Optimistic Nihilism

by David Landers

  If we’re not good at dissociating mentally, we can numb ourselves chemically. For some, taking drugs is the most efficient and certain mechanism to repress discomfort and pain. If you don’t like drugs, you can soothe yourself by overindulging non-chemical distractions, such as food, sex, or shopping. Often when we suffer some losses, such as a romantic relationship or a pet, we just shop for a replacement instead of facing the loss head-on.

  Of course, we can also repress without numbing ourselves or engaging in distracting activity. Mature, adult brains can do all sorts of cognitive gymnastics, altering our perceptions of reality while fully conscious and sitting perfectly still and drug-free. A classic example to which most of us at least have the capacity to relate is when we have been rejected by a romantic interest and we reflexively discount them as “not my type anyway.” The rejection hurts, but we defend against it by telling ourselves that there really is no loss or suffering, that we actually got what we wanted. We pretend we’re in control, calling the shots, but it’s pure ol’ fashioned denial. Similarly, I often notice that whenever I proclaim “I don’t care!”—regardless of the context (my voice often being snappy and raised)—I often do care, but am simply trying to deny my anxiety, sadness, or shame. The most reliable instance is when I’m accused of hurting someone’s feelings and I reflexively assert that “I don’t care.” I do; I’m just trying to trick myself into thinking I don’t, because I don’t want to admit I fucked up, especially like that.

  Phebe tells of a more poignant, clinical example of denial:

  An unusually attractive young woman, stylishly dressed in the mode of her peers, entered my office for the first time. Despite her “together” appearance, she was clearly distressed: Her hands shook, her lips quivered, and she was struggling with losing control. Within minutes, she was sobbing uncontrollably, the cause of which upset I had not yet had the opportunity to discover. What was striking (and has remained fixed in my memory) was her reaction to the flow of tears and the heavy sobs. As the tears continued, she said to me, “I’m a very happy person.” I looked at her, somewhat questioningly, and she repeated, “But I really am a very happy person.”2

  The vignette captures an important essence of emotional repression: Denial is not simply lying. Part of us is so convinced of the defensive version of reality that we truly believe it is the case. These presentations are a dime a dozen in the realm of substance use. I once evaluated an alcoholic woman in jail who had to be treated at a hospital emergency room for alcohol poisoning just days before I met her, and she looked at me straight in the eye and told me enthusiastically that she did not have a drinking problem, like I was a crappy psychologist for even suspecting she did. I’m telling you, this stuff’s not just in movies. It’s very real. That was a real human being, with a normal IQ; I know, I measured it myself. We deny other addictions similarly, whether sex, gambling, shopping; you name it. Victims in abusive relationships can deny like this as well, almost as if they are addicted to the toxic relationships they are in.

  There are many names for different maneuvers of repression, but the goal is the same each time: to reduce emotional discomfort. Most people are at least vaguely familiar with rationalization, in which we are almost always engaging when we defend our questionable behavior by stating “Everyone else does it!” The emotional discomfort that we’re trying to reduce in these situations is often guilt or shame, which we try to deflect by noting that our behavior is not so unusual. We’re in turmoil, however, because we want something but part of us knows we’re violating one of our principles in order to have it. Pay attention to how it feels the next time you say “everyone else does it,” or when you feel tempted to say it. For me, there really is a characteristic feeling, something I might call a numb irritability. I can literally feel myself being stupid, and a little grumpy. I have to numb myself out in order to buy into the deception, and I’m irritable because I know others don’t believe me and are quietly challenging me.

  There’s displacement, when we redirect feelings, often anger, from a forbidden target to one over which we have more control. I watched the movie 21 Grams while working on this chapter, and I think some displacement may have been at play in that scene where hyper-religious Jack Jordan, played by Benicio del Toro, was so hostile (abusive, in my opinion) to his kids at the dinner table. Jack had been fired from his crappy job as a golf caddy earlier that day, but he had to stifle his anger because his immediate supervisor who had to do the actual firing was a good man who was otherwise good to him, and the superiors who ordered the firing were simply inaccessible. That evening, Jack’s kids are scuffling over a dinner roll until the little boy hits the little girl on the arm. Instead of scolding the boy, he forces the girl to present her other arm to the boy so he can hit that one, too (à la “turn the other cheek”; so, not only is he displacing his anger to his innocent girl, he’s rationalizing it via the popular Bible verse). After that cruelty, he then ends up smacking the boy, too, anyway. The scene is a bit creepy and disturbing: Jack’s behavior is clearly not about redirecting his children; it’s about venting his anger towards an exempt stimulus to vulnerable ones.

