A Post Not From Francis, But About Francis.
Or, to be more precise, about his hypochondria.
I won't be saying anything new, but I would like to sum up some of my thoughts on the subject. Naturally, I'll be quoting from The Secret History, but I'll also mention the book by Mathias Hirsch (Mein Körper gehört mir... und ich kann mit ihm machen, was ich will!Dissoziation und Inszenierungen des Körpers psychoanalytisch betrachtet, 2010). As the title suggests, it's grounded in psychoanalysis — something to keep in mind when certain interpretations or quotations come across as idiosyncratic or abstract.
P.S. Much to my regret, I couldn't find this book in English — only in German — so the quotations won't be direct. I'm writing from memory, having read it recently.
Let's start with the obvious. Francis's hypochondria isn't just a character trait or an interesting quirk of our drama queen. It's a complex, unconscious defence mechanism that serves several vital functions:
1. A way of coping with guilt;
3. Fear of life and the responsibility that comes with it;
4. A way of obtaining love and care.
Hirsch frames hypochondria as a conflict between autonomy and dependence. F.'s (Francis's) striving for autonomy shows itself in his attempts — however feeble, and clearly limited to the period before the epilogue — to separate from his family, from his eccentric mother, and from the selfish world around him. At the same time, he's profoundly, entirely financially tied to that same family (and, as a result of forced helplessness and other factors, even ends up marrying a girl to keep the money, rather than finding a job and staying true to his sexual orientation, if you will).
This creates a peculiar financial and psychological umbilical cord binding him to his family. This irresolvable conflict F. transfers onto his body, which becomes a battlefield where the whole internal drama plays out. He can neither leave his mother nor fully submit to her.
According to Hirsch, the body can become: a) a container for trauma; b) a surrogate mother; c) an object for establishing boundaries.
Let's go through all three.
F. grew up in a strange atmosphere: eccentricity, parental neglect (his mother had him at seventeen, there was no real contact with his father, and his grandparents raised him as a brother and sister alongside his own mother). He internalised this sense of chaos and not being wanted. His body became a vessel for inner disorder, which he tries to control through hyper-vigilance about symptoms.
When F. says he's ill, dying, or unwell, he creates a caregiving figure for himself. His body, through illness, draws the attention of doctors, friends, and significant people, making them worry about him. And this is pretty much the only way he can get the parental, maternal care he missed. He builds himself an adult, a mother, out of his own symptoms (and yes, we don't know exactly how his grandparents raised him, but "English nannies and private schools, summers in Switzerland, winters in France" does make you wonder).
c) Establishing Boundaries
Health anxiety becomes an excellent barrier against what he truly fears: close relationships and adult responsibility. It helps him keep his distance from situations and attachments that might be uncomfortable.
Hirsch's book is mainly about the dissociation of the "I" and the body. F. is a textbook case. He dresses with extreme care and aestheticism (yet another mask, costume, armour, protection), projecting the image of a refined, bored, inaccessible aristocrat — aloof and alluring at once. But this is all a façade, the so-called "observing I". His true "body-I" is chaotic, painful, vulnerable, and in need of care. It's the "body-I" that carries all his suffering, becoming the object of hypochondriacal control.
His hypochondria is both a cry for help — hidden behind a dramatic complaint about his health — and his voluntary prison.
One of the most telling moments, to my mind, was his account of childhood: how at twelve he was sent to Switzerland, to an institute that had macrobiotic diets, classes in dervish dancing and the Kabbalah, Chinese Qigong, strange games with anatomically correct dolls, and four hours of Reichian analysis (and F. got six).
What a perfect place to cultivate dysmorphophobia or a future hypochondriac.
P.S. Just to appreciate the irony: Reichian analysis (orgone therapy) is body-oriented psychotherapy, created by Wilhelm Reich. Sessions typically involve breathing exercises, touching/massaging tense areas, working through emotions physically (crying, laughter, tears, and so on), and — oh miracle! — focusing on sexual liberation. Exactly what you want at twelve, far from home.
Hirsch would call all this an ideal "psychosomatic environment", where the boundary between psyche and body is forcibly erased. F. was isolated from the world, subjected to alien practices, and his psyche and body were intruded upon without his consent. That's precisely where his future hypochondria could take root — as a defence against the intrusive object (his mother and her, and the family's, highly questionable methods).
