There are four crucial adversaries on the path of self-discovery that we must confront using the Witness consciousness. If we don’t face these demons, we are unable to explore our story objectively or write truthfully about what we find.
Resistance is the ego’s first line of defense against exposing its cherished myths. Next, it unleashes the twin demons of narcissism and self-doubt, with their cynical strategies for sabotaging insight. This leads to another destructive duo, guilt and shame, that block the vulnerability of full disclosure. Then there’s fear of humiliation, a universal aversion that can trick the mind into sticking harder to the story. Confronting these demons one by one, you will see that when you look them in the eye they quickly lose their power—and that doing so frees you to tell the whole truth.
As you’ve noticed, writing sometimes evokes resistance. Moving toward the light of awareness calls our demons to rise from the shadows and block the way. Our ego does not want to give up its stories or question its sovereignty. This back and forth between progress and resistance is a natural part of the growth process that unfolds within writing and other pursuits.
Resistance serves an important purpose on the path of awakening. It tests your mettle and commitment, and strengthens you for the journey ahead. It’s one thing to have a moment of insight; it’s quite another thing to claim the insight and stand up to forces that aim to destroy it. Like adventurers on any quest for treasure, we must face the demons that guard the gate of self-knowledge and block access to the truth we’re seeking. We confront these demons head on, expose their weaknesses, and slay them. In this conflict, questions are your weapons and self-inquiry is the battle plan.
While resistance to change takes many forms, all share a common source: fear. Whether fear manifests as shame, disgust, antipathy, aggression, disinterest, judgment, or any of a thousand other responses, it serves the same purpose: to protect the self-serving stories that maintain sovereignty of the ego and its status quo. To understand this counterproductive process, it’s helpful to understand how the personal ego works.
The word “ego” comes from the Latin word for “I.” At its most basic level, ego is the mental formation of “I” that arises in children in response to a fear of not existing. Having noticed that they’re separate from the mother, children realize they’re not omnipotent and begin to create their identity in the form of protest. In the stage known as the “terrible twos,” toddlers try to establish a foothold in a world they can’t control by resisting whatever comes their way with a single, reflexive response: “No!” Each time a child says no, the belief in himself and his personal boundary solidifies. Over time, these negating boundaries delineate the child’s sense of self, form its identity, and create the story of who he is by protesting loudly against who he’s not. Ego is an accumulation of many “No!” moments and survives primarily through resistance.
That’s why anything that threatens our sense of self—including positive information—is viewed as an enemy by our ego. It’s the reason we sometimes resist change for the good. Fatima learned this when attempting to dismantle her own tragic story. A refugee from a war-torn country, Fatima came to my course hoping to heal. She’d witnessed unimaginable horrors, including the murders of family members, and longed to neutralize these nightmare memories through writing. “I don’t want to be defined by tragedy,” Fatima wrote in her first submission. “I want to be free—to begin a new story. That’s all I want now. Liberation.” Fatima threw herself into her writing as if trying to save her own life. She allowed herself to describe previously unspeakable events and their emotional fallout, recalling goon squads, public executions, and the loss of her family home. She expressed relief to finally be writing about things so long hidden, and began to imagine a happier future. For several weeks, this progress continued. Then, suddenly, she dropped out of class.
Concerned, I wrote to Fatima. Had writing triggered past trauma, perhaps? Had something gone wrong in her personal life? Her response was not what I expected. Far from prompting a negative reaction, Fatima assured me the weeks of writing had been a salvation. She felt lighter and happier in her own skin than she had in all the years since the war ended. Nonetheless, Fatima found herself unable to continue.
I sat down to write, but nothing happened. I felt guilty for sharing these terrible things, like I was betraying the ghosts of my family. Why should I deserve to be happy? How could I leave them to suffer alone? Their story is my story too. I can’t just leave them behind. This is my penance. It’s who I am.
