I've often wondered why so many people decide to have children. That's not to say I don't want one myself -- I do. It's just that if you asked me why, I'd find it hard to articulate.
It seems like the logical choice for most people would be not to have children. For one thing, raising a child is extremely expensive - about $235,000 from birth to high school graduation, according to the most recent estimate. Children are also a lot of work. The time parents spend caring for a child is time not spent engaging in hobbies, self-care, or other enjoyable activities. Having a child shifts a couple's attention away from their relationship with each other, often causing them to neglect it altogether.
Child rearing is a thankless job. It is a rare child indeed who appreciates all the things her parents do for her. Sure, she might come to appreciate it once she becomes an adult, but this is not guaranteed. Nothing, in fact, is guaranteed when raising a child. It is one of the riskiest investments a person can make; it requires a huge commitment of time, energy, and resources up front with few short term returns and only the possibility of long term returns.
Some may argue that children bring immesuarable happiness into the lives of their parents. While this may be true, evidence suggests that people with children are no happier overall than people without them. Some studies even show that parents report lower levels of happiness than non-parents. Given all the costs associated with raising a child - and if children don't bring joy to our lives - then why are so many of us eager to become parents?
This is not a question we often ask ourselves. Having children is almost a given, part of a list of things we are "supposed" to do in life. Any newlywed couple will tell you that the questions about having children start almost as soon as the cake is cut (and sometimes before). A couple's desire to have children is assumed.
To Chrstine Overall, author of Why Have Children? The Ethical Debate, this seems counterintuitive. Why, she wonders, are people expected to give reasons for not wanting to have children but are not asked to explain why they want to have children? No one, she points out, says to a proud new parent, "Why did you decide to have this child?" The decision to procreate is the "default" option; if you want to "opt out," you have to explain why.
The decision to have a child, Overall argues, is an ethical one. There are both good and bad reasons for choosing to procreate. We have an ethical obligation to consider these issues, both as individuals and as a society. "...The burden of justification," she argues, "should...rest primarily on those who choose to have children, not on those who choose to be childless." (For more, check out Christine Overall's New York Times post, "Think Before You Breed" at http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/17/think-before-you-breed/).
Overall's stance is, in my opinion, a moderate one. She asks us to examine our reasons for wanting a child before deciding to procreate. In his article, "Is There a Moral Obligation to Have Children," Saul Smilansky makes the more extreme argument that, at least in "first world" countries, most people have an ethical obligation to procreate. While I disagree with his central premise, he does provide some compelling reasons in favor of deciding to have children. Smilansky believes that children bring value to the world and to the lives of their parents. He reasons that if people are inherently valuable then creating a new person amounts to creating value. He also points to interpersonal relationships as "one of the major sources of value in the world." There is an emotional attachment between a parent and child that does not exist in any other relationship.
Smilansky also see parenting a an unparalleled avenue for personal growth. Through being a parent, a person becomes less self-centered and more focused on the needs of another. Parenting sometimes requires a person to sacrifice his own personal wants and needs for those of his children. A good parents learns to do this without becoming bitter or resentful. Parenting teaches a person to give without expecting anything in return.
Smilansky goes on to talk about parenting as a moral obligation to society as a whole. He points out that not having children places a greater burden on the children who are brought into the world, as they will ultimately be the ones supporting the economy and providing for society's care and services. He also sees having children as a familial obligation in the form of passing on our genes (and the traits associated with them). I find these arguments less compelling, perhaps because I am less interested in the implications of procreating on society and am more interested in the decision to procreate (or not) on a personal level.
I do believe that people should think seriously about why they do or do not want to have children before making a decision one way or another.
For those of your who have or want to have a child or children, what were/are your most compelling reasons? For those who have decided not to have children (or who are leaning in that direction), what reasons led you to your decision?
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Making the best of a bad situation
My parents started planning a big family trip to Disney World last summer. They traded their Virginia Beach timeshare for one in Orlando. My mom managed to get reservations at Cinderella's Royal Table. (For those who, like me, know nothing about such things, Cinderella's Royal Table is an outrageously overpriced restaurant located in Cinderella's Castle at the center of the Magic Kingdom. What makes it so exciting for the kids is that the Disney Princesses come up to your table while you eat. For little girls under the age of 10, this is better than meeting a pop star). Last Sunday, nine of us (my parents, me, my husband and stepdaughter, my older sister, my brother-in-law, and my two nieces) piled into two cars and made the twelve hour drive from Virginia to Orlando, FL. About halfway into Georgia, we ran into some really heavy rain. We weren't particularly concerned; it's not that unusual to run into rain on a long trip. We figured we'd pass through it and back into sunshine. We weren't all that concerned when it kept raining all the way to Orlando. We assumed it was just a summer storm.
We didn't start to worry until we got settled in at the hotel and turned on the television. That's when we learned that Tropical Storm Debby was stalled off of Florida's Gulf Coast.
Because the storm was basically stationary, it was projected to hang out in the Gulf for a few days and continue dumping rain on most of the state of Florida.
Forecasts called for wind and rain the entire week. My heart sank. We'd been planning this trip for a year and now Tropical Storm Debby was going to ruin it. I had images of the kids staring bleakly out the window at a torrential downpour of rain, crying over their shattered dreams of Disney World.
We awoke Monday morning to dark skies and relentless downpours. I was surprised when my parents, my sister, and my brother-in-law pulled out rain ponchos for themselves and the kids. Someone threw a poncho at me. "Here, this one looks like it'll fit you."
I shrugged and put the poncho on. I said nothing but thought to myself, "I can't believe we're going to Disney World in this weather." I imagined we'd all be soaked to the bone and miserable within an hour.
In the end, it seems that I was the only one who expected Tropical Storm Debby to ruin our vacation. Everyone else accepted the situation and adapted. Nobody complained, not even the kids. (I think the kids actually liked the rain. We had to tell them more than once to stop jumping in puddles and splashing water all over everyone within a ten foot radius). I felt a surge of pride when I looked around at all of us in our ponchos, standing in line for the Thunder Mountain Railroad as the storm raged on. I felt it again when we all donned our ponchos and danced in the rain along with the Disney World "cast members" at the Street Party. We stayed at Disney World all day Monday. We did it again on Tuesday. On Wednesday, our luck changed. Maybe fate smiled on us. My sister said she prayed about it, so maybe it was divine intervention. Whatever, the reason, it finally stopped raining.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Life and death
What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? These are questions that humankind has asked again and again for thousands of years. Of course there is no definitive answer; how could there be? Still, almost every human being ponders these questions at some point in their lives. Underlying our desire to assign meaning to our existence is the everpresent knowledge of our own mortality. Perhaps it is because our lives are finite that we pursue our quest for meaning with such urgency. Some would even argue that it is death that makes life meaningful.
I understand how an argument could be made for this idea. Life is more precious to us because we know it will not last forever. We cherish our time on earth more because we know it is limited. This is why people who have endured a life threatening ordeal and survived oftten gain a new appreciation for life; they realize with renewed clarity how quickly it can all end.
While the certainty of eventual death makes life more meaningful for us, it also tends to generate a significant amount of fear and anxiety. There are, of course, people who have no fear of death, but they do not represent the majority. Most of us are at the very least uncomfortable with death; some of us are terrified of it. Which brings me to a question I've been considering a lot lately: How do we cope with the reality of death?
I have periodically struggled with this question for many years. Death scares me. The prospect of losing the people I love scares me. The knowledge that I will someday die scares me. Every time I try to think about death -- to come to terms with it -- I become deeply depressed. I typically spend a few days struggling to sort out my thoughts and feelings. (Although on one occasion I spent a whole semester doing this. I was taking a class called "On Death and Dying." 9/11 happened that semester too. It was probably the most depressing semester I ever spent in college). Eventually, I decide that it's probably best for me to stop thinking about it; if I remain in despair for too long I fear I will find it difficult to get out. I see no benefit in allowing myself to become depressed. Unfortunately, I am never able to make sense of it all; I simply push all thoughts of death from my mind and throw myself into the business of living life.
