The idea that deliberately changing our behavior can change our selfconceptions has been used to help people experiencing significant problems. Part of the credo of Alcoholics Anonymous, for example, is "Fake it until you make it." Because an addiction to alcohol can seem so overwhelming and hard to overcome that people do not know where to begin, it is often useful to start small by acting as if one had the problem under control. Obviously, avoiding a drink on one occasion is not a cure for alcoholism. Small changes in behavior can lead to small changes in one's self-concept, however, and small changes in one's self-concept can make the next behavior change easier.
The same strategy has been used to treat people who are chronically depressed. A number of effective therapies are available for depression, including antidepressant drugs and several kinds of psychotherapy. The psychotherapist Terrence Real notes that an important part of the therapeutic process is to "do the behavior first and let the feelings follow." This is especially true of men, he suggests, in whom depression often takes the form of social isolation and a lack of intimacy. It can be quite helpful for depressed men to make the effort to act more sociably instead of isolating themselves. As Real advises, "Do the dishes, help the kids with their homework," because repeated efforts in this direction can help people form social ties and change their self-definitions."
As another example, think for a moment how you might design an intervention to lower the high pregnancy rate in adolescents in the United States. If you are like many researchers in this area, your approach would be to tackle the problem head-on, such as by educating adolescent boys and girls about abstinence and birth control, and perhaps by making contraceptives more easily available. Such programs have been tried and have resulted in somewhat lower pregnancy rates.
Rather than trying to change adolescents' sexual behavior directly, though, maybe we should try to change their self-conceptions. If we could find a way to make them feel more connected to their communi ties, more competent, and more adultlike, perhaps they would be more likely to avoid risky sexual behavior. An appeal of such a broad approach is that it might help adolescents avoid other self-defeating behaviors besides early pregnancy, such as dropping out of school.
This all sounds well and good, but how can we get adolescents to change their view of themselves? It seems like an insurmountable task to try to change people's personalities and self-views with a large-scale intervention. The answer might actually be rather straightforward: first change the adolescents' behavior, getting them to act in competent, adultlike ways, with the assumption that their self-views will fall in line with their behavior.
This is the approach taken by a national program called Teen Outreach. Although it is multifaceted, including classroom discussions and guest speakers, the central component of the program is to involve adolescents in volunteer work of their choice. There is no direct attempt to educate people about teen pregnancy or contraception; instead, students in grades nine through twelve engage in supervised volunteer work, such as working as aides in hospitals and nursing homes or as peer tutors. The results have been remarkable. In one large-scale study in which teens were randomly assigned to the Teen Outreach program or a control group, those who participated in the program were less likely to fail a course, less likely to be suspended from school, and, if female, less likely to become pregnant.'
The success of interventions such as these is undoubtedly due to multiple causes, such as gaining social skills through practice, obtaining positive feedback from others, and connecting to a social network of supportive adults who act as role models. I suspect that another critical component, however, is the change in self-image that the volunteer work promotes. Teens who used to view themselves as alienated and ineffective come to see themselves as caring, helpful, competent people with a stake in their community, a self-view that is much less compatible with becoming pregnant or dropping out of school.
The "do good, be good" principle is one of the most important lessons psychology has to offer. If you do not like something about yourself or are feeling down, it can be helpful to alter your behavior in a more positive way. Behavior change is often quite difficult, especially when it involves overcoming an addiction (e.g., quitting smoking) or changing a behavior that is rewarding in other ways (e.g., eating). It is often possible, however, to act in more outgoing ways when we are shy, happy ways when we are sad, or kind ways when we feel unkind. This simple lesson was known to Emily Post, who gave the following advice in her 1922 etiquette manual: "There is one thing every girl who would really be popular should learn, in fact, she must learn-self-unconsciousness! The best advice might be to follow somewhat the precepts of mental science and make herself believe that a good time exists in her own mind. If she can become possessed with the idea that she is having a good time and look as though she were, the psychological effect is astonishing. 10
It may seem odd to end a book on self-knowledge with the advice that people should think less about themselves and try to change their behavior instead. To fashion a satisfying, functional, self-narrative, however, and to establish a desirable pattern of habitual, nonconscious responses, the best advice is to practice, practice, practice.
Judging the "Goodness" of a Self-Story
But what is it that makes a self-narrative satisfying, functional, and adaptive? Accuracy is the most obvious criterion; it is not to people's advantage to believe that they are the reincarnation of Attila the Hun or that they can fly after jumping off tall buildings. Nonetheless, the modernist assumption that there is one, true account of a person's life and problems is rejected by most narrative theorists. Indeed, the use of the term "narrative" is meant to convey that there are many ways of telling a person's story, and not just one historical truth that must be discovered before positive self-change can be achieved.''