Fatima had realized she wasn’t the tragic narrative she’d used to define herself. But this good news appeared as a threat, a stop sign, a warning of danger ahead. Self-defeating as this response was, she couldn’t surmount the dread she felt over leaving the past behind in order to wake up to new possibilities—including the threat of being happy. It took years for Fatima to face this resistance, to see it for the demon it was, and return to writing about the war. As she came to understand that guilt and shame were her enemies, along with a fear of self-reinvention, she began writing a memoir that she hopes to publish in her native country.
Whatever the nature of your resistance, you can be sure it’s a sign of progress. When you’re writing, discomfort will often arise in proportion to how much of the truth you are willing to tell. When this happens, the best thing to do is keep going. Acknowledge the demons of fear and foreboding, and ask them to kindly move out of the way. You may be amazed by how acquiescent they are. And if they continue their stand, you can keep writing through them anyway. In the end, you will befriend these demons for making you stronger and keeping you honest. These deepening prompts will help you make their acquaintance and not be fooled by their fierce appearances.
The back and forth between progress and resistance is a natural part of the growth process in writing and other pursuits.
Resistance to change takes many forms, all with a common source of fear. It serves an important purpose on the path of awakening, as it tests your mettle and commitment, and strengthens you for the journey ahead.
The word “ego” comes from the Latin word for “I.” It is the mental formation that arises in response to the fear of not existing. Each time a child says “No!” he solidifies boundaries. Ego is an accumulation of many “No!” moments and survives primarily through resistance.
When we’re writing, discomfort will often arise in proportion to how much of the truth we are willing to tell.
By understanding how resistance works through the tendency to fight off change—even when it’s for your own good—you disempower the demons that want to keep you trapped as you are: a “little me” that’s bound by a fear of stepping beyond obsolete stories.
Among the powerful narratives that keep us stuck is the myth of Narcissus. Like the self-absorbed character in Greek mythology, we move through our lives locked inside our own reflection, seeing the world through a mirrored veil. To create a life from stories is to be a narcissist. While we’re all narcissistic to some extent, becoming obsessed with a reflecting pool is an obvious obstacle to writing with clear eyes.
Colm was a handsome Irishman who wanted to write a memoir about finding his biological mother after being raised by adoptive parents. Colm was convinced that it would make a great story. It didn’t. With every batch of pages he delivered, my heart sank at the dishonesty of the writing. He was describing a character: not a human being and certainly not himself. He couldn’t see past this character’s reflection to connect with who he actually was. I told Colm what I thought, but he didn’t seem to understand. I used words like “inauthentic,” “generic,” “lacking emotion,” and they flew past his towering, ginger head like so much confetti. Still, he wanted to try.
I asked him to write about his greatest shame. Colm claimed not to have any shame and he delivered a self-inflating sermon on coming out as gay, loud and proud. I asked him if this was true: not one source of shame? Finally, a glimmer of light came with this passage.
When I left my Mom to find my real mother, I saw the pain in her face. I felt ashamed and selfish. She sacrificed a lot for me. I loved her and now I don’t know where I belong. Like I’m floating and no can really see me.
As breakthroughs go, Colm had hit pay dirt. He continued to write about not belonging, and revealed a layer of pain and rejection. He’d grown up as the adopted gay son of nice, but backward, religious parents. He was loved but never felt he belonged. His father didn’t talk much and never showed emotions; his mother was timid, caring, and weak. Colm felt too big for his surroundings, which prompted him to put up a screen between himself and the rest of the world. He knew it was there, but couldn’t remove it. By writing that, of course, Colm had already started to take down the screen and was able to see himself for the first time. He could feel his shame, alienation, and pain—which he’d numbed with bonhomie until he didn’t even know they were there.
As a demon in the writing process, narcissism throws us off track when we come close to revealing too much. Narcissists both crave and dread attention; that’s what makes them such difficult company. Both craving and dreading attention interfere with writing unselfconsciously. You can’t tell the truth if you have one eye on the mirror, asking “How am I doing?” to make sure your reflection holds. Instead, this practice enables us to say “Get out of the way.”