So how do we live with the knowledge that we - along with everyone we love - will die? I think most people do what I eventually do whenever thoughts about death arise; they try not to think about it. There comes a point for all of us, however, when we are forced to think about death. It might happen when a loved one dies, either unexpectedly or after a long illness. It might happen when we (or someone we love) are diagnosed with a terminal illness. It might not happen until we are very old and at the end of our lives. Whenever it happens, we will be forced to confront the thoughts and feelings we have been avoiding; it is inevitable. I believe, when the time comes, it is easier for people to "come to terms" with death if they have a head start.
Dr. Paul Wong (http://www.drpaulwong.com/) is sort of the guru of "death psychology." Among his many roles, he is the president of the International Network on Personal Meaning (http://www.meaning.ca/) and of the International Society for Existential Psychology and Psychotherapy (http://www.existentialpsychology.org/). Dr. Wong believes that the best way to accept death is to live a meaningful life. He and his colleagues have developed something they call the "meaning management model." He asserts that, "Meaning management may be the only effective psychological model that protects us against loss and death."
Dr. Wong believes that every experience has the potential to be meaningful, including death. The path to a meaningful death, he says, begins with examining our values, determining what is important to us, and then consciously engaging in activities that embody these values. In other words, we prioritize the things in our life we find the most meaningful. We stop making excuses for why we can't get around to doing whatever it is we claim is so important to us. We make spending time with those we love a priority. We invest time and effort into identifying and fulfilling our "purpose" in life. We live with the awareness that tomorrow is not guaranteed. If something is truly important to us, we never put it off 'til the future because the future may never come.
Wong's meaning management model also includes a significant spiritual component. I plan to do more research on meaning management theory; look for it in future blog posts.
According to Wong, when we live without regrets, we confront death with the same attitude. We are able to face death with faith and to embrace it "with...courage and an undying hope."
I am interested in Wong's ideas about how to come to terms with death. My hope is that his meaning management model might offer a path for me to sort out my own fears; if so, I suspect I will grow as a person in the process.
I understand how an argument could be made for this idea. Life is more precious to us because we know it will not last forever. We cherish our time on earth more because we know it is limited. This is why people who have endured a life threatening ordeal and survived oftten gain a new appreciation for life; they realize with renewed clarity how quickly it can all end.
While the certainty of eventual death makes life more meaningful for us, it also tends to generate a significant amount of fear and anxiety. There are, of course, people who have no fear of death, but they do not represent the majority. Most of us are at the very least uncomfortable with death; some of us are terrified of it. Which brings me to a question I've been considering a lot lately: How do we cope with the reality of death?
I have periodically struggled with this question for many years. Death scares me. The prospect of losing the people I love scares me. The knowledge that I will someday die scares me. Every time I try to think about death -- to come to terms with it -- I become deeply depressed. I typically spend a few days struggling to sort out my thoughts and feelings. (Although on one occasion I spent a whole semester doing this. I was taking a class called "On Death and Dying." 9/11 happened that semester too. It was probably the most depressing semester I ever spent in college). Eventually, I decide that it's probably best for me to stop thinking about it; if I remain in despair for too long I fear I will find it difficult to get out. I see no benefit in allowing myself to become depressed. Unfortunately, I am never able to make sense of it all; I simply push all thoughts of death from my mind and throw myself into the business of living life.
So how do we live with the knowledge that we - along with everyone we love - will die? I think most people do what I eventually do whenever thoughts about death arise; they try not to think about it. There comes a point for all of us, however, when we are forced to think about death. It might happen when a loved one dies, either unexpectedly or after a long illness. It might happen when we (or someone we love) are diagnosed with a terminal illness. It might not happen until we are very old and at the end of our lives. Whenever it happens, we will be forced to confront the thoughts and feelings we have been avoiding; it is inevitable. I believe, when the time comes, it is easier for people to "come to terms" with death if they have a head start.
Dr. Paul Wong (http://www.drpaulwong.com/) is sort of the guru of "death psychology." Among his many roles, he is the president of the International Network on Personal Meaning (http://www.meaning.ca/) and of the International Society for Existential Psychology and Psychotherapy (http://www.existentialpsychology.org/). Dr. Wong believes that the best way to accept death is to live a meaningful life. He and his colleagues have developed something they call the "meaning management model." He asserts that, "Meaning management may be the only effective psychological model that protects us against loss and death."
Dr. Wong believes that every experience has the potential to be meaningful, including death. The path to a meaningful death, he says, begins with examining our values, determining what is important to us, and then consciously engaging in activities that embody these values. In other words, we prioritize the things in our life we find the most meaningful. We stop making excuses for why we can't get around to doing whatever it is we claim is so important to us. We make spending time with those we love a priority. We invest time and effort into identifying and fulfilling our "purpose" in life. We live with the awareness that tomorrow is not guaranteed. If something is truly important to us, we never put it off 'til the future because the future may never come.
Wong's meaning management model also includes a significant spiritual component. I plan to do more research on meaning management theory; look for it in future blog posts.
According to Wong, when we live without regrets, we confront death with the same attitude. We are able to face death with faith and to embrace it "with...courage and an undying hope."
I am interested in Wong's ideas about how to come to terms with death. My hope is that his meaning management model might offer a path for me to sort out my own fears; if so, I suspect I will grow as a person in the process.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Stress response
It seems like most of the literature on stress management focuses primarily on ways a person can better tolerate stress or on how to relax when stress becomes overwhelming. The implicit assumption is that the presence of multiple external stressors is inevitable. Given its inevitable presence in our lives, we are best served by learning to respond to stress in a healthy and adaptive manner.
I agree that we can all benefit from learning to regulate our response to stress. Many of us react to external stressors in ways that create more stress, thereby exacerbating the problem. A lot of us fail to make time to relax or to engage in activities we enjoy. When we neglect to care for ourselves, our ability to tolerate distress and anxiety decreases. (In other words, we can tolerate higher levels of stress if we take care of ourselves physically and mentally).
What appears to be missing from the literature is an acknowledgement that there are innate differences in how people react to stress (and in how much stress people can tolerate before becoming overwhelmed).
We all know people who perfrom best when under pressure. Among these people are those who seem to have difficulty performing unless they are under pressure. Often, these are the people who procrastinate until the last possible moment. It is not until the deadline looms ominously before them that they are stirred to action. The pressure seems to motivate them like nothing else can; they thrive on it.
Then there are those who fall apart when faced with even the smallest stressor. A slight change of plans can ruin their day. Interruptions in their normal routine create excessive anxiety. These are people who become overwhelmed fairly easily.
These are mostly innate differences, largely attributable to variations in temperament. Those who thrive under pressure can learn to stop putting things off to the last minute. Still, they will probably always have the urge to put things off, even if they push themselves to do otherwise. Those who become anxious at the drop of a hat can learn to cope with stress more effectively. Still, they will probably always experience some degree of anxiety under stress, even after they learn to manage it in healthy ways.
I personally tend to have a strong, negative emotional response to stress. Any kind of stress makes me anxious. When I'm feeling stressed out, I often have trouble concentrating because I can't stop thinking about whatever it is that is stressing me out. I devote a significant amount of emotional energy to feeling anxious and thus become irritable or frustrated with very little provocation. My overall energy level plummets. I've always had this reaction to stress, even as a child.
Over time, I have learned to structure my life so that certain times are designated for carrying out various obligations. This ensures that everything I need to do gets done in a timely manner. It also means I don't have to spend additional time worrying about what needs to be done or about finding time to do it. I've learned to challenge the catastrophic (or otherwise unreasonable) thoughts that have a tendency to arise when I'm feeling stressed out. I have improved my ability to tolerate stress and anxiety so that I can continue to function effectively when these feelings are present.