And that's also where the incident with the girls happens — which, incidentally, could be analysed in terms of F.'s sexuality, but that's a topic for another time. For now, superficially: the trauma of "false accusation".
In reality, they were just hungry children on a macrobiotic diet, sneaking off to the bureau de tabac for chocolate. The adults, of course, saw it differently — a "sexual incident" (menage a trots in a haystack). And here we have:
1. A classic identification with the aggressor: F. has to play along to survive. He's made to tell (and show on the dolls) what never happened. He had to confess to a sexual game to fit the adults' script. And so we have vertical splitting: he splits off his true self (a hungry child who just wanted chocolate) and adopts the imposed one (a young seducer).
2. This incident probably cemented in F.'s mind the connection between bodily needs (hunger, craving sweets, the forbidden) and shame, false accusation. His body became "guilty". All his later complaints, in a way, are the same story — only now he's the "jailer" and the "educator".
3. Now the adult F. constantly scans his body, looking for faults, just as his body was once scanned for "deviations" and "sexually deviant behaviour". But now he controls the process. He finds his own doctors, chooses them, chooses what hurts. This is how he reclaims power over that childhood helplessness, when his body didn't belong to him but was an object for adult projections.
4. This incident made him wary of any "intimacy" that might be misinterpreted. Hence his difficulties with homosexual relationships — they're forever linked to childhood guilt and shame. His body remembers: if he wants something (sweets, affection, care), he'll be punished or judged.
5. Since his mother (or the family, but the maternal figure matters most) sent him to that Institute (or at least allowed it), she too was, in a way, a source of trauma. But children can't truly hate their parents — they're too afraid of losing them. So F. couldn't direct his aggression at his mother; he turned it on his own body. He sacrificed a part (his body, through hypochondria) to preserve the whole (his relationship with his mother). He became "bad" through his body, but kept "good" relations with her.
Now for the second episode: the conversation with Richard.
A word first about the transitional object and the surrogate mother. Hirsch (and Winnicott, and Kafka) suggest that the body and its functions can become a transitional object — exactly like a child's teddy bear, helping to manage anxiety and loneliness. Smoking plays this role for F.: a) it's a ritual he fully controls; b) it's always with him, like a companion; c) the act itself is calming and rhythmic (I'd compare it to thumb-sucking, but dragging Freud's oral stage into this might be a bit much — though it's funny to think about).
So, according to Hirsch, this particular function of the body is a surrogate mother. F. can't get stable, safe care from his actual mother. She's absent, too busy (husbands, alcohol, clinics, and all that), so the cigarette becomes his "mother": instant comfort, always accessible, and he decides when to use it.
When Richard comments on his smoking, F. reacts with irritation and denial. Another vertical split. The "observing I" (F.-the-aesthete) knows smoking is harmful but brushes it off as trivial. The "body-I" (F.-the-hypochondriac) is deeply convinced that his symptoms come from some mysterious, serious, elusive illness that the incompetent Vermont doctors can't diagnose.
This is a defence against the terrifying thought that he himself is the cause of his suffering. If he admitted that his breathing problems were from smoking, he'd have to: give up his surrogate object; accept that he, not some treacherous disease, is destroying his body; and take responsibility for his health.
And that would shatter his entire hypochondriacal defence. Hypochondria depends on the belief that the illness is mysterious, external, and that he's its victim. But if the illness is his own choice (i.e., smoking), then he's not a victim — he's the cause. And that would strip him of his "sick, dramatic, complaining" identity, with all its advantages.
A hypochondriac typically goes from doctor to doctor, rejecting their conclusions, because they don't confirm his fantasy of a "serious illness". Something similar happens with F. dismissing local doctors and carefully selecting others (recall Julian's advice). Because if he agreed with them, he'd have to face the reality of the problem, the emptiness of his life, the impossibility of being himself, and the pressure from his family.
Voilà! That's the end of my rather lengthy analysis. I hope you enjoyed reading it, found something new, or had your own thoughts confirmed. I really wanted to share this important aspect of the character.