Narcissism comes in two basic flavors. A negative narcissist will let everyone know what a loser he is: worthless, broken, and beyond help. He’ll suck the air out of a room with chronic, self-directed abnegation and belittlement. A positive narcissist will be a braggart and show off. She is so full of herself that others will virtually disappear in the glow of her superior being. If you want to know which kind of narcissist you are, ask yourself whether you are more likely to praise or blame yourself. If you’re being honest, you’ll know the answer. Here are two examples of student work that reflect very different self-images.
If other people did what I told them to, the world would be a better place. I mean that very honestly. I’m a leader, a winner, and always have been. People don’t try hard enough in their lives. They want to ride your coattails. I don’t mean that in an unkind way, but there aren’t a lot of people to look up to.
Positive Narcissist:
I’m totally stuck in my life, I can’t move forward. Everything I do turns to crap. It’s because of my family, the way they hold me down, like if I were to ever actually be myself it would kill them. If I told the truth it would destroy their lives. Because there’s something wrong with me. I’m a gigantic loser.
Negative Narcissist:
Narcissistic writing always circles back to itself. Both types of narcissists repeat themselves, as if yodeling into an echo chamber. They create and repeat the same larger-than-life stories again and again, while blocking out new information. Though most of us don’t suffer from this as a personality disorder, we do share elements of this narrative tendency. We create larger-than-life myths about our human-sized selves, and block any information that contradicts these myths.
As you respond to these prompts, notice how you exaggerate positive and negative characteristics, and how you are trapped inside repetitious, self-enclosing stories that block you from being truthful. Also, notice how you write about others. Do you see, hear, and feel the people around you with clarity, or do you perceive others as part of your own reflection? These questions will help you gauge the level of your personal narcissism and how it may interfere with a truthful writing practice.
As a demon in the writing process, narcissism throws us off track when we come close to revealing too much.
You can’t tell the truth if you have one eye on the mirror, asking “How am I doing?” to make sure your reflection holds. Instead, say “Get out of the way.”
Though most of us do not suffer from narcissism as a personality disorder, we do create larger-than-life myths about our ordinary selves, and block any information that contradicts these myths.
As you acknowledge narcissistic tendencies and how they affect your ability to see clearly—in writing and in life—you can learn to counter them with mindfulness, humility, and humor. You can admit to what your self-mythologizing exaggerates and what it leaves out. You can recognize how you project this reflection onto the outside world. This will help you neutralize narcissism and see the real roles guilt and shame play in your self-reflecting fantasies.
Writing helps us wipe away debris and distortion from our looking glass. What we find underneath the narcissistic cover-up is a layer of self-judgment composed largely of guilt and shame. These twin demons can block us on the writing journey, unless we recognize their destructive power.
Though guilt and shame may seem synonymous, they each carry a different charge and burden us in different ways. Guilt is a moral emotion connected to something we’ve done or imagine we’ve done. Shame is an amoral emotion linked with what we believe we are. For example, we might feel guilt for stealing something but shame for being a thief (the label carries social stigma). Though guilt is hardly a pleasant emotion, it can serve a positive social function. It’s appropriate to feel guilt when we do something wrong like stealing. Guilt—within reason—can strengthen conscience, protect society, and help us live a moral life. Shame is more insidious than guilt and rarely leads to positive change. As researcher Brené Brown describes it, “shame is an intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.” Shame has a damning quality that builds on itself and becomes part of our identity.