While I can cope with my negative emotional response to stress [i.e., anxiety], I cannot seem to prevent myself from having the response; it happens automatically. I could get angry at myself for this but that would only make things worse. Instead, I've learned to accept myself as I am. This means accepting my overly-anxious tendencies without judgment. "Ok, so I'm anxious," I tell myself. "I know I'll feel better once I'm not so stressed out. I just need to do the best I can until then."
I agree that we can all benefit from learning to regulate our response to stress. Many of us react to external stressors in ways that create more stress, thereby exacerbating the problem. A lot of us fail to make time to relax or to engage in activities we enjoy. When we neglect to care for ourselves, our ability to tolerate distress and anxiety decreases. (In other words, we can tolerate higher levels of stress if we take care of ourselves physically and mentally).
What appears to be missing from the literature is an acknowledgement that there are innate differences in how people react to stress (and in how much stress people can tolerate before becoming overwhelmed).
We all know people who perfrom best when under pressure. Among these people are those who seem to have difficulty performing unless they are under pressure. Often, these are the people who procrastinate until the last possible moment. It is not until the deadline looms ominously before them that they are stirred to action. The pressure seems to motivate them like nothing else can; they thrive on it.
Then there are those who fall apart when faced with even the smallest stressor. A slight change of plans can ruin their day. Interruptions in their normal routine create excessive anxiety. These are people who become overwhelmed fairly easily.
These are mostly innate differences, largely attributable to variations in temperament. Those who thrive under pressure can learn to stop putting things off to the last minute. Still, they will probably always have the urge to put things off, even if they push themselves to do otherwise. Those who become anxious at the drop of a hat can learn to cope with stress more effectively. Still, they will probably always experience some degree of anxiety under stress, even after they learn to manage it in healthy ways.
I personally tend to have a strong, negative emotional response to stress. Any kind of stress makes me anxious. When I'm feeling stressed out, I often have trouble concentrating because I can't stop thinking about whatever it is that is stressing me out. I devote a significant amount of emotional energy to feeling anxious and thus become irritable or frustrated with very little provocation. My overall energy level plummets. I've always had this reaction to stress, even as a child.
Over time, I have learned to structure my life so that certain times are designated for carrying out various obligations. This ensures that everything I need to do gets done in a timely manner. It also means I don't have to spend additional time worrying about what needs to be done or about finding time to do it. I've learned to challenge the catastrophic (or otherwise unreasonable) thoughts that have a tendency to arise when I'm feeling stressed out. I have improved my ability to tolerate stress and anxiety so that I can continue to function effectively when these feelings are present.
While I can cope with my negative emotional response to stress [i.e., anxiety], I cannot seem to prevent myself from having the response; it happens automatically. I could get angry at myself for this but that would only make things worse. Instead, I've learned to accept myself as I am. This means accepting my overly-anxious tendencies without judgment. "Ok, so I'm anxious," I tell myself. "I know I'll feel better once I'm not so stressed out. I just need to do the best I can until then."
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Do you love your job?
It's funny how sometimes a casual conversation with an acquaintance can reveal to a person things he didn't know about himself. Or how an offhand comment can pique a person's interest and lead to self-examination.
Something like this happened to me the other night. A close friend had organized a "girls' night out" at a local wine tasting room. This friend has a pretty extensive network of friends. (I often wonder how she manages to keep up with them all). When she arranges an outing, she typically invites several of her closest girlfriends, myself included. Last weekend, the group consisted of me, another close friend of mine, the friend who planned the get together, and two of her close friends who I've met before but don't know all that well.
While talking with one of the girls I'd met only two or three times before, we discovered that we actually work in the same building. Naturally, this led to a conversation about what we do for a living. She seemed intrigued when I told her that I am a psychotherapist. A few minutes into the conversation she asked me, "So, do you absolutely love your job?"
"No," I replied without hesitation. As soon as I said it I felt compelled to elaborate. "Don't get my wrong," I rushed to add. "I don't hate my job. I'm proud of what I do. It gives me a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. I just don't love it..."
I wasn't sure how else to explain it. Maybe it's because I really don't understand it myself. Most of my colleagues seem to get pleasure from their work. There are even a few who seem excited by it. Why don't I feel that way?
I thought about it for a few days. Ultimately, I began to ponder a quite different and perhaps more basic question: Who says we're supposed to love our jobs? I mean, here I am thinking something is wrong with me because I don't love my job, despite the fact that I find it meaningful and satisfying. But who says lacking passion for one's work is pathological? Yes, there are people who love what they do for a living but there are also a lot of people who don't. Why is one group considered "normal" while the other is assumed to have problems?
Being passionate about your work is one of the pillars of the broader self help movement here in America. It seems like everywhere you turn these days there is some self-help book, magazine cover, talk show host, or website offering advice on how to "love your job" or "find your passion." If you're not doing what you love for a living then you're not being true to yourself, they tell us. We are encouraged to "quit your job and discover your passion." Messages like these are so prevalent that even employers have bought into it. They want to hire employees who are "passionate about the job." The assumption is that a passionate worker is a good worker; those lacking passion need not apply. Once merely a desirable quality, passion is fast becoming a basic job requirement. Americans now see passion as a prerequisite for success.
Yves Smith talks about this in her article "The Case Against Passion." She believes the whole idea that work should be driven by passion is misguided. American society has embraced the belief that the true path to happiness lies in "following your dreams." Those of us who feel anything less than passionate about our jobs are told that we're missing out. We are encouraged to go off in pursuit of "something more," to search until we find our passion. Only then will we know true contentment.
I wonder, though, how many of us "non-passionate" people felt fine until we were told we should feel passionate about our jobs. Perhaps it wasn't until we were expected to feel passionate that we started to wonder why we didn't.
Every person is unique. We cannot expect that everyone will approach work (or anything else, for that matter) in exactly the same way and with exactly the same attitude.
Something like this happened to me the other night. A close friend had organized a "girls' night out" at a local wine tasting room. This friend has a pretty extensive network of friends. (I often wonder how she manages to keep up with them all). When she arranges an outing, she typically invites several of her closest girlfriends, myself included. Last weekend, the group consisted of me, another close friend of mine, the friend who planned the get together, and two of her close friends who I've met before but don't know all that well.
While talking with one of the girls I'd met only two or three times before, we discovered that we actually work in the same building. Naturally, this led to a conversation about what we do for a living. She seemed intrigued when I told her that I am a psychotherapist. A few minutes into the conversation she asked me, "So, do you absolutely love your job?"
"No," I replied without hesitation. As soon as I said it I felt compelled to elaborate. "Don't get my wrong," I rushed to add. "I don't hate my job. I'm proud of what I do. It gives me a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. I just don't love it..."
I wasn't sure how else to explain it. Maybe it's because I really don't understand it myself. Most of my colleagues seem to get pleasure from their work. There are even a few who seem excited by it. Why don't I feel that way?
I thought about it for a few days. Ultimately, I began to ponder a quite different and perhaps more basic question: Who says we're supposed to love our jobs? I mean, here I am thinking something is wrong with me because I don't love my job, despite the fact that I find it meaningful and satisfying. But who says lacking passion for one's work is pathological? Yes, there are people who love what they do for a living but there are also a lot of people who don't. Why is one group considered "normal" while the other is assumed to have problems?
Being passionate about your work is one of the pillars of the broader self help movement here in America. It seems like everywhere you turn these days there is some self-help book, magazine cover, talk show host, or website offering advice on how to "love your job" or "find your passion." If you're not doing what you love for a living then you're not being true to yourself, they tell us. We are encouraged to "quit your job and discover your passion." Messages like these are so prevalent that even employers have bought into it. They want to hire employees who are "passionate about the job." The assumption is that a passionate worker is a good worker; those lacking passion need not apply. Once merely a desirable quality, passion is fast becoming a basic job requirement. Americans now see passion as a prerequisite for success.
Yves Smith talks about this in her article "The Case Against Passion." She believes the whole idea that work should be driven by passion is misguided. American society has embraced the belief that the true path to happiness lies in "following your dreams." Those of us who feel anything less than passionate about our jobs are told that we're missing out. We are encouraged to go off in pursuit of "something more," to search until we find our passion. Only then will we know true contentment.
