions which engender it; the disturbance, then, at all events serves the
new purpose of indicating the change, and of bringing into play against it the
means of adjustment of the organism. Here, of course, I am thinking of the
anxiety-dream, and lest it should seem that I try to evade this witness against
the theory of wish- fulfilment whenever I encounter it, I will at least give
some indications as to the explanation of the anxiety-dream.
That a psychic process which develops anxiety may still be a wish- fulfilment
has long ceased to imply any contradiction for us. We may explain this
occurrence by the fact that the wish belongs to one system (the Ucs), whereas
the other system (the Pcs) has rejected and suppressed it. * The subjection of
the Ucs by the Pcs is not thoroughgoing even in perfect psychic health; the
extent of this suppression indicates the degree of our psychic normality.
Neurotic symptoms indicate to us that the two systems are in mutual conflict;
the symptoms are the result of a compromise in this conflict, and they
temporarily put an end to it. On the one hand, they afford the Ucs a way out for
the discharge of its excitation- they serve it as a kind of sally- gate- while,
on the other hand, they give the Pcs the possibility of dominating the Ucs in
some degree. It is instructive to consider, for example, the significance of a
hysterical phobia, or of agoraphobia. A neurotic is said to be incapable of
crossing the street alone, and this we should rightly call a symptom. Let
someone now remove this symptom by constraining him to this action which he
deems himself incapable of performing. The result will be an attack of anxiety,
just as an attack of anxiety in the street has often been the exciting cause of
the establishment of an agoraphobia. We thus learn that the symptom has been
constituted in order to prevent the anxiety from breaking out. The phobia is
thrown up before the anxiety like a frontier fortress.
* General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, p. 534 below.
We cannot enlarge further on this subject unless we examine the role of the
affects in these processes, which can only be done here imperfectly. We will
therefore affirm the proposition that the principal reason why the suppression
of the Ucs becomes necessary is that, if the movement of ideas in the Ucs were
allowed to run its course, it would develop an affect which originally had the
character of pleasure, but which, since the process of repression, bears the
character of pain. The aim, as well as the result, of the suppression is to
prevent the development of this pain. The suppression extends to the idea-
content of the Ucs, because the liberation of pain might emanate from this
idea-content. We here take as our basis a quite definite assumption as to the
nature of the development of affect. This is regarded as a motor or secretory
function, the key to the innervation of which is to be found in the ideas of the
Ucs. Through the domination of the Pcs these ideas are as it were strangled,
that is, inhibited from sending out the impulse that would develop the affect.
The danger which arises, if cathexis by the Pcs ceases, thus consists in the
fact that the unconscious excitations would liberate an affect that- in
consequence of the repression that has previously occurred- could only be felt
as pain or anxiety.
This danger is released if the dream-process is allowed to have its own way. The
conditions for its realization are that repressions shall have occurred, and
that the suppressed wish- impulses can become sufficiently strong. They,
therefore, fall entirely outside the psychological framework of dream-formation.
Were it not for the fact that our theme is connected by just one factor with the
theme of the development of anxiety, namely, by the setting free of the Ucs
during sleep, I could refrain from the discussion of the anxiety-dream
altogether, and thus avoid all the obscurities involved in it.
The theory of the anxiety-dream belongs, as I have already repeatedly stated, to
the psychology of the neuroses. I might further add that anxiety in dreams is an
anxiety-problem and not a dream-problem. Having once exhibited the point of
contact of the psychology of the neuroses with the theme of the dream- process,
we have nothing further to do with it. There is only one thing left which I can
do. Since I have asserted that neurotic anxiety has its origin in sexual
sources, I can subject anxiety- dreams to analysis in order to demonstrate the
sexual material in their dream-thoughts.
For good reasons, I refrain from citing any of the examples so abundantly placed
at my disposal by neurotic patients, and prefer to give some anxiety-dreams of
children.
