Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston As he was about to address the assembled guests he couldn’t find his voice any more. He felt Amanda’s hand on his thigh, gently, tenderly. He put his hand on hers, breathed deeply, closed his eyes, then opened them again, taking in the faces around the table, these people that he loved, waiting, patient, still. He felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders, sink into his chest. He wished his father were there, missed his resonant voice, his steadiness. But his father was gone.
Babette Saebisch, DPG / German Psychoanalytic Society Just as he was about to address the assembled guests, he lost his voice.
He was embarrassed at first. He was neither particularly moved, nor touched, nor in any other intense mood. And yet he couldn't get a word out. How could that be? And what might they think of him now? He thought feverishly about what would be more inconvenient - that they might think he was easy to touch or that he was lamp feverish. And he wondered how he could possibly simulate the less unpleasant situation so that he could continue to play it. Because, as I said, none of this was the case. It was worse, much, much worse, and he didn't want to reveal that at any price. What filled his entire oral cavity at that moment and prevented him from articulating words or even producing sounds seemed to be out of this world. It was furry and metallic at the same time, sweet and mouldy and bitter in one, morbid and deadly together - and it wanted to get out of him. And the only thing he could do to keep the evil rumbling inside him away from his friends for a moment was to press his lips together until tears welled up in his eyes. Christiane H. Schleidt, Akademie für Psychoanalyse und Psychotherapie Munich When he wanted to address the assembled guests, his voice failed him. He stood there and swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He looked into expectant eyes. Even after the lecture, he couldn't say how it happened that he made hand gestures in the air and presented them very emphatically to the audience. It just happened. It all went by itself. It was as if both hands were engaged in a kind of dialogue that became very quiet and tender at times. It almost subsided, but then gained momentum again after a pause. He himself was drawn into a story he did not know, but which attracted him and increasingly excited him. He felt the audience staring spellbound at his hands
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