I wonder, though, how many of us "non-passionate" people felt fine until we were told we should feel passionate about our jobs. Perhaps it wasn't until we were expected to feel passionate that we started to wonder why we didn't.
Every person is unique. We cannot expect that everyone will approach work (or anything else, for that matter) in exactly the same way and with exactly the same attitude.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Risk and Love
Loving someone is inherently risky. There is the potential for great rewards but there is also the risk of big losses. This is true for every person we choose to love, although loving some comes with greater risk than loving others. For most of us, it is probably romantic love that carries the most risk.
When we first meet a potential romantic partner we are faced with the task of determining if we have any interest in investing in a relationship with this person. In such encoutners, we are motivated by two equally important but fundamentally opposing goals: the pursuit of intimacy and connection versus the need to protect oneself. These first meetings are often awkward, like interviewing for a job we're not even sure that we want.
Even after we (and the other person, presumably) decide to invest ourselves in building a relationship with someone, we continue to struggle with the competing goals of pursuing intimacy and protecting our own interests. If we choose to pursue intimacy, we increase the risk that we will get hurt. If we maintain distance between ourselves and our partner we are less likely to get hurt but we also create a situation that precludes the development of a closer, more intimate relationship.
Ultimately, the most fulfilling relationships are those in which each partner puts the other's interests ahead of his or her own. Making the decision to prioritize intimacy over self-protection is inherently risky; we have no guarantee that our partner will recipricate in kind. We put our partner's wants and needs ahead of our own with the hope that he or she will do the same for us. If this doesn't happen, we end up in a situation where no one is looking out for our interests. In such cases, we are almost guaranteed to get hurt.
So how do we decide when to take such a risk? And after we've taken that leap of faith, how do we pull back if our partner hurts us? How do we make such choices? What criteria should we use to guide our decisions?
We all have to ask and answer these questions for ourselves. As for me, I have no answers; I have only questions I needed to ask.
When we first meet a potential romantic partner we are faced with the task of determining if we have any interest in investing in a relationship with this person. In such encoutners, we are motivated by two equally important but fundamentally opposing goals: the pursuit of intimacy and connection versus the need to protect oneself. These first meetings are often awkward, like interviewing for a job we're not even sure that we want.
Even after we (and the other person, presumably) decide to invest ourselves in building a relationship with someone, we continue to struggle with the competing goals of pursuing intimacy and protecting our own interests. If we choose to pursue intimacy, we increase the risk that we will get hurt. If we maintain distance between ourselves and our partner we are less likely to get hurt but we also create a situation that precludes the development of a closer, more intimate relationship.
Ultimately, the most fulfilling relationships are those in which each partner puts the other's interests ahead of his or her own. Making the decision to prioritize intimacy over self-protection is inherently risky; we have no guarantee that our partner will recipricate in kind. We put our partner's wants and needs ahead of our own with the hope that he or she will do the same for us. If this doesn't happen, we end up in a situation where no one is looking out for our interests. In such cases, we are almost guaranteed to get hurt.
So how do we decide when to take such a risk? And after we've taken that leap of faith, how do we pull back if our partner hurts us? How do we make such choices? What criteria should we use to guide our decisions?
We all have to ask and answer these questions for ourselves. As for me, I have no answers; I have only questions I needed to ask.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Potential
Potential. It's the word my teachers in high school always used when talking about me to my parents. "She has so much potential, if she'd just apply herself," they'd say. I was, in fact, well aware of my potential. I saw it as having more long term relevance than as something immediately useful to me in the present. In my mind, I needed to do just well enough to get into a decent college. After all, what good was potential in high school? I wanted to have fun while I had a lot of time and few responsibilities.
I stuck with my plan. I became a serious student as soon as I started college. I had a lot of goals for my life and my career. I received a lot of positive feedback from my professors. Many of them commented on how well I write. One professor wanted me to work as a research assistant in his lab. The reason I came to his attention was because I consistently earned the highest grade in the class on every exam. As I progressed in my academic career, I was encouraged with increasing frequency to pursue a Ph.D. By the time I finished my master's degree, I felt sure I was destined to do great things.
That was seven years ago. Today, I can't help thinking that I haven't lived up to my potential. For a few years after I finished college, I had the drive and determination to accomplish more. I embarked upon several endeavors (working towards specialized certifications, returning to school for my Ph.D., etc.). None of them worked out, for various reasons. Most recently, I'd hoped to Also, I was not going to be permitted to take any time away from my traditional work responsibilities to devote to the project. Eventually, the whole thing fell through.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting around the table chatting with a group of my family members. We started talking about our "dream job" and what a dream job would offer that our current jobs don't. Everyone had something they wanted from a job. When it was my turn to share I simply shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "I thought you wanted to do research," my mom replied. "I don't really want to do anything," I stated. This drew a laugh from everyone at the table. For me, however, I felt confused. I hadn't known I was going to say that; I hadn't even known I felt that way.
After giving it some thought, I determined that my comment had been a fairly accurate reflection of my feelings. I don't really want to do anything other than what I'm doing in my job now. Is this because my work leaves me completely fulfilled and I am 100% happy with my job? Well, no, not exactly. I guess it's more complicated than that. It's not really that I don't want to do anything else. It's more that I have no idea what else to do.
I started out in life with so many goals and ambitions. I achieved the major ones -- the master's degree, the clinical social work license, the job doing psychotherapy. As I see it, the problem is that I haven't been able to accomplish anything beyond that. It's not that I haven't made any effort. Sometimes the circumstances just weren't right. Other times, I lacked the necessary resources. And then, at some point, I became disillusioned. Still, I hate to think that I peaked at the age of 25...
I started out in life thinking I was destined for greatness. Even now I believe I am capable of doing great things -- I have the potential, so to speak. But what great things? And how? Lately, I get stuck on these questions.
What about you? Do you ever feel like you're not living up to your potential? How do you know when you are living up to your potential?
I stuck with my plan. I became a serious student as soon as I started college. I had a lot of goals for my life and my career. I received a lot of positive feedback from my professors. Many of them commented on how well I write. One professor wanted me to work as a research assistant in his lab. The reason I came to his attention was because I consistently earned the highest grade in the class on every exam. As I progressed in my academic career, I was encouraged with increasing frequency to pursue a Ph.D. By the time I finished my master's degree, I felt sure I was destined to do great things.
That was seven years ago. Today, I can't help thinking that I haven't lived up to my potential. For a few years after I finished college, I had the drive and determination to accomplish more. I embarked upon several endeavors (working towards specialized certifications, returning to school for my Ph.D., etc.). None of them worked out, for various reasons. Most recently, I'd hoped to Also, I was not going to be permitted to take any time away from my traditional work responsibilities to devote to the project. Eventually, the whole thing fell through.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting around the table chatting with a group of my family members. We started talking about our "dream job" and what a dream job would offer that our current jobs don't. Everyone had something they wanted from a job. When it was my turn to share I simply shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "I thought you wanted to do research," my mom replied. "I don't really want to do anything," I stated. This drew a laugh from everyone at the table. For me, however, I felt confused. I hadn't known I was going to say that; I hadn't even known I felt that way.
After giving it some thought, I determined that my comment had been a fairly accurate reflection of my feelings. I don't really want to do anything other than what I'm doing in my job now. Is this because my work leaves me completely fulfilled and I am 100% happy with my job? Well, no, not exactly. I guess it's more complicated than that. It's not really that I don't want to do anything else. It's more that I have no idea what else to do.
I started out in life with so many goals and ambitions. I achieved the major ones -- the master's degree, the clinical social work license, the job doing psychotherapy. As I see it, the problem is that I haven't been able to accomplish anything beyond that. It's not that I haven't made any effort. Sometimes the circumstances just weren't right. Other times, I lacked the necessary resources. And then, at some point, I became disillusioned. Still, I hate to think that I peaked at the age of 25...