Personally, I have had no real anxiety-dream for decades, but I do recall one
from my seventh or eighth year which I subjected to interpretation some thirty
years later. The dream was very vivid, and showed me my beloved mother, with a
peculiarly calm, sleeping countenance, carried into the room and laid on the bed
by two (or three) persons with birds' beaks. I awoke crying and screaming, and
disturbed my parents' sleep. The peculiarly draped, excessively tall figures
with beaks I had taken from the illustrations of Philippson's Bible; I believe
they represented deities with the heads of sparrowhawks from an Egyptian tomb-
relief. The analysis yielded, however, also the recollection of a house-porter's
boy, who used to play with us children on a meadow in front of the house; I
might add that his name was Philip. It seemed to me then that I first heard from
this boy the vulgar word signifying sexual intercourse, which is replaced among
educated persons by the Latin word coitus, but which the dream plainly enough
indicates by the choice of the birds' heads. I must have guessed the sexual
significance of the word from the look of my worldly-wise teacher. My mother's
expression in the dream was copied from the countenance of my grandfather, whom
I had seen a few days before his death snoring in a state of coma. The
interpretation of the secondary elaboration in the dream must therefore have
been that my mother was dying; the tomb-relief, too, agrees with this. I awoke
with this anxiety, and could not calm myself until I had waked my parents. I
remember that I suddenly became calm when I saw my mother; it was as though I
had needed the assurance: then she was not dead. But this secondary
interpretation of the dream had only taken place when the influence of the
developed anxiety was already at work. I was not in a state of anxiety because I
had dreamt that my mother was dying; I interpreted the dream in this manner in
the preconscious elaboration because I was already under the domination of the
anxiety. The latter, however, could be traced back, through the repression to a
dark, plainly sexual craving, which had found appropriate expression in the
visual content of the dream.
A man twenty-seven years of age, who had been seriously ill for a year, had
repeatedly dreamed, between the ages of eleven and thirteen, dreams attended
with great anxiety, to the effect that a man with a hatchet was running after
him; he wanted to run away, but seemed to be paralysed, and could not move from
the spot. This may be taken as a good and typical example of a very common
anxiety-dream, free from any suspicion of a sexual meaning. In the analysis, the
dreamer first thought of a story told him by his uncle (chronologically later
than the dream), viz., that he was attacked at night in the street by a
suspicious- looking individual; and he concluded from this association that he
might have heard of a similar episode at the time of the dream. In association
with the hatchet, he recalled that during this period of his life he once hurt
his hand with a hatchet while chopping wood. This immediately reminded him of
his relations with his younger brother, whom he used to maltreat and knock down.
He recalled, in particular, one occasion when he hit his brother's head with his
boot and made it bleed, and his mother said: "I'm afraid he will kill him one
day." While he seemed to be thus held by the theme of violence, a memory from
his ninth year suddenly emerged. His parents had come home late and had gone to
bed, whilst he was pretending to be asleep. He soon heard panting, and other
sounds that seemed to him mysterious, and he could also guess the position of
his parents in bed. His further thoughts showed that he had established an
analogy between this relation between his parents and his own relation to his
younger brother. He subsumed what was happening between his parents under the
notion of "an act of violence and a fight." The fact that he had frequently
noticed blood in his mother's bed corroborated this conception.
That the sexual intercourse of adults appears strange and alarming to children
who observe it, and arouses anxiety in them, is, I may say, a fact established
by everyday experience. I have explained this anxiety on the ground that we have
here a sexual excitation which is not mastered by the child's understanding, and
which probably also encounters repulsion because their parents are involved, and
is therefore transformed into anxiety. At a still earlier period of life the
sexual impulse towards the parent of opposite sex does not yet suffer
repression, but as we have seen (chapter V., D.) expresses itself freely.
