Auxiliary Approaches to Artificial Harmony
IT IS A commonplace that one lie usually leads to another, the second takes a third to bolster it, and so on till one is caught in a tangled web. Something of the sort is bound to happen in any situation in the life of an individual or group where a determination to go to the root of the matter is lacking. The patchwork may be of some help, but it will generate new problems which in turn require a new makeshift. So it is with neurotic attempts to solve the basic conflict; and here, as elsewhere, nothing is of any real avail but a radical change in the conditions out of which the original difficulty arose. What the neurotic does instead—and cannot help doing—is to pile one pseudo solution upon another. He may try, as we have seen, to make one face of the conflict predominate. He remains as torn as ever. He may resort to the drastic measure of detaching himself from others entirely; but though the conflict is set out of operation his whole life is put on a precarious basis. He creates an idealized self in which he appears triumphant and unified, but at the same time creates a new rift. He tries to do away with that rift by eliminating his inner self from the field of combat, only to find himself in an even more intolerable predicament.
So unstable an equilibrium requires still further measures to support it. He turns then to any one of a number of unconscious devices, which may be classified as blind spots, compartmentalizing, rationalizing, excessive self-control, arbitrary rightness, delusiveness, and cynicism. We shall not attempt to discuss these phenomena per se—that would be too intensive a task—but will show only how they are employed in connection with conflicts.
The discrepancy between a neurotic’s actual behavior and his idealized picture of himself can be so blatant that one wonders how he himself can help seeing it. But far from doing so, he is able to remain unaware of a contradiction that stares him in the face. This blind spot in view of the most obvious contradictions was one of the first things that drew my attention to the existence and relevance of the conflicts I have described. A patient, for example, who had all the characteristics of the compliant type and thought of himself as Christlike, told me quite casually that at staff meetings he would often shoot one colleague after another with a little flick of his thumb. True enough, the destructive craving that prompted these figurative killings was at that time unconscious; but the point here is that the shooting, which he dubbed “play,” did not in the least disturb his Christlike image.
Another patient, a scientist who believed himself seriously devoted to his work and considered himself an innovator in his field, was guided in his choice of what he should publish by purely opportunistic motives, presenting only papers that he felt would bring him the most acclaim. There was no attempt at camouflage—merely the same blissful obliviousness to the contradiction involved. Similarly, a man who in his idealized image was goodness and straightforwardness itself thought nothing of taking money from one girl to spend it on another.
It is obvious that in each of these cases the function of the blindness was to keep underlying conflicts from awareness. What is amazing is the extent to which this was possible, the more so since the patients in question were not only intelligent but psychologically informed. To say that we all tend to turn our backs on what we do not care to see is surely insufficient explanation. We should have to add that the degree to which we blot out things depends on how great our interest is in doing so. All in all, such artificial blindness demonstrates in a quite simple fashion how great is our aversion to recognizing conflicts. But the real problem here is how we can manage to overlook contradictions as conspicuous as those just cited. The fact is that there are special conditions without which it would indeed be impossible. One of them is an inordinate numbness to our own emotional experience. The other, already pointed out by Strecker,1 is the phenomenon of living in compartments. Strecker, who also offers illustrations of the blind spots, speaks of logic-tight compartments and segregation. There is a section for friends and one for enemies, one for the family and one for outsiders, one for professional and one for personal life, one for social equals and one for inferiors. Hence what happens in one compartment does not appear to the neurotic to contradict what happens in another. It is possible for a person to live that way only when, by reason of his conflicts, he has lost his sense of unity. Compartmentalizing is thus as much a result of being divided by one’s conflicts as a defense against recognizing them. The process is not unlike that described in the case of one kind of idealized image: contradictions remain, but the conflicts are spirited away. It is hard to say whether this type of idealized image is responsible for the compartmentalization or the other way around. It seems likely, however, that the fact of living in compartments is the more fundamental and that it would account for the kind of image created.