I started out in life thinking I was destined for greatness. Even now I believe I am capable of doing great things -- I have the potential, so to speak. But what great things? And how? Lately, I get stuck on these questions.
What about you? Do you ever feel like you're not living up to your potential? How do you know when you are living up to your potential?
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Use of Buddhist Practices in Western Psychology
The Buddhist tradition and the field of Western psychology define the "self" (or ego) in similar ways. They agree that the self is not something a person is born with; it is therefore not an inherent human trait. They both see the self as something that develops over time in response to one's interactions with others and with the environment. They agree that the function of the self is to integrate our subjective experiences in order to provide us with a sense of internal cohesion and personal continuity (personal continuity is the sense that "I" am the same person from one moment to the next).
Buddhism teaches that the self we perceive as a solid and integrated entity is, in reality, just an illusion. If we focus our attention on our internal experiences, we will eventually see that this "self" is nothing more than a collection of experiences - of thoughts, feelings, attitudes, and sensations - that arise and then pass; there is no permanent substance or structure - no "self" - underlying these experiences.
This is, in fact, quite consistent with many of the mainstream theories underlying Western psychotherapy practice. Psychodynamic and constructivist theories suggest that, for each person, the sense of self is achieved through the interactions of many different "self representations." A self-representation is an unconscious collection of related schemas (ideas and beliefs) that produces a particular experience of the self in a given moment. A person has many self-representations and any of them can be dominant at a given moment in time. Thus, the "self" one experiences "is actually being constructed anew from moment to moment" (Jack Engler, "Therapeutic Aims in Psychotherapy and Meditation").
In short, when we talk of the "self" in Buddhism or of the "self" in Western psychology, we can be sure we are talking about the same concept. The differences in how the two traditions deal with the self is not in how they define it; rather, it is in the role each believes the "self" plays in human lives and human functioning.
Whereas Buddhism sees the self as the primary source of all human suffering, Western psychology sees it as necessary for healthy functioning. Buddhism teaches that suffering can only be alleviated when a person realizes that what he perceives as a cohesive, integrated, and continuous self is only an illusion and that it disappears under close scrutiny.
In contrast, Western psychotherapists see the lack of a stable, integrated, and cohesive self as a major cause of suffering. A self without cohesion is fragmented; complete fragmentation results in psychosis. In less extreme forms, a loosely cohered self caueses a person to experience a deep sense of emptiness accompanied by desperate (but unsuccessful) attempts to fill it. Western psychotherapy practice seeks to alleviate suffering by strengthing the self, fortifying its boundaries, and integrating its various components.
Which tradition is right? Do we suffer because we believe in a self that doesn't exist? Or do we suffer because our self needs to be integrated and strengthened? And how is it that Western psychotherapy borrows from Buddhist practices that seek to accomplish the exact opposite of what it aims to achieve?
There are some psychotherapists who make this very point and argue that Buddhist practices have no place in psychotherapy. Others embrace Buddhist teachings and practices wholeheartedly and use them as the foundation for their psychotherapy practice. Still others believe that Buddhist practices have a place in psychotherapy but caution against using them as substitutes. Practices like insight and mindfulness meditation are not equivalent to psychotherapy. In fact, as we've already established, while meditation and psychotherapy both aim to relieve suffering, they do so via fundamentally opposite strategies.
I think it is interesting to note that Western psychotherapy borrows from Buddhist practices, but not the other way around. Buddhism borrows nothing from Western psychology. When Western psychotherapists use specific Buddhist practices as interventions they use these practices outside of their original context. They do not use them as they are used by Buddhists. Buddhists engage in various types of meditation with the ultimate goal of achieving enlightenment (which also brings about freedom from suffering). When a psychotherapist teaches a patient to engage in mindfulness meditation he does not do this in an effort to help this patient see through the illusion of self to become enlightened. Rather, he hopes that insight (Vipassana) mediation and mindfulness meditation will help the patient to build ego strength. He hopes to strengthen the patient's "self" by teaching him to observe his thoughts and feelings objectively, to approach his internal experiences with acceptance, or to recognize the role that identifying with maladaptive thoughts plays in generating negative emotional states. These are all functions that Western psychology traditionally ascribes to the ego. These are all worthwhile endeavors but they are not goals that are pursued within a traditional Buddhist framework.
I suppose there is a bit of irony in how the West has chosen to embrace Buddhist ideas. We adopt Buddhist practices in an effort to achieve goals that are completely at odds with the fundamental tenets of Buddhism. This is at least the case in terms of using Buddhist practices as psychotherapy interventions. In reality, to do anything more would require a complete change in worldview for everyone involved.
Buddhism teaches that the self we perceive as a solid and integrated entity is, in reality, just an illusion. If we focus our attention on our internal experiences, we will eventually see that this "self" is nothing more than a collection of experiences - of thoughts, feelings, attitudes, and sensations - that arise and then pass; there is no permanent substance or structure - no "self" - underlying these experiences.
This is, in fact, quite consistent with many of the mainstream theories underlying Western psychotherapy practice. Psychodynamic and constructivist theories suggest that, for each person, the sense of self is achieved through the interactions of many different "self representations." A self-representation is an unconscious collection of related schemas (ideas and beliefs) that produces a particular experience of the self in a given moment. A person has many self-representations and any of them can be dominant at a given moment in time. Thus, the "self" one experiences "is actually being constructed anew from moment to moment" (Jack Engler, "Therapeutic Aims in Psychotherapy and Meditation").
In short, when we talk of the "self" in Buddhism or of the "self" in Western psychology, we can be sure we are talking about the same concept. The differences in how the two traditions deal with the self is not in how they define it; rather, it is in the role each believes the "self" plays in human lives and human functioning.
Whereas Buddhism sees the self as the primary source of all human suffering, Western psychology sees it as necessary for healthy functioning. Buddhism teaches that suffering can only be alleviated when a person realizes that what he perceives as a cohesive, integrated, and continuous self is only an illusion and that it disappears under close scrutiny.
In contrast, Western psychotherapists see the lack of a stable, integrated, and cohesive self as a major cause of suffering. A self without cohesion is fragmented; complete fragmentation results in psychosis. In less extreme forms, a loosely cohered self caueses a person to experience a deep sense of emptiness accompanied by desperate (but unsuccessful) attempts to fill it. Western psychotherapy practice seeks to alleviate suffering by strengthing the self, fortifying its boundaries, and integrating its various components.
Which tradition is right? Do we suffer because we believe in a self that doesn't exist? Or do we suffer because our self needs to be integrated and strengthened? And how is it that Western psychotherapy borrows from Buddhist practices that seek to accomplish the exact opposite of what it aims to achieve?
There are some psychotherapists who make this very point and argue that Buddhist practices have no place in psychotherapy. Others embrace Buddhist teachings and practices wholeheartedly and use them as the foundation for their psychotherapy practice. Still others believe that Buddhist practices have a place in psychotherapy but caution against using them as substitutes. Practices like insight and mindfulness meditation are not equivalent to psychotherapy. In fact, as we've already established, while meditation and psychotherapy both aim to relieve suffering, they do so via fundamentally opposite strategies.
I think it is interesting to note that Western psychotherapy borrows from Buddhist practices, but not the other way around. Buddhism borrows nothing from Western psychology. When Western psychotherapists use specific Buddhist practices as interventions they use these practices outside of their original context. They do not use them as they are used by Buddhists. Buddhists engage in various types of meditation with the ultimate goal of achieving enlightenment (which also brings about freedom from suffering). When a psychotherapist teaches a patient to engage in mindfulness meditation he does not do this in an effort to help this patient see through the illusion of self to become enlightened. Rather, he hopes that insight (Vipassana) mediation and mindfulness meditation will help the patient to build ego strength. He hopes to strengthen the patient's "self" by teaching him to observe his thoughts and feelings objectively, to approach his internal experiences with acceptance, or to recognize the role that identifying with maladaptive thoughts plays in generating negative emotional states. These are all functions that Western psychology traditionally ascribes to the ego. These are all worthwhile endeavors but they are not goals that are pursued within a traditional Buddhist framework.
