Becoming and Being a Psychotherapist:

A Psychodynamic Memoir and Meditation

䊲

David E. Orlinsky
University of Chicago

The author reflects on the circumstances of his becoming a psychother-

apist and meditates on their meaning. He notes the effect on his survival
through childhood of his grandparents’ emigration from Europe and the
influence of his close-knit family on his personal needs and values. He
then reflects on his early vocational interests; the transformational power
of his education, as a student and faculty, at the University of Chicago; and
the constructive force of his professional collaboration and personal friend-
ship with Kenneth Howard. Finally, he considers why it is important to him
not only to have become but to continue to be a psychotherapist. © 2005
Wiley Periodicals, Inc. J Clin Psychol/In Session 61: 999–1007, 2005.

Keywords: psychotherapist; psychotherapy; career motivations; personal

development; professional development

Mesdames, Messieurs, les Jeux Sont Faits

As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have lived long enough to become a psychotherapist had
my grandparents not emigrated from Europe at the end of the 19th century. Because I was
born in 1936, the likelihood of my having seen a 10th birthday during the Holocaust is
remote. The unimaginable terror of being remorselessly hunted from lair to lair, hungry
and exhausted, would have been my heritage as a child in the brief “other life” I most
likely would have led. Maybe I did, in fact, live that brief life as an alternate self in an

The first section heading in this article is a phrase used by casino croupiers in France when betting is concluded
and the roulette wheel is spun, in a sense similar to the English phrase “the die is cast.” The second heading is
the title of a major work by the French poet Charles Baudelaire, which he borrowed and translated from the
American poet he admired most, Edgar Allen Poe. The third heading is the title of Goethe’s autobiographical
reflections. The final section heading is a paraphrase of Cardinal Newman’s autobiographical justification of his
conversion to Roman Catholicism.
An earlier version of this article, now extensively revised, was presented as part of the symposium Why I
(Really) Became a Psychotherapist–Five Psychologists Speak chaired by John C. Norcross at the American
Psychological Association convention in Chicago, August 24, 2002.
Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to: David E. Orlinsky, Ph.D., University of Chi-
cago, 5555 S. Everett Avenue, Chicago, IL 60637; e-mail: d-orlinsky@uchicago.edu.

JCLP/In Session, Vol. 61(8), 999–1007 (2005) © 2005 Wiley Periodicals, Inc.
Published online in Wiley InterScience (www.interscience.wiley.com). DOI: 10.1002/jclp.20173
1000 JCLP/In Session, August 2005

alternate universe separated (as string theory suggests) from our own by an 11-dimensional
membrane of sheer chance. Not long ago I had vivid nightly experiences of being hunted,
terrified to the core, that seemed so real that they might have occurred in that alternative
universe. The fact that I was on high doses of opiate after bilateral knee-replacement
surgery may account for my puncturing the membrane into “another” life, but it doesn’t
account for the desperate hunt and flight I was forced to live through nightly.
So I give my heartfelt thanks to Grandfather Nathan and Grandmother Gussie for
leaving their impoverished province in Austria when so young, and to Grandmother Sarah
(my archetypal “wise old woman”) and Grandfather David (whom I never knew) for
bravely leaving Poland and rebuilding their lives in New York’s teeming Lower East
Side. Thanks for rescuing me and saving my life even before I was born, and the lives of
my parents even before they were born, so that I could become a psychotherapist.
Writing this article at a cold time of year, in the two weeks of January separating the
yahrzeit (anniversary) of my mother’s death and that of my father’s death, I am sustained
(and will always be) by their patient, reliable love, steady as the memorial candles I have
lit (and will light) for them. Feelings without words (or need of words) rise into aware-
ness now as I reflect about why I (really) became a psychotherapist. I am who I am
largely because of my parents’ endowment to me. In that, I count chiefly the strands of
deoxyribonucleic acid they wound into me, and their courage in having a child in the
middle of the Depression. My birth placed me demographically in a small birth cohort,
which gave me an incomparable advantage in life through the fortunate circumstance
(chance, again) that my birth cohort was followed after a decade and more by a burgeon-
ing postwar birth cohort. What a great lot of people they were, and by the early 1960s—
when I was ready—they created great opportunities for the college teacher and
psychotherapist I had just become.
By the early 1960s, in my mid-20s—with a psychology Ph.D. and clinical internship
completed, already privileged to teach in the college where I myself had studied, already
listening with “mind and heart” to clients, already launched on the slow process of heal-
ing with my own therapists, already joined to the best of friends and life companions—I
didn’t appreciate (then, how could I?) how much luck had given me. Looking back half a
century later, now close to 70, I see quite clearly how my individual life has been shaped
by the particular span of historical time it overlaps.
Given the culture into which I was born, had I been born a couple of centuries sooner
in Eastern Europe I might have become a rabbi (teacher, guide, and sometimes healer).
Or, if born centuries before that in the Mediterranean of classical antiquity, I might have
been a Hellenized Jewish physician by day, trying to heal body and soul with the herbs
and leeches, and a gnostic magus by night, searching the esoteric mysteries of creation.
Or again, if born at an earlier time and a further place, lacking the double heritage of
Jerusalem and Athens but being a person drawn to the spirit world and inclined to believe
in the magical potency of words and dreams, I might have become a shaman.