To appreciate this phenomenon, cultural factors must be taken into consideration. Man has become to so great a degree merely a cog in an intricate social system that alienation from the self is almost universal, and human values themselves have declined. As a result of innumerable outstanding contradictions in our civilization a general numbness of moral perception has developed. Moral standards are so casually regarded that no one is surprised, for instance, to see a person a pious Christian or a devoted father one day, conducting himself like a gangster the next.2 There are too few wholehearted and integrated persons around us to offer contrast to our own scatteredness. In the analytical situation Freud’s discarding of moral values—a consequence of his viewing psychology as a natural science—has contributed toward making the analyst just as blind as the patient to contradictions of this sort. The analyst thinks it ‘‘unscientific” to have moral values of his own or to take any interest in those of the patient. As a matter of fact, the acceptance of contradictions appears in many theoretical formulations not necessarily confined to the moral sphere.
Rationalization may be defined as self-deception by reasoning. The common idea that it is primarily used to justify oneself or to bring one’s motives and actions into accord with accepted ideologies is only valid up to a point; the implication there would be that persons living in the same civilization all rationalize along the same lines, whereas actually there is a wide range of individual difference in what is rationalized as well as in the methods employed. That this should be so is only natural if we view rationalization as one way of supporting neurotic attempts to create artificial harmony. In each of the planks of the defensive scaffolding built around the basic conflict, the process can be seen at work. The predominant attitude is strengthened by reasoning—factors that would bring the conflict into sight are either minimized or so remodeled as to fit in with it. How this self-deceptive reasoning aids the streamlining of the personality shows up when one contrasts the compliant type with the aggressive. The former ascribes his desire to be helpful to his sympathetic feelings, even though strong tendencies to dominate are present; and if these are too conspicuous he rationalizes them as solicitousness. The latter, when he is helpful, firmly denies any feeling of sympathy and lays his action entirely to expediency. The idealized image always requires a good deal of rationalization for its support: discrepancies between the actual self and the image must be reasoned out of existence. In externalizing, it is brought to bear to prove the relevance of outside circumstances or to show that the traits unacceptable to the individual himself are merely a “natural” reaction to the behavior of others.
The tendency toward excessive self-control can be so strong that I at one time counted it among the original neurotic trends.3 Its function is to serve as a dam against being flooded by contradictory emotions. Though in the beginning it is often an act of conscious will power, in time it usually becomes more or less automatic. Persons who exert such control will not allow themselves to be carried away, whether by enthusiasm, sexual excitement, self-pity, or rage. In analysis they have the greatest difficulty in associating freely; they will not permit alcohol to lift their spirits and frequently prefer to endure pain rather than undergo anesthesia. In short, they seek to check all spontaneity. This trait is most strongly developed in individuals whose conflicts are fairly out in the open, those who have not taken either of the steps that ordinarily help to submerge the conflicts; clear predominance has not been given to one of the conflicting sets of attitudes, nor has sufficient detachment been developed to put the conflicts out of operation. Such persons are held together merely by their idealized image; and apparently its binding power is insufficient when unaided by one or the other of the primary attempts at establishing inner unity. The image is particularly inadequate when it takes the form of a composite of contradictory elements. The exertion of will power then, consciously or unconsciously, is needed to keep the conflicting impulses under control. Since the most disruptive impulses are those of violence prompted by rage, the greatest degree of energy is directed toward the control of rage. Here a vicious circle is set in motion; the rage, by reason of being suppressed, attains explosive strength, which in turn requires still more self-control to choke it. If the patient’s excessive control is brought to his attention he will defend it by pointing to the virtue and necessity of self-control for any civilized individual. What he overlooks is the compulsive nature of his control. He cannot help exerting it in the most rigid way and is seized by panic if for any reason it fails to function. The panic may appear as a fear of insanity, which clearly indicates that the function of the control is to ward off the danger of being split apart.
Arbitrary rightness has the twofold function of eliminating doubt from within and influence from without. Doubt and indecision are invariable concomitants of unresolved conflicts and can reach an intensity powerful enough to paralyze all action. In such a state a person is naturally susceptible to influence. When we have genuine convictions we will not be readily swayed; but if all our lives we stand at a crossroad, undecided whether to go in this direction or that, outside agencies can easily be the determining factor, if only temporarily. Moreover, indecision applies not only to possible courses of action but also includes doubts about oneself, one’s rights, one’s worth.