I suppose there is a bit of irony in how the West has chosen to embrace Buddhist ideas. We adopt Buddhist practices in an effort to achieve goals that are completely at odds with the fundamental tenets of Buddhism. This is at least the case in terms of using Buddhist practices as psychotherapy interventions. In reality, to do anything more would require a complete change in worldview for everyone involved.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
The Self in Western Psychology
There are too many theories of self within the tradition of Western psychology to count them all. To my knowledge, no one has ever attempted to cover them all in one place and at one time; the task would be enormous, not to mention time consuming. For these reasons, I do not endeavor to be the first to attempt this task. Instead, I will attempt to present an overall view of the self in Western psychology that incorporates the most prevalent and commonly used theories.
In general, the goal of Western psychotherapy (particularly when rooted in the psychodynamic tradition) is to strengthen the self in order to improve functioning, facilitate healthy regulation of emotions, and increase ability to cope with both internal and external stressors. Most Western theories of psychological development assert that "the self" develops through a series of hierarchical stages, with each new stage representing a higher level of self achievement than the one before it.
An infant begins its life with no sense of himself as an individual separate from his external environment. The infant embarks on his self-developmental journey in the context of his relationship with his mother (or primary caregiver). The infant is dependent on his mother for all of his basic needs. He has only to cry and his mother is there to provide what he lacks. For this reason, he comes to see his mother as an extension of himself; he perceives an entity he calls "me and mommy" that is separate and distinct from the rest of the world. As a young toddler, the child begins to recognize that he is his own entity, existing in his own body, separate from everything and everyone, including his mother. He begins to try to manipulate objects and interact with people in his environment. Eventually, as he becomes more confident, he begins to venture farther and farther away from his mother and for increasingly longer periods of time. As the child gains a growing sense of himself as an individual separate from other individuals, he gradually becomes aware that his actions affect others. He develops the ability to feel guilty when he does something that hurts another person.
Each stage of the developmental process must be navigated successfully in order for a child to eventually form an integrated personality and a healthy sense of self. The successful resolution of each stage endows the ego with a specific ability or "virtue" that contributes to healthy functioning. While development continues throughout the life span, the years from birth to adolescence have the most significant impact on personality development. If all goes well, an adolescent will enter young adulthood with the ego strengths of hope, willpower, purpose, competence, fidelity, and love.
The culmination of psychological development is a differentiated self. When a person is differentiated, he is able to function as an autonomous individual with his own ideas, opinions, goals, and pursuits. He is capable of maintaining healthy boundaries with his family and friends; he is neither controlled by nor enmeshed with others, nor is he emotionally cut off or disconnected from them. He has the capacity for emotional intimacy. A well differentiated individual can separate thoughts from feelings. He is able to regulate his emotions such that they do not overwhelm his ability to think rationally.
While the self gradually develops into a separate and independent entity, it does so only in the context of one's relationships with others. I am aware of no theory that conceives of the self as developing in a vacuum; there is widespread recognition that the self develops in (and is therefore influenced by) a broader cultural and interpersonal context. I am also unaware of any theories suggesting that the self emerges fully formed. Rather, the self is always seen as something that must be developed over time; it requires specific things in order to do this successfully.
In terms of how self is defined in Western psychology, most schools of thought recognize at least two "realms" of the self: the conscious and the unconscious. Not every school of Western psychological thought attends to the unconscious aspect. Behaviorism, for example, focuses on changing overt behaviors without addressing the possible unconscious factors that drive them. Other theoretical orientations address the unconscious factors in mental illness indirectly. For example, cognitive theory focuses on changing irrational automatic thoughts, rules/assumptions/schema, and core beliefs. Automatic thoughts tend to reside just below the surface of conscious awareness and can usually be accessed pretty easily. Schema, followed by core beliefs, occupy increasingly unconscious levels, which are less accessible to conscious awareness. For this reason, the presence of certain schema and core beliefs is typically inferred from associated automatic thoughts and emotional triggers.
While we are not, by definition, aware of the contents of the unconscious mind, the unconscious nevertheless has a significant influence on our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors.
At the center of the conscious realm of the self lies the ego. The ego serves many purposes and is vital to healthy and adaptive functioning. Among other things, the ego acts as a gatekeeper between the conscious and the unconscious. The ego determines, based on a number of factors, what material is allowed into our conscious awareness and what material is to remain unconscious (and probably, to a lesser degree, what information is to be discarded completely). The ego is also responsible for organizing the personality so that it is coherent and consistent. It is essentially responsible for creating our "sense of self."
The true self consists of both the conscious and the unconscious. To experience the true self, a person must integrate his conscious and unconscious minds. This requires becoming aware of the material hidden in the unconscious mind. This material is often difficult, aversive, and anxiety provoking (which is why the ego has not allowed it into conscious awareness). Becoming aware of this material also means dealing with (and tolerating) the negative emotions associated with it. This is a difficult process, but one that promises very desirable payoffs. To experience the true self is to expand one's consciousness and to more fully know oneself. A perosn's thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are controlled by unconscious material so long as that material remains unconscious. To become conscious of this material is to begin to gain control of it (and to therefore gain greater control of one's thoughts, feelings, and behaviors).
Despite its many necessary functions, the ego can hinder one's quest to experience his true self. Recall that one of the roles of the ego is to act as the gatekeeper between consciousness and unconsciousness. Thus the ego can, at times, interfere with efforts to know the true self by preventing unconscious material from entering conscious awareness.
Essentially, the basic premise of Western psychotherapy is that a fully developed "self" is necessary for healthy psychological and emotional functioning. The inability to regulate emotions, to cope with and tolerate distress, or to maintain intimate interpersonal relatinoships with appropriate boundaries are all recognized as symptoms of a poorly developed self. Perfectionism, anxiety, compulsiveness, self-destructive behaviors, or rigid beliefs are also manifestations of an underdeveloped self. Thus, the goal of Western psychotherapy is to build and strengthen the self, which in turn leads to an alleviation of symptoms and improved overall functioning.
It seems to me that modern Western psychology does not take an ontological stance in its conceptualizations of the self. In this context, I use the term ontological to refer to "the philosophical study of the nature of being, existence, or reality." (I'll admit it - I just quoted from Wikipedia). Ontology deals with such questions as "What does it mean to exist?" "When does something cease to exist as opposed to simply changing?" (What if a person sustains brain damage? His personality is not the same as it was before the damage occurred. Is he still the same person)? "What makes up the identity of a person or object?"
These questions have been contemplated by countless Western psychologists and psychiatrists over the years. Some have taken a philosophical approach and have generated theories based upon ideas emerging from their own intellectual thought. Others have formed theories generated from their observations of and interactions with patients. Still others have taken a more spiritual approach, drawing from the teachings of various religious and spiritual traditions and combining them with traditional psychological theories.
Western psychology has always struggled to be taken seriously as a "hard" scientific discipline. In order to assert its legitimacy as more than just a pseudo-science, it has adopted increasingly rigorous standards for ideas, information, and practices it is willing to accept as valid. As a whole, psychology and psychiatry are no longer willing to accept or endorse anything that has not been studied empirically via controlled scientific studies. (There is, of course, significant variation among individual practitioners in their willingness to engage in psychotherapy practices that have not been empirically validated).
Because of this, the field appears to be moving towards an embrace of an almost reductionist coneption of the self. This is increasingly the case as new technologies are developed that enable researchers to study directly the activities of the brain. The neurological underpinnings of phenomena that have traditionally been ascribed to the self (e.g., thoughts, feelings, perceptions) are being identified and explored by researchers via sophisticated brain imaging techniques. Because these phenomena can be observed on a neurological level, there is a broad assumption that all human experience is simply a result of the various physiological functions of our brains and bodies. To me, this conclusion seems to ignore one of the basic principles of the scientific method: correlation does not equal causation. It also assumes that everything that exists can be observed directly and demonstrated objectively. There are, of course, other ways of knowing; its just that Western society as a whole tends to reject anything they cannot prove.