By exploring your personal story, you’ll find that guilt and shame obstruct the truth in distinct ways. Let’s say you feel guilty for some lapse in judgment, perhaps an infidelity, and that incident is central to your narrative and self-image. It caused you pain and regret, but you avoided examining the infidelity and its effects on your life, leaving a ripe fruit of insight, waiting to be picked. When you investigate in writing, your guilt may open up other stories and questions in your life concerning unmet needs, emotional commitment, and secret desires. You might discover a longstanding pattern of trespassing healthy boundaries, lying to protect others, or sabotaging intimacy for reasons you don’t quite understand. This is how the exploration of a guilt-producing experience can open you up in useful ways by making connections that eluded you before. And these connections might help you stop behaving in ways that hurt yourself and those you love.
Shame is a much harder nut to crack. Let’s say this same infidelity has led you to believe you’re a fundamentally bad person. The act then becomes secondary to this overarching damnation. Blinded by shame, it’s harder to locate the path to insight because by believing you’re rotten to the core, there’s little motivation for self-improvement. Shame can preclude positive, lasting change, and can paralyze any desire to write and heal. But where shame may seem impenetrable, emotions are not. A potent way through shame is to question the emotions that shame is hiding, whether it is heartbreak, sadness, helplessness, grief, futility, or loneliness. By looking into these destructive emotions, you can tease out the stories behind them and dissolve the blanketing sense of shame. What you’ll find is a generalized unworthiness stemming from early childhood messages of familial, religious, or cultural shaming that accused you of being unworthy simply by being yourself.
When we become aware of our own unworthiness story, it opens the door to a quality whose value we tend to overlook: vulnerability. Without the ability to be vulnerable, it’s impossible to write in a truthful way. As in all spiritual practices, the willingness to be vulnerable is a prerequisite to awakening. By dropping pretenses and exposing our shame, we experience a new kind of freedom. We learn that vulnerability leads to authentic strength. These deepening prompts will help you explore how guilt and shame operate in your life, and how increased vulnerability can lead to empowerment.
Guilt is a moral emotion connected to something that we have done, whereas shame is an amoral emotion linked with what we believe we are.
Guilt can strengthen conscience, protect society, and help us live a moral life. Shame rarely leads to positive change and has a damning quality that becomes part of our identity.
Investigating our guilt through writing may open up questions concerning unmet needs, emotional commitment, and secret desires. Shame may preclude positive, lasting change, and can paralyze the desire to write and heal.
When we become aware of our unworthiness story, we open the door to a vulnerability that allows us to write truthfully and find strength.
Shame is a formidable demon to confront on this journey, but the vulnerability we are left with is a path to great strength. Having exposed the adversaries of shame and guilt, you can now recognize how they’ve informed your story. They share a common denominator: humiliation, which is a demon with its own narrative. Let’s look at how fear of humiliation locks us into identity.
Ambivalence toward vulnerability stems from our fear of humiliation, which lies at the heart of who we are as social creatures. As individuals who depend upon others for our survival, we are hardwired to avoid the rejection that may make us outcasts, scapegoats, or martyrs. Our desire to be inside what sociologists call “the magic circle” of group approval often causes us to compromise our authenticity.
Our fear of self-exposure is deeply connected to the terror of rejection and humiliation. If we risk telling the truth or we dare to question the status quo, we may be exiled from the group—while also losing your own self-respect, stripped of protective narrative. It can be humiliating to realize that the story we’ve been telling our whole life is little more than a web of make-believe. Nothing is more vulnerable-making than seeing how insecure and uncertain we actually are underneath a puffed-up exterior.
Liam was a college professor who contacted me for a consultation. During our initial call, Liam explained that he’d recently left academia and was toying with the idea of writing a memoir. When I asked him to outline his story, Liam’s response was vague and unsatisfying. “I’d say it’s the story of a guy nel mezzo del cammin—on the threshold of middle age—who’s trying to figure out what to do next. He’s disenchanted and full of dread. The people in his life have written him off.” I told Liam that this sounded more like a diagnosis than a plot. Why was his character disenchanted? What were the causes of his dread? And when had he been “written off” by those around him? This was Liam’s response.
