Freud’s Theory of the Id, Ego and Superego: Lost in Translation

After I had graduated from college with a degree in English Literature, I took an extension course in Introductory Psychology; with five years of therapy under my belt, I had decided to begin graduate school in order to become a psychotherapist and I needed some basic coursework in that area.  I well remember the day the instructor delivered his lecture on Freudian psychology, explaining the tri-partite division of the mind into id, ego and superego.  With great scorn, he presented Freud's theory as if those well-known terms represented actual sectors of the brain; I believe he even drew a pie-chart on the chalkboard, reducing Freud's insights to an absurdly simplistic form, and mocked it. I don't think the instructor's attitude was particularly rare.  Freud has gone into disrepute -- for some legitimate reasons, I suppose; but having read and re-read all 24 volumes of Freud's works, and taught them repeatedly to graduate students, I'm full of regret that more people don't understand how truly amazing, insightful and ground-breaking a thinker he was.  He also won the Goethe Prize for Literature -- he's a fabulous writer.

One of the challenges of reading Freud is the official translation into English, prepared under the supervision of James Strachey at the British Psychoanalytic Institute, between 1943 and 1974.  While a meticulous piece of scholarship, and an indispensable resource for anyone truly interested in Freud, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud regularly substitutes clinical-scientific words for the everyday expressive language employed by Freud in German. One of the most important of these concerns the translation of das Es, das Ich and das Uber-Ich into the id, ego and super-ego, respectively.  (These terms actually go back to earlier efforts by Ernest Jones to bring Freud to the English-speaking world; Strachey and his team adopted those translations as they had already gained acceptance.)  A literal translation would be "the I", "the It", and "the Over-I".   Those terms have a very different feel -- less conceptual and scientific, more in the realm of our actual experience.

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Why Empathy Fails

In order to empathize with another person, you have to recognize that he actually exists apart from and without specific reference to you.  You must understand that she has a distinct identity and an interior life of her own, with which you might possibly empathize.  While there are some interesting exceptions to this rule, it's a useful place to start a discussion of why some people can't empathize, or why their ability to feel empathy is severely restricted.  We can look at the spectrum of psychological disorders in terms of ability to recognize and tolerate separateness, then understand the ways that this ability will limit our capacity to feel for other people.

In psychotic disorders, for example, where splitting and projection dominate, other people serve as containers for disowned parts of our own psyche.  As a result, we may try to avoid them -- annihilate them, in the most profound cases; or if idealization is involved, we may want to merge with and "own" them instead (think celebrity stalkers, for instance).  But because we're so busy projecting into them, we can't see those people for who they really are; we can't empathize with their internal experience.  People who present with autism symptoms famously lack the ability to empathize.  Autistic defenses seek either to shut out the external world because it feels too threatening (shell-like defenses) or to obscure and erase personal boundaries because separateness is intolerable (confusional defenses); the awareness of other people as separate and distinct is therefore severely compromised. Empathy is virtually impossible.

Lack of empathy is a primary diagnostic criteria for narcissistic personality disorder, as well.  For these individuals, other people serve mainly to provide narcissistic feedback or to contain our shame.  If you exist (in my personal universe) merely in order to admire me, then I can't see who you are or how you feel.  If you exist so that I may feel superior to you (the container for all my projected damage), I likewise can't empathize with your actual feelings.  Even in less troubled people, narcissistic behavior of various kinds reflects a limited ability to recognize or take an interest in others, restricting the capacity to empathize with them.  This is an experience we've all had in our everyday lives:  the self-absorbed friend who talks on and on about herself, or dumps his problems into us, with no interest in us or our feelings.  (I discussed this dynamic in my post on the toilet function of friendship.)

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Defense Mechanisms III: Further Uses for Projection

In writing these posts about the defense mechanisms, two points have become clear to me.  First, it's easy to forget that our description of the processes we have named projection, denial, spitting etc. are simply the best way we have of talking about mysterious and intricate mental events.  It's important not to think about them too concretely and to bear in mind that our descriptions are merely approximations to a truth that may alter in appearance as we change our vantage point, the way a three-dimensional object presents a different aspect depending on the viewing angles.  A psychic event described as denial, for example, might just as easily be described as a form of splitting; it depends on how you look at it, though only our language and not the psychic event itself has changed.

Second, while we may talk about defenses in isolation as if they were discrete processes, they tend to occur together, as part of a global mental event.  A painful experience may be denied and at the same split-off and projected into the environment, then experienced as if it were coming from outside the self.  In my school of thought, we often use the phrase "splitting and projective identification" because those defense mechanisms usually occur in unison.

One of the earliest posts written for this site discussed two functions of projection:  as a primitive form of communication, and as a means to get rid of experience too painful to bear.  Building upon that article, I'd like to focus now on how we use projection to avoid
conflict rather than resolving or bearing with it.  I don't mean external conflict with other people but internal conflict where, for example, impulse comes into conflict with common sense or long-term goals.  If you have teenage children, this process should be easy to
recognize.

Say, for instance, your son or daughter has homework to do that conflicts with a social invitation.  With younger children, we simply insist they complete their school assignment before play; we may have to remain firm in the face of an ensuing tantrum.  By their mid-
teens, most kids have an internal parent who understands the need to defer gratification, though this doesn't mean they always listen to it.  Often the desire to have what they want right now leads them to split off and project the internal parent into the external one; in this way, they don't have to know what they know, don't have to give up an immediate pleasure for their longer-term benefit.  When this type of splitting and projection comes into play, it tends to occur in exaggerated terms of black-and-white:  your teenager is a free spirit who wants to embrace life; you're an unreasonable dictator who no longer remembers what it's like to be young.