Mon Coeur Mis à Nu

In this life, the start of my path to becoming a psychotherapist seems vague, an indistinct
movement in a hazy dawn atmosphere of early memory. All I can say for sure is that the
atmospheric conditions must have been right; if they hadn’t been, what ensued wouldn’t
have happened. The atmosphere in my case consisted of two close-knit immigrant fam-
ilies (five brothers in one, two daughters and two sons in the other) who became linked
into an extended family for me through the marriage of my parents (Max and Gertrude).
I have their wedding picture, and I often look at it with a sense of uncanny wonder, as if
 Becoming and Being a Psychotherapist 1001

I (close to 70) were meeting them (in their 20s). I now have grandchildren who are old as
my parents were in that picture. The thought makes me dizzy.
By the time I joined their extended family, most of my father’s and mother’s sibs had
acquired partners, so there really was quite a large number of uncles and aunts, and lots
of interaction among them. They met at least once a week at the homes of their parents
(my grandparents), gathered for holidays, and often visited each other, too. Because my
mother’s parents always either lived very near us or lived with us, I saw a great deal of my
uncles and aunts. If you’ve watched the Woody Allen film Radio Days, you will have a
fair idea of what that was like.
It was all one family: a lovely, tumultuous, frequently funny, sometimes disappointed
group of persons who cared about and (as needed) took as good care of one another as they
could manage. The assumed, unspoken norms of the extended family were “to each accord-
ing to his need, from each according to his ability” and “what goes around comes around.”
This way of life comes naturally to immigrant families living in poverty, surviving together
from month to month and trying individually slowly to raise their standard of living. Add to
this a healthy measure of warmth and pleasure in one another’s company, stir briskly, and
you have the atmosphere in which a future psychotherapist might take root and grow. Car-
ing and being cared for came naturally; they were simply there. I suppose, mainly on theo-
retical grounds, that there must also have been undercurrents of self-seeking, jealousy, and
conflict among family members (as there have always been since the biblical expulsion from
Eden)—but, if so, they were affairs of the adults that didn’t much intrude on me as a child,
preoccupied as I was with my own affairs. Either I never saw it; or if I did, then I’ve for-
gotten or “repressed” it (take your choice).
Anyway, I arrived in this extended family as the first child of parents who both were
the first in their family, and thus as the first grandchild and first nephew on both sides of
the family (as well as the first of several to bear the name of my father’s father). Fate gave
me this privileged and responsible family role, a limited group of competitors (both
within the family and in the wider world), and a safe time and place to survive through
childhood. That is really remarkable luck: birth order luck, atop birth cohort luck, piled
upon historical luck!
As the first in my generation, I arrived as special delivery for both sides of the family.
That too was through no particular merit of my own—a condition that my mother found
varied ways to remind me of as I grew up, perhaps so that I would believe that I should try
to merit it, if only by being good at school. Although part of my first experience of the
world was being an unrivaled center of attention—warm and joyful attention from a
loving swarm of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family friends—Gertrude of the stern
and beautiful visage (my mother) was nevertheless strict in controlling their access to me,
and mine to them. Mealtimes and bedtimes were rigidly observed, following the fashion-
able (and abominable) pediatric doctrine of the day.
But the center of my attention, the greatest source of both fair and stormy weather in
my world, was Mother. I could see later, in her handling of my own children when they
were babies, that she wasn’t completely comfortable with physical contact, and I can still
feel that fact in my body. I grant her this: that as a first-time mother, in a new country with
new customs (though she was born here, her parents were not), she was anxious to do the
right thing—but she was anxious. She was also formidably bright, beautiful (I have
pictures to prove it), bold and intrusive (everyone who knew her agrees to that). She
talked to me and read to me with so much love that once I could respond in kind we
shared a deep and astonishing world of words and thought, images and imagining.
We also fought a many-years-long war over food—which, if I live a century, is likely
to be a 100-years war, because the struggle still goes on without her. Gertrude was a
1002 JCLP/In Session, August 2005