But although many narrative theorists say that the truth of the story does not matter, I don't think they really mean it. Imagine, for example, that we brought together a psychoanalyst, cognitive therapist, and behavior therapist who all agreed with the basic narrative metaphor and viewed their practice as a matter of helping their clients to adopt more adaptive self-stories. "So you would agree," we might ask, "that the truth of the narrative is less important than that people find a useful and adaptive story that relieves their suffering?" True to the narrative tradition, each therapist nods enthusiastically. "So what you are saying," we continue, "is that the stories that your colleagues' clients adopt are as good as the stories your clients adopt?" Our three therapists begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats. "In other words, the psychoanalytic story is as good as the behaviorist or cognitive one, and each of you could use the other disciplines' stories to good effect?" "Now wait just a minute," our therapists respond, "when we said that one narrative is as good as another, we weren't going that far."
There are, of course, eclectic therapists who would agree that different approaches can be effective. Many psychotherapists, however-even those who favor the narrative metaphor-believe that some narratives are truer than others, and that it is to their clients' benefit to adopt the valid ones (e.g., Freudian, Kleinian, Rogerian, Skinnerian). But, as we saw from our earlier discussion of psychotherapy outcome research, this assumption is questionable. Psychotherapy clients benefit by adopting their therapists' stories, but the content of these stories can differ radically.
Perhaps the answer is to adopt the postmodernist perspective that it is pointless to judge self-narratives by their accuracy or historical truth. According to this view, there is no "true self"; rather, in modern life people live in multiple crosscurrents of conflicting social forces, and they construct many narratives specific to particular relationships and cultural circumstances. It makes no sense to judge one of these narratives as "truer" than another.
The postmodernist perspective has been useful in highlighting the influence of culture and society on self-constructions and the extent to which people can adopt different personas in different circumstance
s. But if truth is not the proper criterion by which to judge a narrative, what is? Even within a given social and cultural context, some narratives are more adaptive than others; most postmodernists would agree that the self-view of a depressed, suicidal person, or of an alienated, sociopathic high school student on his way to school with an automatic weapon, is not adaptive.
It is difficult, however, to define "adaptive" with no reference to accuracy, and many postmodern accounts of psychotherapy fall into this trap. Kenneth Gergen and John Kaye, for example, note that many postmodernist accounts attempt to avoid an accuracy criterion by arguing that the goal of psychotherapy is to "re-orient the individual, to open new courses of action that are more fulfilling and more adequately suited to the individual's experiences, capacities, and proclivities."2 But by saying that a narrative should be "suited" to a person's "capacities and proclivities" is to use an accuracy criterion. What is a "proclivity" or "capacity" but an enduring aspect of personality that is best captured in a narrative?
Gergen and Kaye attempt to avoid this trap by arguing for a different definition of narrative utility, namely the idea that narratives exist within specific "games of language, one or more cultural dances," and can be judged only "within the confines of a particular game or dance." "Utility," they argue, "is to be derived from their success as moves within these arenas-in terms of their adequacy as reactions to previous moves or as instigators to what follows.""
But surely postmodernists go too far in their disavowal of a truth criterion. As long as we are clear about what it is a narrative should represent, it makes perfect sense to say that the narrative should be accurate. The confusion over this issue has stemmed from a lack of understanding of what that criterion should be.
Self-stories should be accurate in a simple sense: they should capture the nature of the person's nonconscious goals, feelings, and temperaments. In short, there must be some correspondence between the story and the person's adaptive unconscious. As we have seen, people whose conscious conceptions of themselves are "in synch"-that represent their nonconscious motives well-are better off emotionally. Joachim Brunstein, Oliver Schultheiss, and Ruth Grassmann measured people's explicit goals-those contained in their conscious self-narratives-and the implicit goals that were part of the adaptive unconscious. People whose conscious goals matched their nonconscious goals were happier than people who showed a mismatch between their conscious and nonconscious goals."
As with any biography, there are multiple ways of telling the story. A good biography, though, has to account for the facts of the person's life and capture his or her inner goals and traits. The better a story does at accounting for the "data" of the person's adaptive unconscious, the better off the person is. By recognizing their nonconscious goals, people are in a better position to act in ways to fulfill them, or to try to change them.
It may seem that we have come full circle back to Freud, by arguing that people's conscious beliefs about themselves should match their unconscious goals and drives. Isn't this the same thing as saying that the goal of therapy is to "make the unconscious conscious?" In a sense it is. But as should now be clear, the nature of the unconscious that should be captured in a narrative differs radically from the Freudian one. And there are clear differences between the viewpoints in how to make the unconscious conscious. There is no direct pipeline to the adaptive unconscious; it must be inferred by being a good self-biographer (perhaps with the aid of a skilled therapist), not by removing repression and taking a peek at the bubbling cauldron below.
Further, accurate stories can differ radically, much as different paradigms in science can explain the same facts in very different ways. This is why different forms of psychotherapy can be effective: both the psychoanalytic and cognitive therapy "stories" can provide coherent explanations of why a person has interpersonal difficulties or is emotionally distressed. Both can describe the person's adaptive unconscious, albeit in quite different languages.