  Splitting is a particularly interesting defense mechanism because the uncomfortable feeling being repressed is a very specific one: ambiguity. As discussed in various places throughout this book, human minds generally don’t like uncertainty. For some, uncertainty is almost intolerable, so they repress it by taking an extreme, polar position. Listen to Joseph Burgo, author of Why do I do that? Psychological Defense Mechanisms and the Hidden Ways They Shape Our Lives:

  When we feel unable to tolerate the tension and confusion aroused by complexity, we “resolve” that complexity by splitting it into two simplified and opposing parts, usually aligning ourselves with one of them and rejecting the other. As a result, we may feel a sort of comfort in believing we know something with absolute certainty; at the same time, we’ve over-simplified a complex issue, robbing it of its richness and vitality … Feelings of anger and self-righteousness often accompany this process, bolstering our conviction that we are in the right and the other side in the wrong. Ambiguity and compromise are out of the question because they plunge us back into the painful realm of ambivalence.3

  Joseph adds that splitting seems to be a fundamental part of politics; it’s what polarizes many “polarizing issues.” Sometimes I wonder if much of the enthusiasm of pro-choice activists also stems from splitting. Sure, many women want to reserve the right to have an abortion, but I can’t help but wonder if some of the fervor is defending against the pain of what having an abortion really means. On the other side of the political coin, I wonder how many conservative pro-death penalty and anti-gun control folk are actually more on the fence than they are able to admit. For a more clinical example, consider people you know whose feelings towards you seem to vacillate from affection to hostility, especially during conflict. They’re splitting, unable to conceptualize you as both good and flawed at the same time, so you can only be one or the other at any given moment.

  Projection is when you attribute to others your own unappealing traits, such as anger. Others would describe you as an angry person, but you would argue that you’re merely reacting to the hostilities of the rest of the world.

  Reaction formation is when we behave in a way that diametrically misrepresents how we really feel. Textbooks might illustrate via a person with puritanical attitudes towards sex who is in reality a raging, horny sex machine underneath. I know this sounds a little too Freudian, so I thought I should include a citation: Professor Roy Baumeister reviews a study showing that, as a group, women who report low levels of arousal to sexually provocative stimuli exhibit more sexual arousal than others when measured experimentally.4 Similarly, in some of the most hilarious scientific research ever, he summarizes another study showing that homophobic men—wait for it—are more aroused by male homosexual pornography than non-homophobic men. Now, don’t panic if you’re a homophobe; this doesn’t necessarily me
an that you want to have gay sex. It just suggests that some part of you, deep down, is not as averse to it as you want to be.

  I like to conceptualize narcissism as reaction formation. Contrary to some popular notions, narcissists are actually insecure underneath. The arrogance and entitlement are often defensive maneuvers to hide intense, deeply entrenched feelings of inadequacy and shame. I often teach my students (somewhat jokingly, but not entirely) that a simple rule-of-thumb test to distinguish narcissism from more healthy pride is to insult the person in question. A person with healthy pride will not mind so much, but the narcissist will become angry. (And maybe even lash out, so proceed with caution!)

  Intellectualization is when we distance ourselves from our suffering by appealing to technical knowledge or abstract generalizations. Returning again to the ubiquitous romantic breakup, we overanalyze the dynamics of our failed chemistry, making assertions like “Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all!” It kinda helps, for moments, but some part of us knows it’s total bullshit, that the loss hurts bad and doesn’t feel better than anything. If we could see ourselves in the mirror, we might notice something creepy about the smile that we’re forcing at the moment when we assert the platitude. I’m serious: You can learn to see through it, and it’s unsettling when you do. He’s saying one thing and acting like he thinks it’s the truth, but you can kinda see the self-deception, this spacey look of disconnection between what he’s saying and what he believes. People don’t seem entirely human when this is going on, but almost robotic.

  Some people live much of their lives in a spacey state as such, what Phebe refers to as “Pollyannish denial,” citing none other than Voltaire’s Candide. It starts as daydreaming as children, but some of us are so good at it that

  the fantasies, unaffected by external events, acquire a salience that rivals external reality … Real events are then only recognized insofar as they conform to the fantasy … it occurs among adults who are overly optimistic, overly positive … The denial occurs not in terms of a failure to perceive what is there, but rather in an imposition of a highly personalized interpretation of what the perceived events mean. The meaning is distorted to make it more pleasant and more self-enhancing.5

  So, when I explained in my chapter 1 that the experience of my college roommate having accidentally killed our cat eventually brought us together, some readers might be tempted to respond by asserting, “See—everything happens for a reason!” But Phebe might suggest that you’re being defensive, trying to deflect the full horror of what transpired by twisting it into some “highly personalized” event that was orchestrated for us.

  No, it didn’t happen for a reason. It just happened, and Roman and I dealt with it the best we could. Despite eventually coming together, I suspect that both of us would have preferred that it didn’t happen at all, and we could have just become closer over something else less traumatic later.

  As you read through these examples, from Phebe’s sobbing happy lady to Benicio del Toro, you may be noticing a very important aspect of emotional defensiveness: It’s so much easier to identify it transpiring in someone else versus in ourselves. Phebe explains that this is largely due to the fundamental nature of defense mechanisms: By definition, since they do lessen pain, it hurts for the suffering person to see through them and to work through them! To seek progress, then, necessarily means feeling the pain we’re trying to avoid. In contrast, when observing someone else being defensive, we’re not being thwarted by the pain that the defensive person is trying to avoid.