For the night terrors with hallucinations (pavor nocturnus) so frequent in
children I should without hesitation offer the same explanation. These, too, can
only be due to misunderstood and rejected sexual impulses which, if recorded,
would probably show a temporal periodicity, since an intensification of sexual
libido may equally be produced by accidentally exciting impressions and by
spontaneous periodic processes of development.
I have not the necessary observational material for the full demonstration of
this explanation. * On the other hand, pediatrists seem to lack the point of
view which alone makes intelligible the whole series of phenomena, both from the
somatic and from the psychic side. To illustrate by a comical example how
closely, if one is made blind by the blinkers of medical mythology, one may pass
by the understanding of such cases, I will cite a case which I found in a thesis
on pavor nocturnus (Debacker, 1881, p. 66).
* This material has since been provided in abundance by the literature of
psycho-analysis.
A boy of thirteen, in delicate health, began to be anxious and dreamy; his sleep
became uneasy, and once almost every week it was interrupted by an acute attack
of anxiety with hallucinations. The memory of these dreams was always very
distinct. Thus he was able to relate that the devil had shouted at him: "Now we
have you, now we have you!" and then there was a smell of pitch and brimstone,
and the fire burned his skin. From this dream he woke in terror; at first he
could not cry out; then his voice came back to him, and he was distinctly heard
to say: "No, no, not me; I haven't done anything," or: "Please, don't; I will
never do it again!" At other times he said: "Albert has never done that!" Later
he avoided undressing, "because the fire attacked him only when he was
undressed." In the midst of these evil dreams, which were endangering his
health, he was sent into the country, where he recovered in the course of
eighteen months. At the age of fifteen he confessed one day: "Je n'osais pas
l'avouer, mais j'eprouvais continuellement des picotements et des surexcitations
aux parties; * a la fin, cela m'enervait tant que plusieurs fois j'ai pense me
jeter par la fenetre du dortoir." *(2)
* The emphasis [on 'parties'] is my own, though the meaning is plain enough
without it.
*(2) I did not dare admit it, but I continually felt tinglings and
overexcitements of the parts; at the end, it wearied me so much that several
times I thought to throw myself from the dormitory window.
It is, of course, not difficult to guess: 1. That the boy had practised
masturbation in former years, that he had probably denied it, and was threatened
with severe punishment for his bad habit (His confession: Je ne le ferai plus; *
his denial: Albert n'a jamais fait ca.) *(2) 2. That, under the advancing
pressure of puberty, the temptation to masturbate was re-awakened through the
titillation of the genitals. 3. That now, however, there arose within him a
struggle for repression, which suppressed the libido and transformed it into
anxiety, and that this anxiety now gathered up the punishments with which he was
originally threatened.
* I will not do it again.
*(2) Albert never did that.
Let us, on the other hand, see what conclusions were drawn by the author (p.
69):
"1. It is clear from this observation that the influence of puberty may produce
in a boy of delicate health a condition of extreme weakness, and that this may
lead to a very marked cerebral anaemia. *
* The italics ['very marked cerebral anaemia.'] are mine.
"2. This cerebral anaemia produces an alteration of character, demono-maniacal
hallucinations, and very violent nocturnal, and perhaps also diurnal, states of
anxiety.
"3. The demonomania and the self-reproaches of the boy can be traced to the
influences of a religious education which had acted upon him as a child.
"4. All manifestations disappeared as a result of a lengthy sojourn in the
country, bodily exercise, and the return of physical strength after the
termination of puberty.
"5. Possibly an influence predisposing to the development of the boy's cerebral
state may be attributed to heredity and to the father's former syphilis."
Then finally come the concluding remarks: "Nous avons fait entrer cette
observation dans le cadre delires apyretiques d'inanition, car c'est a
l'ischemie cerebrale que nous rattachons cet etat particulier." *
* We put this case in the file of apyretic delirias of inanition, for it is to
cerebral anaemia that we attach this particular state.
The Interpretation of Dreams Chapter 7 - E. The Primary and Secondary Processes. Repression
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