Splitting: The Part That Stayed Behind
Splitting: The Part That Stayed Behind
What follows is a fictional account, shaped by patterns that can emerge quietly within a person’s inner world — experiences that, while different in detail, often carry a familiar emotional shape.
Alassane was sitting at the table with his family.
His daughter was talking about something that had happened at school — something small, something that mattered to her. His partner was listening, asking questions, her tone soft and encouraging. The room felt settled, the kind of moment that might pass without being noticed.
Alassane nodded, hearing the words clearly. He knew he was listening, and he could feel himself responding in the right way — a slight smile, a question at the right moment, the appearance of attention. And yet, something in him was elsewhere. Not completely gone, not absent in any obvious way, but not fully there either.
If someone had asked him, he would have said he was listening. If someone had looked at him, they would have seen that he was. But inside, there was a quiet division — one part of him remained at the table, while another had already withdrawn somewhere deeper, somewhere safer, somewhere no one else could easily reach.
It wasn’t new. He had felt it before — not just here, not just with them, but in other moments that carried the same internal shape. Times when he was present, responding, doing what was expected of him, and yet aware that part of him had stepped back from the experience, leaving something more contained behind.
When Something Begins to Divide
It wasn’t something Alassane spoke about, not because it was hidden exactly, but because there had never been a place for it to be spoken. By the time he arrived in England at fourteen, his father had already been there for years, and the life waiting for him was structured, controlled, and clear in its expectations. There was a way to behave, a way to speak, a way to carry yourself, and there were consequences for getting it wrong.
His father did not shout often. He didn’t need to. There was something in the way he held himself — a tension, a readiness — that made things clear enough. When anger came, it came quickly, without much warning and without much room for negotiation. Alassane learned early to stay within the lines, to notice shifts in mood before they became something more, and to adjust himself in ways that might prevent what could follow.
It wasn’t always physical, but it didn’t need to be. The atmosphere itself carried something heavier than words, something that made it clear that closeness could turn, that attention could harden, and that being seen was not always safe. Over time, this began to organise something inside him. He became more careful in how he appeared, more practised in presenting the version of himself that could survive the room.
But alongside this outward adaptation, something quieter was happening inside. He could not hold together the different experiences of his father — the man who was present and the man who could suddenly become frightening. There was no space to feel both at once. And so, without knowing it, his mind began to separate them. One version could be held as controlled, predictable, even necessary. Another became something harsher, something to be avoided, something that could not be safely engaged with.
At the same time, something similar began to happen within himself. The part of him that needed, felt, reacted, or might protest could not be allowed full expression. It was too risky. Too visible. Too exposed. So it became separated from the part that could function, behave, and remain acceptable.
What could not be held together was divided. And what was divided did not disappear. It was kept somewhere else.
1989
He was fourteen when he arrived in England.
The air felt different before anything else did — colder, sharper, carrying something unfamiliar that he could not quite name. He stood slightly behind his mother, aware of everything at once, and yet unsure where to place himself within it.
His father stood a few steps away. Not distant exactly, but not moving toward him either. There was recognition in his face, but it was contained, held in place rather than expressed. Alassane noticed it before anything was said — the stillness, the way his father seemed to assess him rather than greet him. There was no embrace, no moment of hesitation or uncertainty, just a brief acknowledgement and then an expectation.
He stepped forward when he was told to, conscious of his body in a way that felt unfamiliar — how he stood, how he looked, how he might be seen. Whatever he had imagined that moment might feel like had already begun to fall away. It wasn’t fear in the way he would later come to recognise it. It was something more contained — a tightening, a sense of needing to hold himself in place, to not give too much away, to not get it wrong before he even understood what “wrong” might be.
Looking back, it was not what was said that stayed with him. It was the absence of something else — something that might have allowed him to move toward his father without hesitation.
Instead, something in him held back.
And somewhere in that moment, something more permanent began to take shape — a way of being in which part of him could step forward into the world, while another part remained withdrawn, holding what could not safely be shown.
When It Shows Up Again
In adult life, this way of being did not always look like difficulty. From the outside, Alassane could seem calm, thoughtful, even easy to be with. He listened well. He rarely demanded too much. He could be attentive without overwhelming anyone.
But inside, things were less simple.
There were moments when closeness began to reach him too directly. A conversation would deepen. Someone would ask what he felt. A moment would require something real in return. And in those moments, something shifted. Part of him wanted to stay. Wanted to respond honestly. Wanted to remain present. But another part withdrew — not just away from the person, but into an internal space that had long existed as a place of safety.