Those questions seem mostly irrelevant. I don’t care about writing a tell-all book. The literature I like is more universal. Like the Divine Comedy. Dante didn’t write about his childhood pain. Or go into detail about his biography. He was touching on eternal issues through an impersonal lens. I want to expose the raw nerve of the human condition without being confessional. But something is stopping me.
Liam’s resistance to self-exposure suggested that he was not being honest. There seemed to be a missing link. Even if Liam chose not to share personal details in the book, it would be helpful for me, as his mentor, to know what was driving his narrative. What was the why inside the story? What were the stakes for him as a writer? Two months went by with no response and I assumed that was the last of Liam. Finally, a three-page email arrived in which Liam revealed his hidden story.
I have a problem with women my own age. I can never give them what they want (wedding, mortgage, kids—forget it!). That’s how I got into trouble with Pam, a sophomore in my Italian comp class. Pam and I started hanging out during office hours. I could tell she was crazy about me. One thing kind of led to another. We met for coffee off-campus one afternoon and that’s when I made a stupid mistake. Basically, I let Pam seduce me. It wasn’t her fault, I let it happen! She swore not to tell anybody but her parents figured it out somehow. I lost my job and got raked over the coals in the local paper. Pam never spoke to me again, of course. Now I’m forty-one, unemployed, and registered as a sexual offender. That’s why I need to write about this.
Putting my personal judgment aside, I asked Liam to revisit his book description. This time, his response came quickly and packed an emotional punch.
It’s about crossing from the light into darkness, and finding the way to the light again. It’s about forbidden love, fear of death, betrayal, heartache, and resurrection. Also scapegoating and humiliation, which my character knows something about! I want to fictionalize the story so that I can really wrestle with these big issues. Just admitting all of this on paper has helped me realize how shut down I’ve been. The book is about shame and pride as well, and how we betray our own best interests.
I reminded Liam of the literary chestnut “fiction is the lie that tells the truth” and encouraged him to write his novel. Having confronted his humiliation, Liam could fictionalize all he wanted and still the novel would ring true. He finished a first draft of the book, which he plans to publish under a pseudonym with a title torn from the pages of Dante. Having stared down his own demons, Liam managed to come out on top with his writer’s voice strong and intact.
Pride is a primary strategy for protecting ourselves from perceived humiliation, but protective pride is a mask to be shed, as Liam found out when he sat down to write. Pride itself is not a bad thing. To be proud of your achievements, your kids, your integrity, is natural and good. But when pride is a defense against humiliation, a cover-up for your imagined weaknesses, failures, and inadequacies, it becomes another demon. Pride can be a form of self-deception. But the small, still voice within will tell you that you’re not being honest. This can lead to humility.
Humility, unlike humiliation, is liberating. When you feel humble, you don’t mind acknowledging your flaws and getting creative with your limitations. Narcissists resist humility, confusing it with humiliation. They don’t care to acknowledge their limitations. The word “humility” comes from the root term for “earth,” and grounds us in reality. Where pride closes the heart and defends us from others, humility opens the heart and allows others in. Humility opens the door to wisdom and makes spiritual growth possible, reminding you that the magic circle is within—and that the only person who can put you into exile is yourself.
Our ambivalence toward vulnerability stems directly from the fear of humiliation and the desire for group approval.
Nothing is more vulnerable-making than seeing how insecure and uncertain we actually are underneath a puffed-up exterior.
Pride is a primary strategy for protecting ourselves from perceived humiliation. As a cover-up for our imagined weaknesses, it becomes a demon.
Where pride closes the heart and defends us from others, humility opens the heart and allows others in. Humility, unlike humiliation, is liberating.
Here are some key questions to write about to help identify, and dissolve, your own fear of humiliation when exploring your personal story.
Your responses to these questions will help reveal where the lack of humility may be blocking your psychological and spiritual growth, and where pride may be stopping you from self-inquiry. You will learn that the biggest fear of all is that, if you know too much, you will lose respect for, and faith in, your own life myth.