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The Hatred of Authority

I came of age during the late 60s and early 70s, when youth rebellion against authority exerted a profound influence on the entire culture.  Parent-child relationships, marriage and family life, music, television, politics and, of course, the war in Viet Nam -- in just about every sphere, my generation rebelled against the status quo.  So much good came out of this revolution, with enlarged rights for women and minorities, greater freedom from repressive attitudes toward sex, and a government more responsive to the voice of its people.  Without rebellion against established authority, progress would never occur.  Just take a look at the regime in North Korea if you want an example of what happens when authority forbids any challenge to its position.

Given how profoundly rebellion against authority has shaped our culture since the 1960s -- how it has become an accepted norm, in many ways, especially within politically liberal circles -- it's easy to forget that authority also has a social value. Without authority to curb our anti-social tendencies, for instance, anarchy would prevail.  If everyone did whatever he or she wanted, without regard to restrictions imposed by the social order, civilization could not exist.  Another kind of authority comes with the accumulation of experience:  in its best expression, authority tries to pass along the lessons of experience so that the next generation doesn't have to start from scratch and learn everything all over again.  This is a large part of parenting:  we teach our children what our own parents taught us, as well as what we may have learned in our own lifetimes -- about how to navigate the challenges and frustrations of existence, to manage ourselves and our relationships, to work, play and find meaning in our lives.

A large part of parenting involves the word No.  No, you cannot pull the cat's tail -- she will scratch you.  No, you cannot run into the street -- a car might run you down.  No, you cannot stick that paper clip into the electrical socket.  Children, especially very small ones, have no idea about the dangers of the world; by exerting their authority to curb dangerous impulses, parents teach their children about those dangers.  By imposing other limitations such as bedtimes, homework-before-play rules and good eating habits, parents also help their kids learn how to take care of themselves.  Thoughtful rules, imposed with concern, encourage the development of self-control and self-discipline.  In these ways, proper authority is enormously useful.  Imagine a child growing up without it.  Parents also pass along values they have absorbed from their culture which (optimally) have helped make their own lives more meaningful -- values such as monogamy, devotion to family, the importance of community and meaningful work, etc.  This is a best case scenario, of course.

Some people who rebelled against authority during the 60s and 70s threw the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak.  They rejected just about every aspect of the status quo, as if it had zero value; they believed they could create a new social order from scratch, free of all the "hang-ups" of their parents' generation and every other one that preceded it, unrestrained by any kind of authority.  Monogamy, family life, career -- for some of my generation, these were contemptible "bourgeois" values which must be rejected.  While the idealism of my generation led to so many worthwhile changes, the confused rejection of all forms of authority led many people to waste years pursuing impossible dreams.  One couple I know "dropped out" and went to live on a commune for ten years; only after experience taught them some painful lessons did they return to society-at-large and find a way to express their idealism within the "real" world.  They tell few people about their experience on that commune and acknowledge feeling a great deal of shame about it.  In rejecting society and the bourgeois lifestyle of their parents, this couple at the same time rejected the meaningful aspects of that society, the useful role of authority and the positive aspects of the lives their parents had led.

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Defense Mechanisms I: Splitting

Although this post will look at splitting as one of the defense mechanisms, I'd like to begin by noting that splitting also represents a normal and constructive part of our mental processes.  We couldn't think or process our experience without it.  To understand the useful functions that splitting serves, we need to go through the same kind of imaginative exercise I presented in my recent post on post-traumatic stress disorder -- that is, to try to envision the emotional life of an infant.

For centuries, philosophers and scientists have debated whether human beings enter the world with some kind of a priori knowledge, but for this exercise, let's just imagine a clean slate.  Nearly everything the newborn experiences is thus brand new and unfamiliar; a central need is to make sense of it all, to attempt to understand the environment and its powerful effects.  From the beginning, maybe even in utero, the infant divides its experiences into those that feel "good" or gratifying vs. those that cause pain and/or frustration and feel "bad".  Good vs. bad (though not in a moral sense) is therefore the first organizing principle.  It depends upon the infant splitting the confusing mass of its experience into good and bad, dividing it up so that it becomes more understandable and predictable.

The accumulation of "good" experiences, linked to repeated sensory gratification, eventually gives rise to the idea of "mother"; the bad ones (a bit later) give rise to the idea of her absence or failure to appear.  An important developmental milestone occurs when the infant can understand (on a very primitive level) that the "good" experiences largely occur when this mother-entity appears and tends to it, and the bad ones (hunger, cold, etc.) tend to occur when she is absent.  At this point, the infant becomes aware that other people exist, and if you're a parent, you know that there's a noticeable difference when this occurs.  (I'm not going to talk about the good mother/bad mother issue just now; I'll save that topic for another post.)

Splitting as a mental process thus enables us to makes distinctions.  Throughout life, splitting serves this exact function:  it allows us to take an undifferentiated, confusing mass of experience or information and divide it into categories that have meaning.  Without splitting, nothing would make sense to us.  We wouldn't be able to understand because we couldn't divide the mass of sensory input into meaningful categories.  Projection likewise has valuable and normal functions, as do other so-called defense mechanisms.

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