formidable adversary in this. She thrust food at me with anxious persistence, and I, anxious
to resist, to her great frustration, was formidable too at keeping my mouth shut and holding
food in my mouth (when it got in), chewing it over and over. As a result, I became a skinny
kid, able to listen and keep secrets, a critical thinker and (for a firstborn) unusually skilled
as a resistance fighter. I also became a person for whom hunger would be a subversive force,
a “fifth column” inside the body politic, an underground threat to self-control.
What does all of this have to do with why I (really) became a psychotherapist? If you
are an experienced psychotherapist (or a poet) I have already told you more than you need
to know, and probably more than I should have told. I think of Freud’s (1900/1958) citing
the French psychologist Delboeuf to justify analyzing his own night life in The Interpre-
tation of Dreams: “Every psychologist is under an obligation to confess even his own
weaknesses, if he thinks that it may throw light upon some obscure problem.” But I also
remember the footnote he added to justify leaving his dream interpretations incomplete:
“I have probably been wise in not putting too much faith in my readers’ discretion.”
I spent the remainder of my childhood being a bright kid who was good at (but
not always good in) school, who was imaginative, and who used his mind and imagi-
nation to wrestle with a hyperactive libido. When puberty finally hit (word chosen advis-
edly), I writhed with strange unnamable feelings and wrote vivid but obscure poems.
Like Milton’s Adam in Paradise Lost, describing his development to the archangel
Raphael:
here passion first I felt,
Commotion strange, in all enjoyments else
Superior and unmov’d, here only weak
Against the charm of Beauties powerful glance.
(Bk VIII, 530–534)

Dichtung und Wahrheit

I don’t think that I began to imagine vocational identities for myself until I was in junior
high school in New York. These first imagined vocations (not attained as such) were to be
an astronomer searching the sky for hidden beauty and a poet searching within myself for
hidden meaning: science, on the one hand—factual, precise, and theoretical; poetry, on
the other hand—lyrical, precise, and imaginative. (Both are precise.) In pursuit of these
lofty goals, I rode the subway every Saturday from Rego Park in Queens to the Hayden
Planetarium in Manhattan, where (in high school) I became the editor, typist, printer, and
regular feature writer for the Planetarium’s monthly Junior Astronomy Club News. I also
contributed poems full of intense but opaque emotions to Forest Leaves, the student
literary magazine of Forest Hills High School.
Reflecting these ambitions and pursuits, I won medals when graduating from high
school for excellence in chemistry and in English (although this again must have been in
part caused by the favorable circumstance of a small birth cohort and a small graduation
class). As a new graduate, I was invited to write a brief article for the prestigious (but
since defunct) New York Herald Tribune about what I hoped to become as I went off to
college. There in print, through some form of mantic adolescent prescience, I said I
thought I could combine my passions for science and for poetry by pursuing a career in
psychiatry.
In New York City, in 1952, becoming a psychiatrist meant becoming a psychother-
apist. The choice of profession was overdetermined, because it would have fulfilled my
father’s wish that I go to medical school as well as my own desire to combine the study
 Becoming and Being a Psychotherapist 1003