All these uncertainties detract from our ability to cope with life. Apparently, however, they are not equally intolerable to everyone. The more a person sees life as a merciless battle, the more will he regard doubt as a dangerous weakness. The more isolated he is and insistent upon independence, the more will susceptibility to foreign influence be a source of irritation. All my observation points to the fact that a combination of predominant aggressive trends and detachment is the most fertile soil for the development of rigid rightness; and the nearer to the surface the aggression, the more militant the rightness. It constitutes an attempt to settle conflicts once and for all by declaring arbitrarily and dogmatically that one is invariably right. In a system so governed by rationality, emotions are traitors from within and must be checked by unswerving control. Peace may be attained but it is the peace of the grave. As would be expected, such persons loathe the idea of analysis because it threatens to disarrange the tidy picture.
Almost polar to rigid rightness, but likewise an effective defense against the recognition of conflicts, is elusiveness. Patients inclined toward this kind of defense often resemble those characters in fairy tales who when pursued turn into fish; if not safe in this guise, they turn into deer; if the hunter catches up with them they fly away as birds. You can never pin them down to any statement; they deny having said it or assure you they did not mean it that way. They have a bewildering capacity to becloud issues. It is often impossible for them to give a concrete report of any incident; should they try to do so the listener is uncertain in the end just what really did happen.
The same confusion reigns in their lives. They are vicious one moment, sympathetic the next; at times overconsiderate, ruthlessly inconsiderate at others; domineering in some respects, self-effacing in others. They reach out for a dominating partner, only to change to a ‘‘doormat,” then back to the former variety. After treating someone badly, they will be overcome by remorse, attempt to make amends, then feel like a “sucker” and turn to being abusive all over again. Nothing is quite real to them.
The analyst may well find himself confused, and, discouraged, feel there is no substance to work with. There he is mistaken. These are simply patients who have not succeeded in adopting the customary unifying procedures: they have not only failed to repress parts of their conflict, but they have established no definite idealized image. In a way they may be said to demonstrate the value of these attempts. For no matter how troublesome the consequences, persons who have so proceeded are better organized and not nearly so lost as the elusive type. On the other hand, the analyst would be equally mistaken were he to count on an easy job by virtue of the fact that the conflicts are visible and need not therefore be dragged out of hiding. Nevertheless he will find himself up against the patient’s aversion to any transparency, and this will tend to defeat him unless he himself understands that this is the patient’s way of warding off any real insight.
A final defense against the recognition of conflicts is cynicism, the denying and deriding of moral values. A deep-seated uncertainty in respect to moral values is bound to be present in every neurosis, no matter how dogmatically the person adheres to the particular aspects of his standards that are acceptable to him. While the genesis of cynicism varies, its function invariably is to deny the existence of moral values, thereby relieving the neurotic of the necessity of making clear to himself what it is he actually believes in.
Cynicism can be conscious, and then become a principle in the Machiavellian tradition and be so defended. All that counts is appearance. You can do as you please as long as you don’t get caught. Everyone is a hypocrite who isn’t fundamentally stupid. This kind of patient may be as sensitive to the analyst’s using the term moral, regardless of the context, as those of Freud’s time were to the mention of sex. But cynicism may also remain unconscious and be concealed by lip service to prevalent ideologies. Unaware though he may be of the hold his cynicism has upon him, the way he lives and the way he talks about his life will reveal that he acts upon its principles. Or he may involve himself unwittingly in contradictions, like the patient who was sure he believed in honesty and decency yet was envious of anyone who indulged in crooked maneuvers and resented the fact that he himself never “got away” with that kind of thing. In therapy it is important to bring the patient’s cynicism to full awareness at the proper time and help him to understand it. It may also be necessary to explain why it is desirable for him to establish his own set of moral values.
The foregoing, then, are the defenses built around the nucleus of the basic conflict. For simplicity I shall refer to the whole system of defense as the protective structure. A combination of defenses is developed in every neurosis; often all of them are present, though in varying degrees of activity.
1 Strecker, op. cit.
2 Lin Yutang, Between Tears and Laughter, John Day, 1943.
3 Karen Horney, Self-Analysis, op. cit.