  Furthermore, there’s likely a more general resistance to the notion that we would ever be emotionally defensive. We are defensive about defensiveness, even when we’re not in the immediate act of being defensive! To ever be defensive would suggest that we are weak and can’t handle reality, and therefore somewhat out of control of the situation at hand. Recall my assertion earlier that a sense of control is one of the most fundamental human needs, right up there with eating, mating, and socialization. Although when employing defense mechanisms we are exercising some control, in a sense, by tricking ourselves into a preferred version of reality, we necessarily do this at the expense of admitting that we can’t handle the real version. Otherwise, we simply don’t like the reflexive, unconscious nature of defense mechanisms. To admit that we do such a thing makes us feel mechanical, like automatons, simpletons of sorts. Less human, even.

  But I don’t think there’s anything to be ashamed about. Being defensive is actually a very human trait, because humans don’t like pain. On the other hand, we shouldn’t resign ourselves to a defensive lifestyle, because courage is another human trait, as is the aspiration to grow.

  Why are some people more defensive than others? As with any other aspect of personality, nature (that is, genes) certainly plays a role. Some of us simply have a sensitive temperament predisposing us to hurt more, and therefore we simply have more pain to deflect. Phebe adds that defensiveness is also nurtured into us depending on the amount of stress we experience during early development. Recall the image above of dad barging into the house after a long day at work, slamming the door, and running right past his baby on his way to the shower. A single such event is unlikely to affect the baby significantly, but if this type of interaction is habitual he’s likely to feel rejected and unloved. A kid can’t just leave and find a new family, so he’s forced to soothe himself using defense mechanisms. By the time he’s ready to move out of the home he’s an expert.

  Although repression will always have a place in our lives, there are many reasons to aspire for a relatively defensive-free lifestyle. First, it should be noted that repression doesn’t really fix anything; it’s just a band-aid that helps us get by for the moment. Roy Baumeister cites other research showing that “forcibly ejecting unwanted thoughts from the conscious mind” can result in what Freud called “the return of the repressed,” that is, a rebound effect in which the unwanted thoughts return with even greater intensity than before.6 When we’re being defensive, we’re just postponing pain, not curing it.

  Otherwise, being defensive all the time prevents us from maturing and realizing our fuller potentialities. As Phebe explains, defensiveness only affects internal states, not the external reality. Abiding by the mantras such as “Everything happens for a reason” may help diminish the pain associated with irretrievable losses or mistakes, but it can also encourage passivity and prevent us from seeing our own roles in our dysfunctions. I find in my personal life and professional life as a psychologist that people who appeal to “Everything happens for a reason” are often doing so to avoid taking responsibility for the disasters they create themselves by making poor decisions or by keeping toxic company. By attributing the ill effects of our own mistakes to something orchestrated by God or the cosmos, we are less likely to see our own role and therefore change our behavior for the better.

  Finally, defensiveness tarnishes our contact with others, including our loved ones. People who are good will respect us, feel closer to us, and like us more when we can be vulnerable and sincerely say “I’m sorry” and when we can openly discuss our fears and weaknesses. And they should like us and feel closer to us, because we are closer when we interact with others in an authentic manner like this. It shows that we trust them. And such behavior is disarming—it gives the person we are talking to the opportunity to open up as well. Most people do want to share their fears and other intimacies, deep down. The irony is that as we work through our defensiveness, we actually become stronger. We feel more alive, not less. Embracing our vulnerability, and that of others, really deepens our interactions and allows wonderful stuff to transpire.

  Yes, it’s much easier said than done, but it’s doable with practice and counseling. Don’t assume that just because I’m writing a chapter on defensiveness that I don’t do it, either. I’m still learning, too, and always will be. I’d like to share one of my biggest breakthroughs, which occurred just a few years ago, I think it was 2005 or 2006;
I’m sure I was still in graduate school, but winding it down.

  I had been reading psychiatrist Mark Epstein’s Going to Pieces without Falling Apart.7 As the title of his book implies, Mark teaches us to just let ourselves hurt and to be mindful of our emotional pain as it unfolds. Pay attention to it, but don’t make any value judgements—in particular, don’t criticize yourself for hurting. It was reminiscent of the advice my one good therapist, Jessica, had given me over a decade before which was still in the process of sinking in: When having a panic attack, just let go and float down that river, let it take you away, and don’t clutch at the reeds, lest you create rapids that pummel your face. Stop fighting; just let yourself die. Enlightened existential psychiatrist Victor Frankl called it paradoxical intent: Wish that your greatest fears be realized, embrace your greatest pain and just see what happens. When not resisting, you might see that the threat is not as bad as anticipated.