of science and the exploration of inner life. In fact, after some detours, I did become a
clinical psychologist, but I couldn’t have aimed for that then because clinical psychology
was still a new field, a foster child of the U.S. Veterans Administration.
So, off I went at age 16 to college at the University of Chicago, almost 1,000 miles
from home. The family gathered to see me off at LaGuardia Airport, and a nice older
student with a driver’s license from the local Hillel met me at Midway Airport. (Our local
rabbi somehow made the arrangements.) To paraphrase Philip Roth’s fictional character
Nathan Zuckerman’s comment about his journey from Newark to the same school in
Chicago: “ Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana [and, for me, New Jersey]—the [ four] best friends
a boy ever had!”
When I arrived at the University of Chicago, its “Hutchins Plan” of general educa-
tion was still in force (Orlinsky, 1992)—another stroke of good luck—and my new life
began by being asked to read Plato’s Phaedrus, Aristotle’s Poetics, Joyce’s Portrait of an
Artist as a Young Man, and Mann’s Death in Venice. Rarely has one so young been so
richly ravished. Part of the Hutchins college plan was a set of placement examinations
taken when entering the college, and because Forest Hills High School had been a school
with great teachers (most with their master’s degree and some with a doctorate), I “placed
out” of much of the required curriculum.
Unfortunately for my intended path to medical school, I was excused from all 3 years
of a very intellectually stimulating sequence of general education science courses and went
instead straight into a low-level departmental course on inorganic chemistry. There my high
school chemistry medal proved insufficient to counteract the icy early morning trek from
dormitory to lecture hall across the frozen, windswept tundra of the Midway Plaisance; the
dry, uninspiring lectures, delivered in a drowse-inducing monotone; and several swoon-
inducing inhalations of ammonia at the laboratory bench. Neither was it enough to offset
the lure of classical philosophy and modern literature. To quote Roth’s Nathan Zuckerman
again: “Oh, the University of Chicago! All that philosophy! All that snow!”
Passing through the college too quickly for my own good, I was lucky to pause for a
year of further study under the genial tutelage of Professor Joachim Wach in the university’s
Committee on the History of Culture. While there I took courses on Homer and Greek
drama; read Dostoyevsky, Kierkegaard, and Joyce; studied modern poetry with Elder
Olson and Delmore Schwartz; translated Baudelaire from the French; and (incredibly)
took first prize in the university’s poetry contest. Inebriated as I was with the creative
process, in myself and others, the science side of my soul conceived a great desire to
study the psychology of creativity.
I was at the time a student in the university’s humanities division, and the dean of
students in that division (whose approval I needed) said that psychology courses couldn’t
be part of my program because the psychology department was part of the social sciences
division. So—having learned early how to deflect and parry the outthrust spoon—I went
ahead and enrolled in a psychology course. I liked that, and after the first course I took
another, and then a third. In one of them I read Freud for the first time and was amazed to
discover with that, without having known me at all, he had nevertheless written about me.
There, before my eyes, were detailed descriptions and explanations of my own murky
inner world, the storms that wracked it, and its sublime and secret places. I had stumbled
into the pleasure dome of Coleridge’s Kubla Khan:

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
1004 JCLP/In Session, August 2005

