Wisdom from the Couch - Jennifer Kunst

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tend to arise. I try to highlight this with my patients, as vividly as possible, by describing avoidance as leading to the Mold Effect. They usually cringe when they hear it described in this way—as they should. Living things, left alone in the darkness, tend to grow bad stuff. If you are so afraid of the dangerous world out there that you hide from it, you will be left alone with your fears—and fears, like mold, multiply when unattended. The only real way to diminish your fears is to face them.

      The other popular approach used to cope with fears of dying in the face of life’s dangers is denial. We can pretend that we are not afraid at all. Melanie Klein put a finer point on this approach by calling it manic denial. The manic part of manic denial is an illusion that we can cleverly conjure about ourselves (unconsciously, of course). In our minds, we can puff ourselves up, imagining that we are as invulnerable, invincible, and masterful as Superman himself. You can see the magic in this way of thinking, as needs, fears, and limitations disappear in the blink of an eye. Manic denial is such a common approach to coping with life that I am going to devote a whole chapter to it, but for now, let me give you a preview of coming attractions.

      In our culture, we find a well-known and accessible depiction of the use of manic denial in the story of Peter Pan. The psychology of the story is so classic that psychologists have even coined a term to describe it: the Peter Pan Syndrome. It is the story of a little boy who never grew up because he didn’t want to. Instead, he created an imaginary world run by children without any parents. He tried to deny his need for parents by living out the fantasy that he could have all of the benefits of being a grown-up without the hard work that growing up involves.

      I offer the story of Peter Pan as an example of how we often use manic denial to cope with the anxiety of being babies: We masquerade as grown-ups. The details of the story say it all. First, Peter denies his smallness—he is arrogant, boastful, grandiose, and as full of himself as any little egomaniac could be. Then he denies his need for his parents—as one version of the story goes, when Peter was an infant, he abandoned his parents for the crime of having another baby. If that’s not enough, he denies reality—simply by thinking “happy, wonderful thoughts,” he can fly! And, above all, he denies his fear of dying—he is always putting himself in harm’s way, appearing fearless and cocky, even to the point of saying, “To die would be an awfully big adventure!”

      Peter Pan is an archetype, a kind of character who speaks to us about ourselves. He does not want to face his vulnerability, his need, and even his desire to grow up, so he pretends he can rise above it all. He lives out the fantasy that Neverland is so wonderful that he could not imagine ever leaving.

      Despite the exciting tone of J. M. Barrie’s incredible tale, beneath the surface there are rumblings of a more vulnerable, tender reality that cannot be denied. If we pay close attention to the story, we see Peter, at least now and then, revealing that he feels uncomfortable, lonely, and afraid. Beneath his bravado, he is constantly anxious and worried about being haunted by crocodiles and Captain Hook. When offered a chance for a real childhood back in London, for a brief instant, he considers going back with the Darling children to a real mother and father. Though he tries to cover it up, we know that he has no real peace of mind.

      Because of Peter’s denial, we can only see glimpses and make assumptions about what is going on in his inner world; we see through the cracks for only a moment. But the other characters in the story are more in contact with the breadth of feelings in their lives, both wonderful and dreadful. In other words, they are more whole. If you know the story, you might remember the eldest child, Wendy, with her strong maternal instinct, concern, and fierce judgment. Or her brothers, John and Michael, with their fears of flying and fighting, along with their desire to go home. And who could forget Tinkerbell, with her jealousy and protectiveness?

      For me, one of the most touching images in the story is that of the Lost Boys—Peter Pan’s “gang”—a group of boys who lost their parents, were snatched from their baby carriages, never to be found again. The Lost Boys seem to represent a good, wholesome relationship between children and their parents, offering an alternative to the relationship that is so twisted and turned around in Peter’s character. According to Peter, children have no need for parents, so he is not a lost boy at all. And while he tries to peddle this propaganda to the Lost Boys, they do not believe it for too long. Deep down, the Lost Boys are able to stay in touch with the painful loss of their parents—whom they love and on whom they depend. They know they are lost and they jump at the chance to have parents again.

      This dynamic was touchingly portrayed in the stage version of the play I saw a few years ago in Los Angeles. I welled up with tears at the moment when the Lost Boys decide to go back to London with Wendy and her brothers, and they joyfully sing, “A mother, a mother, we finally have a mother!” They embrace the very longing that Peter sadly must deny. It is sad because he cannot really experience the joys of love, dependency, and growing up. And it is sad because he is left to fight his battles alone, battles that will never be won but only perpetuated for all of time. By not facing his own anxieties in the realm of the real world, he can never defeat them or be free of them.

      While the resistances to growth are tricky and powerful, they can be managed if one understands and faces the underlying factors. If you are following closely, you can see that one of the main factors that must be dealt with is anxiety. When it comes to resistance, it is a frightened baby who is running the show. We each need to develop a good relationship with that inner baby, so that she can be less frightened and learn how to face her fears. By facing our fears, we have the opportunity to grow up and, in so doing, experience the satisfactions of love, inner security, and peace of mind.

      In February of 2006, I had the good fortune to attend a worship service celebrating the fortieth anniversary of the Graduate School of Psychology at Fuller Theological Seminary, my alma mater. Dr. John Ortberg, also an alumnus, preached a moving sermon about the essential aspects of growing. To an audience of Christian therapists, he spoke poetically and pointedly about the joys and frustrations of helping people change, about how meaningful it is to be part of their healing process, and how difficult the work can be. His sermon was centered on three essential features of the growing process—a formula that he borrowed from another well-known Christian therapist, Dr. Henry Cloud.5 I had never heard of Cloud’s “essential ingredients of growth” and was deeply moved to hear them delivered by such an insightful speaker as Dr. Ortberg.

      Ortberg began by talking about the first two ingredients—grace and truth. He described grace in the traditional Christian way as “unmerited favor,” and by this he meant that we human beings really need to have an engaged, nonjudgmental support team available if we are to do the hard work of growing. I take this to be true for the inner world as well as the outer world. We need parents, siblings, and friends in our external and internal worlds to be there for us, to encourage us to get out of bed, to get born into the world, and to face our anxieties. Grace has a special place in the Christian understanding of growth, too, for here God at God’s best is seen as our chief supporter and most loving, forgiving parent.

      But Ortberg went on to say that grace alone is not sufficient; we also must engage with the truth. He used the concept of truth in the same way that I am using the concept of reality. We must face the truth about ourselves; we must deal with reality as it is. I love that he promoted the idea that God is fundamentally on the side of the truth. I think that reflects a view of God at God’s best too—not a magician taking us away from the problems of the world, but a parent who lovingly holds us accountable to facing the truth about ourselves. It is the combination of grace and truth that is so essential, for grace without truth would never lead to substantial change. And truth is nearly impossible to face without grace, for it is too hard and too painful, and so we wish to avoid it.

      I would have been quite satisfied if Ortberg had stopped there. I would have left the worship service feeling like he had spoken about something substantial in the psychological and spiritual journey. I would have felt that he had validated an approach that I had understood and tried to practice in my life and work. But he went one step further. The next step was such a wonderful surprise, it made me gasp. I’m not kidding. He said that there are three essential ingredients

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