It cannot be too unusual for patients—I certainly remember it from the time I was a patient on the couch—to experience, at least at times, being in analysis as an illness, insofar as it is a regressive and unsettling experience, not dissimilar to the passions and conflicts stirred up anew in the state of being in love which, from the point of view of the ordinary order and emotional tenor and discipline of life, feels like an illness, with all its deliciousness and pain.