Enchanted, I continued taking courses in psychology at the University of Chicago

until I had a Ph.D. and had done a clinical internship, ready to follow a career into clinical
practice. My graduate study in psychology at the University of Chicago benefited from
contact with a stellar faculty consisting of Samuel Beck, Desmond Cartwright, Loren
Chapman, Donald Fiske, Ward Halstead, William Henry, Howard Hunt, Lyle Jones, Joe
Kamiya (sponsor of my doctoral dissertation, a laboratory study of immediate and morning-
after dream recall), Sheldon Korchin, Morris Stein, Joseph Wepman, and Sheldon White.
During those years, my understanding of personality—initiated by Freud—also was
strongly influenced by reading Piaget, Lewin, Sullivan, and many others.
Before I had quite completed my Ph.D., I heard about an opportunity to teach in a
general education course at the university—one I had really wanted to take as a student
but had missed by having scored too well on placement tests. So I applied, and by another
stroke of luck I got the job—a 1 year terminal appointment as a lecturer in social sciences—
without realizing where it would lead. In the autumn of 1960 I began to teach at the
University of Chicago (a trade I continue to ply there with considerable pleasure), and
that led from part-time lecturer to full-time instructor (when I got my Ph.D.) to assistant
professor (and a university prize for excellence in teaching), to associate professor (after
early publications) then full professor (after a first book). I became an academic, but all
the while I continued in part-time practice as a psychotherapist—marginally (but I hope
on the creative margin) as an academic among clinicians and as a clinician among
academics.
My background and outlook in psychology were greatly broadened through years
of teaching general education social sciences courses in the college and, subsequently,
graduate courses in the interdisciplinary Committee on Human Development. I
studied the likes of Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Simmel, G. H. Mead, Malinowski,
Lévi-Strauss, Parsons, Berger and Luckmann, Goffman, Geertz, and others. I think their
broadening influence on my work as a psychotherapy researcher was already evident in
devising the research-based “Generic Model” of psychotherapy (Orlinsky & Howard,
1986a, 1987); it is definitely displayed in the most recent theoretical addition to that
model (Orlinsky, 2004).
The year I started graduate school was especially fateful for me, because on the first
day of our first course, I met Kenneth Howard (1932–2000)—then (as ever) a warm,
dashing, ironic, brilliantly outside-the-box young man who had just returned from mili-
tary service in Germany. My luck held good again, and I was privileged to become Ken
Howard’s lifelong friend, cotherapist, research collaborator (e.g., Howard, Kopta, Krause,
& Orlinsky, 1986; Howard & Orlinsky, 1972 Howard, Orlinsky, & Lueger, 1995; Orlin-
sky, 2002; Orlinsky & Howard, 1967, 1975, 1986a, 1986b, 1995), and cofounder of the
Society for Psychotherapy Research (Orlinsky, 1995)—but always and before all else, a
true lifelong friend.
With Ken as a collaborator, I was able to achieve a large measure of my quest to
combine art and science through our becoming involved together in research on psycho-
therapy. We did that, I confess, mainly as an excuse to continue seeing each other after
graduating and for the same reason also worked together in an evening clinic where we
started our research (Orlinsky & Howard, 1967)—and met for dinner before seeing our
respective patients (Orlinsky & Howard, 1986b). Art and science? Well, psychotherapy is
an art, not unlike the art of rhetoric, according to Frank and Frank’s Persuasion and
Healing—even scientifically based, empirically supported therapies require artful prac-
tice to be effective—and, in its way, scientific research is also an art (the art of knowing).
We began with as artfully contrived studies as we could manage of psychotherapy itself
(e.g., Orlinsky & Howard, 1975), and that has extended more recently to include research
 Becoming and Being a Psychotherapist 1005

on psychotherapists (Orlinsky & Rønnestad, 2005) and on the psychotherapy of psycho-

therapists (Geller, Norcross, & Orlinsky, 2005).
Another part of my penchant for combining art and science has been teaching a
course on Modern Psychotherapies that relies extensively on videotapes of demonstration
therapy sessions drawn from a wide variety of theoretical orientations, in which I exam-
ine (among other subjects) the dramatic structure of therapy sessions. Still another part
of my quest has been reviving a course On Love—a topic that I first taught and wrote
about in the 1970s (Orlinsky, 1972, 1979)—that allows a return to the humanities (read-
ing Plato and Aristotle; Dante, Shakespeare, and Proust; Tillich, Lewis, and Williams; De
Rougemont, Paz, and De Beauvoir) in combination with psychology (e.g., Freud, Jung,
Fromm, Reik, Bowlby) and other social scientists.