In general, the goal of Western psychotherapy (particularly when rooted in the psychodynamic tradition) is to strengthen the self in order to improve functioning, facilitate healthy regulation of emotions, and increase ability to cope with both internal and external stressors. Most Western theories of psychological development assert that "the self" develops through a series of hierarchical stages, with each new stage representing a higher level of self achievement than the one before it.
An infant begins its life with no sense of himself as an individual separate from his external environment. The infant embarks on his self-developmental journey in the context of his relationship with his mother (or primary caregiver). The infant is dependent on his mother for all of his basic needs. He has only to cry and his mother is there to provide what he lacks. For this reason, he comes to see his mother as an extension of himself; he perceives an entity he calls "me and mommy" that is separate and distinct from the rest of the world. As a young toddler, the child begins to recognize that he is his own entity, existing in his own body, separate from everything and everyone, including his mother. He begins to try to manipulate objects and interact with people in his environment. Eventually, as he becomes more confident, he begins to venture farther and farther away from his mother and for increasingly longer periods of time. As the child gains a growing sense of himself as an individual separate from other individuals, he gradually becomes aware that his actions affect others. He develops the ability to feel guilty when he does something that hurts another person.
Each stage of the developmental process must be navigated successfully in order for a child to eventually form an integrated personality and a healthy sense of self. The successful resolution of each stage endows the ego with a specific ability or "virtue" that contributes to healthy functioning. While development continues throughout the life span, the years from birth to adolescence have the most significant impact on personality development. If all goes well, an adolescent will enter young adulthood with the ego strengths of hope, willpower, purpose, competence, fidelity, and love.
The culmination of psychological development is a differentiated self. When a person is differentiated, he is able to function as an autonomous individual with his own ideas, opinions, goals, and pursuits. He is capable of maintaining healthy boundaries with his family and friends; he is neither controlled by nor enmeshed with others, nor is he emotionally cut off or disconnected from them. He has the capacity for emotional intimacy. A well differentiated individual can separate thoughts from feelings. He is able to regulate his emotions such that they do not overwhelm his ability to think rationally.
While the self gradually develops into a separate and independent entity, it does so only in the context of one's relationships with others. I am aware of no theory that conceives of the self as developing in a vacuum; there is widespread recognition that the self develops in (and is therefore influenced by) a broader cultural and interpersonal context. I am also unaware of any theories suggesting that the self emerges fully formed. Rather, the self is always seen as something that must be developed over time; it requires specific things in order to do this successfully.
In terms of how self is defined in Western psychology, most schools of thought recognize at least two "realms" of the self: the conscious and the unconscious. Not every school of Western psychological thought attends to the unconscious aspect. Behaviorism, for example, focuses on changing overt behaviors without addressing the possible unconscious factors that drive them. Other theoretical orientations address the unconscious factors in mental illness indirectly. For example, cognitive theory focuses on changing irrational automatic thoughts, rules/assumptions/schema, and core beliefs. Automatic thoughts tend to reside just below the surface of conscious awareness and can usually be accessed pretty easily. Schema, followed by core beliefs, occupy increasingly unconscious levels, which are less accessible to conscious awareness. For this reason, the presence of certain schema and core beliefs is typically inferred from associated automatic thoughts and emotional triggers.
While we are not, by definition, aware of the contents of the unconscious mind, the unconscious nevertheless has a significant influence on our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors.
At the center of the conscious realm of the self lies the ego. The ego serves many purposes and is vital to healthy and adaptive functioning. Among other things, the ego acts as a gatekeeper between the conscious and the unconscious. The ego determines, based on a number of factors, what material is allowed into our conscious awareness and what material is to remain unconscious (and probably, to a lesser degree, what information is to be discarded completely). The ego is also responsible for organizing the personality so that it is coherent and consistent. It is essentially responsible for creating our "sense of self."
The true self consists of both the conscious and the unconscious. To experience the true self, a person must integrate his conscious and unconscious minds. This requires becoming aware of the material hidden in the unconscious mind. This material is often difficult, aversive, and anxiety provoking (which is why the ego has not allowed it into conscious awareness). Becoming aware of this material also means dealing with (and tolerating) the negative emotions associated with it. This is a difficult process, but one that promises very desirable payoffs. To experience the true self is to expand one's consciousness and to more fully know oneself. A perosn's thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are controlled by unconscious material so long as that material remains unconscious. To become conscious of this material is to begin to gain control of it (and to therefore gain greater control of one's thoughts, feelings, and behaviors).
Despite its many necessary functions, the ego can hinder one's quest to experience his true self. Recall that one of the roles of the ego is to act as the gatekeeper between consciousness and unconsciousness. Thus the ego can, at times, interfere with efforts to know the true self by preventing unconscious material from entering conscious awareness.
Essentially, the basic premise of Western psychotherapy is that a fully developed "self" is necessary for healthy psychological and emotional functioning. The inability to regulate emotions, to cope with and tolerate distress, or to maintain intimate interpersonal relatinoships with appropriate boundaries are all recognized as symptoms of a poorly developed self. Perfectionism, anxiety, compulsiveness, self-destructive behaviors, or rigid beliefs are also manifestations of an underdeveloped self. Thus, the goal of Western psychotherapy is to build and strengthen the self, which in turn leads to an alleviation of symptoms and improved overall functioning.
It seems to me that modern Western psychology does not take an ontological stance in its conceptualizations of the self. In this context, I use the term ontological to refer to "the philosophical study of the nature of being, existence, or reality." (I'll admit it - I just quoted from Wikipedia). Ontology deals with such questions as "What does it mean to exist?" "When does something cease to exist as opposed to simply changing?" (What if a person sustains brain damage? His personality is not the same as it was before the damage occurred. Is he still the same person)? "What makes up the identity of a person or object?"
These questions have been contemplated by countless Western psychologists and psychiatrists over the years. Some have taken a philosophical approach and have generated theories based upon ideas emerging from their own intellectual thought. Others have formed theories generated from their observations of and interactions with patients. Still others have taken a more spiritual approach, drawing from the teachings of various religious and spiritual traditions and combining them with traditional psychological theories.
Western psychology has always struggled to be taken seriously as a "hard" scientific discipline. In order to assert its legitimacy as more than just a pseudo-science, it has adopted increasingly rigorous standards for ideas, information, and practices it is willing to accept as valid. As a whole, psychology and psychiatry are no longer willing to accept or endorse anything that has not been studied empirically via controlled scientific studies. (There is, of course, significant variation among individual practitioners in their willingness to engage in psychotherapy practices that have not been empirically validated).
Because of this, the field appears to be moving towards an embrace of an almost reductionist coneption of the self. This is increasingly the case as new technologies are developed that enable researchers to study directly the activities of the brain. The neurological underpinnings of phenomena that have traditionally been ascribed to the self (e.g., thoughts, feelings, perceptions) are being identified and explored by researchers via sophisticated brain imaging techniques. Because these phenomena can be observed on a neurological level, there is a broad assumption that all human experience is simply a result of the various physiological functions of our brains and bodies. To me, this conclusion seems to ignore one of the basic principles of the scientific method: correlation does not equal causation. It also assumes that everything that exists can be observed directly and demonstrated objectively. There are, of course, other ways of knowing; its just that Western society as a whole tends to reject anything they cannot prove.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
"No Self" in Buddhism
In Western societies, we tend to view "the self" a distinct entity that lies at the core of our being. Each person embodies an individual self that is completely separate from everyone and everything else in the universe. The self is experienced as integrated and continuous; even as a person grows and changes, there is still a core "self" that remains the same.