Another definition of a good narrative is that it meet a peace-of-mind criterion, or the extent to which people have a story that allows them to stop thinking about themselves so much. The lack of a coherent narrative can be an unsettling experience indeed, as Joan Didion lamented in The White Album:
I was supposed to have a script, and had mislaid it. I was supposed to hear cues, and no longer did. I was meant to know the plot, but all I knew was what I saw: flash pictures in variable sequence, images with no "meaning" beyond their temporary arrangement, not a movie but a cutting-room experience ... Certain of these images did not fit into any narrative I knew.15
Once an experience is explained coherently, and assimilated into a life story, people no longer think about it very much. This is not necessarily a good thing when the event is positive, because the event loses its ability to cause pleasure more quickly than we might like. It is a good thing for events that cause pain, because rumination and thought suppression are replaced by a coherent story that requires no further elaboration. This seems to be why Pennebaker's writing exercise, discussed in Chapter 8, works so well. People revise their stories to explain negative events that have not been fully assimilated, allowing them to ruminate less about the events and move on. And people who find meaning in the loss of a loved one, such as believing that the death was God's will or that death is a natural part of the life cycle, recover more quickly than people who are unable to find any meaning in the loss.
Consistent with this view, some psychotherapists argue that the best sign of when therapy should be terminated is when the client stops thinking so much about himself or herself. The biography is completed, and no further revisions are needed, with all the angst and rumination that such revisions can entail.
Finally, there is a believability criterion to which people should aspire. In order to achieve peace of mind, the self-biographer must believe the story that he or she is telling. If people view their life stories as arbitrary constructions, each one as good as the next, they are less likely to satisfy the peace-of-mind criterion. People who constantly question and revise their narratives, particularly about negative life experiences, are likely to dwell on these experiences. They may also be less likely to commit to and pursue life goals, if they view these goals as end points of an arbitrary narrative that could easily be revised.
Even Freud, late in his career, came to adopt this view, arguing that "an assured conviction of the truth of the construction ... achieves the same therapeutic result as a recaptured memory."" What matters is that people commit themselves to a coherent self-narrative that corresponds reasonably well to their adaptive unconscious.
In this changing, postmodern world, such a narrative might well include some compartmentalization of selves, or a recognition that there are vast differences between ourselves as "daughter," "weekend athlete," and "Elvis impersonator." People should not get too stuck in one self and should appreciate the cultural and societal arbitrariness of many of their beliefs. At the same time, they should maintain a sense of self-continuity. There is a lot to be said for a commitment to a coherent self-narrative.
It is possible, of course, for self-narratives to be too rigid and resistant to change. The biography can be completed too soon, with a poor representation of the person's adaptive unconscious. Even good biographies need to be revised as people grow and change. Nonetheless, a selfnarrative that meets the accuracy, peace-of-mind, and believability criteria is likely to be a quite useful one, precisely by avoiding too much introspection. Consider Robert Zajonc, an eminent social psychologist who has never quite understood all the fuss about self-psychology. "I don't think of my self, as such," he once said. "I may think of my schedule, my obligations, my meetings, but I don't really spend too much time asking, `Who am I?"" He may be on to something. A good self-narrative need not be constantly retold.
If we are unhappy with our self-views, there are things we can do to change both our story and our adaptive unconscious. It is not easy, and not many of us have the talent and fortitu
de of novelists such as Marcia Muller and Sue Grafton, who forged themselves into the image of heroines they created in novels. Little steps can lead to big changes, however, and all of us have the ability to act more like the person we want to be.
Notes
1. Freud's Genius, Freud's Myopia
1. Proust (1934), pp. 675-676.
2. Austen (1813/1996),p.216.
3. Examples such as these can be found in Nisbett and Wilson (1977).
4. Bargh (1997), for example, notes that automatic processes have one or more of these features: they are nonconscious, unintentional, uncontrollable, and effortless.
5. On the minimal role of consciousness, see Velmanns (1991); Bargh and Chartrand (1999); Wegner (in press).
6. On the varied nature of nonconscious systems: Roediger and McDermott (1993); Schacter (1996); Westen (1998); Willingham and Preuss (1995).
7. Freud (1900/1972), p. 592.
8. Quoted in Miller (1942), p. 157.
9. 1)amasio (1994), p. 249.
10. Whyte (1978), p. 26; Koestler (1978), p. iii.
11. Hamilton (1865); Carpenter (1874); Laycock (1860).
12. Hamilton (1865), p. 250.
13. Carpenter (1874), p. 539.
14. Carpenter (1874),p.543.
15. Carpenter (1874), p. 539.
16. See especially Hamilton's (1865) lectures 18 and 19.
17. See Grunbaum (1984) for a discussion of the limits of Freudian methodology.
18. See Erdelyi (1985); Westen (1998).
19. A. Freud (1966), p. 28.
2. The Adaptive Unconscious
Epigraphs: Hamilton (1865), p. 241; Dallas (1866), p. 194.
1. See Cole (1995) for a fascinating discussion of Ian Waterman's case.
2. Proffitt et al. (1995); Rock (1997).
Strangers to Ourselves Page 24