In that internal world, relationships felt different. People could be held at a distance. They could be understood, imagined, softened, or kept separate from the intensity of real contact. The risk of being overwhelmed, rejected, or exposed was reduced. But something else was reduced too. Connection lost its immediacy. Feeling became quieter, more controlled, sometimes less real.
Within this internal space, different versions of others could exist separately — one that felt safe, steady, or needed, and another that carried something more difficult, more threatening, or more unpredictable. These experiences did not have to meet. They could remain divided, protecting him from the strain of holding them together.
Something similar happened within himself. The part that could engage, respond, and function remained active in the external world. Another part — more vulnerable, more dependent, more reactive — remained further inside, less accessible, less visible, but still very much alive.
This was not a conscious process.
It was how his mind had learned to survive. And because it had once protected him, it continued — even in moments where the danger was no longer the same.
Understanding Splitting in Psychology
In psychology, this process is known as splitting — often referred to as splitting in psychology — where the self divides in order to manage difficult emotional experience. What Alassane was experiencing did not begin in adulthood. It reflected a way of organising inner life that had developed much earlier, shaped by relationships in which different emotional realities could not safely be held together.
This idea has its roots in object relations theory, particularly in the work of Melanie Klein and W.R.D. Fairbairn, and was explored further by psychoanalyst Harry Guntrip. Splitting, in this sense, is not only about seeing others as good or bad. It is about the way both the self and others can become divided internally when experience is too overwhelming to integrate.
For Guntrip, this process was central to what he described as the schizoid condition. When early relationships feel intrusive, inconsistent, or emotionally unsafe, the self may retreat inward, investing more fully in an internal world of relationships that feel more controllable and less threatening than those in external reality.
Within this internal world, relationships are often organised in a split way. Idealised, safe, or needed figures can be kept separate from those that feel rejecting, critical, or dangerous. This separation protects the self from having to reconcile conflicting feelings — love and fear, need and resentment — toward the same person.
At the same time, the self itself becomes divided. One part continues to function in the external world, adapting, responding, and maintaining contact with others. Another part — what Guntrip described as a more regressed or withdrawn ego — retreats further inside, carrying vulnerability, dependence, and emotional intensity that cannot yet be safely expressed.
This is not a failure. It is a protection. But it comes at a cost. Because what is kept separate cannot be fully known, and what is withdrawn cannot be fully shared.
For someone like Alassane, this means that life can be lived across two spaces — an outer world where he is present, capable, and connected, and an inner world where much of his emotional life is held, protected, and kept apart.
Why This Matters in Therapy
Understanding a pattern like this is not about identifying something that is “wrong” with a person. It is about recognising how the mind has organised itself in response to experiences that were once too difficult to hold together. For someone like Alassane, the division within himself is not imagined. It reflects a way of surviving that once made it possible to remain in relationship while protecting something more vulnerable from being overwhelmed.
In adulthood, that same pattern can begin to create a different kind of difficulty. The part that seeks closeness exists alongside a part that withdraws into a safer internal world. Connection is both desired and restricted. Feeling is present, but not fully allowed.
In psychodynamic counselling, these patterns are not rushed or corrected. They are explored slowly, within a relationship that aims to be consistent enough to allow different parts of the self to emerge without needing to retreat as quickly as before. Over time, something can begin to change. Not through force, but through experience. The person may begin to notice when they withdraw, to recognise the parts of themselves that remain hidden, and to tolerate more of their own emotional life without needing to divide it so completely. This is not about removing the internal world. It is about allowing what has been kept separate to gradually come into contact.
If something in Alassane’s experience feels familiar — the sense of being present but not fully there, of living partly inside yourself, or of finding that closeness brings both longing and the need to retreat — it may be worth allowing yourself the space to think about how these patterns developed and how they continue to shape your life.
In my work, these experiences are approached with care and curiosity, rather than judgement. Psychodynamic counselling offers a space where the inner world can be explored safely, allowing something that once had to remain divided to become more understood, and over time, more integrated.
You are welcome to explore the site to learn more about how I work, and to consider whether this approach may feel right for you.
References
Fairbairn, W.R.D. (1952) Psychoanalytic Studies of the Personality. London: Routledge.
Guntrip, H. (1968) Schizoid Phenomena, Object Relations and the Self. London: Hogarth Press.