The Buddha asserted that this perception of an integrated, continuous self is just an illusion. Rather than being a separate, distinct entity, what we experience as the "self" actually consists of five overlapping processes. These processes are known as the Five Skandhas (or the Five Aggregates). They are:
1. Physical form: our physical bodies
2. Sensation: the five senses plus our emotions
3. Perception: thinking, conceptualizing, reasoning, etc.
4. Mental formations: thinking habits, biases, willfulness, intention, desire, etc.
5. Consciousness: awareness
These are the things that make up the illusory self. This illusion of self is maintained because we attend only to the surface of our experiences. We identify with our wants and desires, our feelings and memories, our likes and dislikes, and our ideas and beliefs. We see our thoughts and feelings as part of ourselves instead of as passing phenomena. If, however, we can take a step back from these processes and observe them individually as they come and go, we will begin to realize that there is no core, enduring "self" that exists outside of these experiences. Instead, we will start to notice the space between these phenomena. Over time, we become aware that our thoughts, feelings, and sensations, like all other things, materialize and then fall away.
Buddhism identifies "the self" (or the illusion of self) as the source of all suffering. When we are immersed in our physical, mental, and emotional experiences, we inevitably identify with some of these phenomena; they become integral to our sense of who we are (our self concept or sense of self). We become attached to those things we identify with; the threat of losing any one of them is perceived as a threat to our very existence. With attachment comes the fear of loss. However, since all things are inmpermanent, loss is inevitable. We instinctively know this, yet we cling to our attachments in an effort to prolong the inevitable. We are aware of the futility of our efforts, yet we refuse to accept it. This is suffering.
The illusion of self also gives rise to aversion and desire. We divide everything into two categories: "Things I like and want more of" and "Things I don't like and want to avoid." Thus, every thought, every feeling, every experience is seen in terms of how it relates to one's "self:" it is either something I like or something I don't. We embrace what we like and reject what we don't. This accepting and rejecting prevents us from simply experiencing whatever is present, in the moment, as it occurs.
The doctrine of anatta or "no self" is a controversial one. Over the centuries, it has given rise to a number of different interpretations (and consequently, misinterpretations). It is frequently referred to as the most poorly understood of all the Buddha's teachings. Part of the disagreement about how the annata doctrine should be interpreted stems from the fact that it seems inconsistent with other Buddhist teachings, such as the cycle of rebirth. It also seems at odds with other major religious and spiritual traditions, all of which presuppose the existence of some kind of immortal self or soul. Finally, the Buddha himself was very vague in his teachings about the doctrine; this led to confusion about how it should be interpreted.
So what exactly did the Buddha say about anatta? For this, we turn to the Pali Canon. The Pali Canon is a collection of the earliest Buddhist texts. (Buddhist teachings were originally transmitted orally. After several centuries, they were aggregated and transcribed into a collection called the Pali Canon). Nowhere in the Pali Canon does it explain how the anatta doctrine should be interpreted (hence the confusion). The Pali Canon does, however, provide an account of what happened when the Buddha was asked directly whether or not there is a self: he refused to answer the question. He explained that the question itself is misguided and should therefore be set aside. Elsewhere, he teaches that reflection on the self (to include whether or not it exists) causes one to become "enmeshed in views" and thereby leads to suffering.
The concepts of "self" and "no self" imply ownership and identification. They create a mindset in which we categorize things as "me" or "mine" and "not me" or "not mine." The controversy itself creates a false dichotomy that inevitably causes clinging to one extreme or the other. The path to enlightenment, the Buddha taught, is not found in extremes; true liberation is achieved by following the Middle Way.
The Middle Way is neutral and unconditioned. When we observe without judgment the rising and the falling away of all phenomena we see that everything arises from nothing and then goes back to nothing. Even what we identify as "mine" - our thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations - are not exempt. As we examine our experience in this way, we begin to see that our thoughts, feelings, and sensations are "not self" and we release our attachment to them. Many people believe that this is the true meaning of "no self" in Buddhism; a practical, "not self" strategy for liberation from suffering by letting go of one's attachments.
The Buddha asserted that this perception of an integrated, continuous self is just an illusion. Rather than being a separate, distinct entity, what we experience as the "self" actually consists of five overlapping processes. These processes are known as the Five Skandhas (or the Five Aggregates). They are:
1. Physical form: our physical bodies
2. Sensation: the five senses plus our emotions
3. Perception: thinking, conceptualizing, reasoning, etc.
4. Mental formations: thinking habits, biases, willfulness, intention, desire, etc.
5. Consciousness: awareness
These are the things that make up the illusory self. This illusion of self is maintained because we attend only to the surface of our experiences. We identify with our wants and desires, our feelings and memories, our likes and dislikes, and our ideas and beliefs. We see our thoughts and feelings as part of ourselves instead of as passing phenomena. If, however, we can take a step back from these processes and observe them individually as they come and go, we will begin to realize that there is no core, enduring "self" that exists outside of these experiences. Instead, we will start to notice the space between these phenomena. Over time, we become aware that our thoughts, feelings, and sensations, like all other things, materialize and then fall away.
Buddhism identifies "the self" (or the illusion of self) as the source of all suffering. When we are immersed in our physical, mental, and emotional experiences, we inevitably identify with some of these phenomena; they become integral to our sense of who we are (our self concept or sense of self). We become attached to those things we identify with; the threat of losing any one of them is perceived as a threat to our very existence. With attachment comes the fear of loss. However, since all things are inmpermanent, loss is inevitable. We instinctively know this, yet we cling to our attachments in an effort to prolong the inevitable. We are aware of the futility of our efforts, yet we refuse to accept it. This is suffering.
The illusion of self also gives rise to aversion and desire. We divide everything into two categories: "Things I like and want more of" and "Things I don't like and want to avoid." Thus, every thought, every feeling, every experience is seen in terms of how it relates to one's "self:" it is either something I like or something I don't. We embrace what we like and reject what we don't. This accepting and rejecting prevents us from simply experiencing whatever is present, in the moment, as it occurs.
The doctrine of anatta or "no self" is a controversial one. Over the centuries, it has given rise to a number of different interpretations (and consequently, misinterpretations). It is frequently referred to as the most poorly understood of all the Buddha's teachings. Part of the disagreement about how the annata doctrine should be interpreted stems from the fact that it seems inconsistent with other Buddhist teachings, such as the cycle of rebirth. It also seems at odds with other major religious and spiritual traditions, all of which presuppose the existence of some kind of immortal self or soul. Finally, the Buddha himself was very vague in his teachings about the doctrine; this led to confusion about how it should be interpreted.
So what exactly did the Buddha say about anatta? For this, we turn to the Pali Canon. The Pali Canon is a collection of the earliest Buddhist texts. (Buddhist teachings were originally transmitted orally. After several centuries, they were aggregated and transcribed into a collection called the Pali Canon). Nowhere in the Pali Canon does it explain how the anatta doctrine should be interpreted (hence the confusion). The Pali Canon does, however, provide an account of what happened when the Buddha was asked directly whether or not there is a self: he refused to answer the question. He explained that the question itself is misguided and should therefore be set aside. Elsewhere, he teaches that reflection on the self (to include whether or not it exists) causes one to become "enmeshed in views" and thereby leads to suffering.
The concepts of "self" and "no self" imply ownership and identification. They create a mindset in which we categorize things as "me" or "mine" and "not me" or "not mine." The controversy itself creates a false dichotomy that inevitably causes clinging to one extreme or the other. The path to enlightenment, the Buddha taught, is not found in extremes; true liberation is achieved by following the Middle Way.
The Middle Way is neutral and unconditioned. When we observe without judgment the rising and the falling away of all phenomena we see that everything arises from nothing and then goes back to nothing. Even what we identify as "mine" - our thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations - are not exempt. As we examine our experience in this way, we begin to see that our thoughts, feelings, and sensations are "not self" and we release our attachment to them. Many people believe that this is the true meaning of "no self" in Buddhism; a practical, "not self" strategy for liberation from suffering by letting go of one's attachments.
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