Apologia pro Scientia Sua

How much the foregoing helps to explain “why I (really) became a psychotherapist” I
really cannot say. It seems to me that a more interesting question than why I became a
psychotherapist is why I remain a psychotherapist. I never had a full-time practice of
psychotherapy and now have just a little because I travel much and am trying (in however
much time I have left) to take several long-term research and writing projects to fruition,
but I have always felt a strong desire to remain active as a psychotherapist and have tried
to be here for those who want to talk with me in that way. Asking why I want to remain
a psychotherapist allows me to question my current self in a way that it isn’t possible to
question the younger versions of myself (child and youth and young adult), who are
available to me now only as half-veridical, half-recreated memories, and as felt presences
within me.
Yet this question, now that I pose it, seems just as difficult to answer in its own right,
or at least to answer in a way that will not sound strange to many because it is an onto-
logical statement. However, if pressed, I believe I would have to say that I sense some-
thing “sacred” in a person (cf. Durkheim, 1915/1965, bk. 2, chap. 8) that I can be near as
a therapist. There is a living, radiant being at the core of an individual’s personality
(typically obscured by that personality, which is more or less opaque) with which I rec-
ognize and can sometimes realize a deep connection. An enlivening vitality resides in that
personal core, not fully knowable in itself (hence always a source of mystery) but know-
able in qualified, refracted ways through the responses of the individual that flow from it.
If approached with sensitivity, tact, respect, and well-disciplined “philosophical” love
(such as Plato advocated in Socrates’ second speech in the Phaedrus), that personal core
of an individual is invited to reveal itself more fully and may be willing to meet in the
fundamental way that Buber (1965) described as “interhuman” and Charles Williams
(1938/1984) described as “co-inherence.”
I think that the great and complex work of psychotherapy, however approached, is to
challenge carefully and to help remove the obstacles in personality that obscure an
individual’s vital core and restrict its well-being. All theoretical orientations, in their
varied wisdom, offer words and deeds and images that can help in this work. Sensing
which will work, when, and for whom—and knowing how to do them—is the essential
art of psychotherapy. Providing facts to inform the practicing therapist’s intuition is the
part of the science of psychotherapy.
Maybe there is something “religious” about this credo, but if so, I mean it to be
religious in the secular, cultural sense defined by Durkheim and the existential, ethical
sense defined by Tillich and Buber. In that restricted but important sense, I would even
say that doing psychotherapy provides an opportunity to worship, to celebrate our
1006 JCLP/In Session, August 2005

fundamental and energizing interdependence. There are moments in therapy when this energy
and human beauty meet (as they do in other forms of creativity and love), and where, when
they meet, a healing influence resonates in all directions, into the therapist as well as the
patient, and to others closely involved in the patient’s life. That seems reason enough to remain
a psychotherapist—even if (as for me) one no longer needs to do so.

Envoi
Surely more could be said, but an end must come; I will just quote some words of Erik
Erikson (1950, p. 98) that I didn’t well understand when I was younger. About the chal-
lenge of my present age, he wrote:
It is the acceptance of one’s own and only life cycle and of the people who have become
significant to it as something that had to be and that, by necessity, permitted of no substitu-
tions. It thus means a new different love of one’s parents, free of the wish that they should have
been different, and an acceptance of the fact that one’s life is one’s own responsibility. It is a
sense of comradeship with men and women of distant times and of different pursuits, who
have created orders and objects and sayings conveying human dignity and love. . . . Aware of
the relativity of all the various life styles which have given meaning to human striving, . . . he
knows that an individual life is the accidental coincidence of but one life cycle with but one
segment of history; and that for him all human integrity stands and falls with the one style of
integrity of which he partakes.

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Erikson, E. (1950). Growth and crises of the healthy personality (p. 98). In Identity and the life
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chological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 4, p. 105). London: Hogarth.
Geller, J.D., Norcross, J.C., & Orlinsky, D.E. (Eds.). (2005). The psychotherapist’s own psycho-
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