How to Tell if You’re Projecting

While many of us can identify the process of projection in somebody else, few of us are able to see it in ourselves.  Think about it -- how many times have you stopped yourself and said, "I'm just projecting; this has nothing to do with John"?

Our own projections are difficult to spot, first of all, because we don't want to identify them as such:  the whole point of projecting is to rid ourselves of something unwanted.  While there are instances where people project their good qualities into others, ridding oneself of painful or unpleasant experiences is much more common.  I've discussed these issues in earlier posts about projection and the toilet function of friendship.  Today I'd like to talk about how we can become more attuned to and aware of our own projections, even when we'd rather not.

Projection is an unconscious fantasy that we are able to rid ourselves of some part of our psyche by splitting it off and putting it outside ourselves, usually into somebody else.  While the initial process occurs outside of awareness, maintaining or insisting upon the reality of that projection often occupies our conscious thoughts.  The process is usually distinguished by its focus and intensity.  I can explain this more clearly with an example, one I alluded to in my first post on projection.  Grouchiness is something most of us have experienced; I suspect my description will resonate for many of you and at the same time, give you the chance to study the process the next time you feel grouchy and see if my explanation makes sense.

So at the end of my work day, I may be feeling irritable because (I believe) members of my family are doing things I find annoying.  In my thoughts, I may begin to zero in on those irritating behaviors -- say, that person's irksome habit of constantly complaining about his or her daily stresses.  These irritations may become preoccupations; I may find myself intensely focused on those behaviors, waiting for them to recur; I may be talking to myself in repetitive ways that have the effect of intensifying my irritation, while at the same time justifying it.  My focus may be exclusively upon the other person with a corresponding lack of attention upon myself and my own body.  The underlying assumption is that the other person is causing me to feel grouchy and if only he or she would stop complaining (as usual!), I'd feel better.

I'm familiar enough with the process by now to recognize it, though without exception, I fight off that recognition every time.  I'll hear myself thinking something like, "Yeah, but this time is different.  That really is irritating."  With effort, I can silence such thoughts.  Silence is key, at least for me; as a fairly verbal person, I find the thought processes that support and justify the projections come in words.  Putting a stop to those words and focusing on my breathing is a crucial first step.  Then I have to shift the focus of my attention away from the other person and into my own body.

I "look" in various places:  my back and shoulders where I carry tension, around my eyes where I register fatigue and sadness, in my belly where I feel hunger and other kinds of longing.  I may notice that my back hurts; I may have the beginnings of a headache.  Often I discover that my body feels tired and a little achy.  I try to hold onto these sensations without "explaining" them in reference to someone else, a difficult and uncomfortable experience.  In the end, I may realize that my own day was stressful, that rather than feeling the depth of my own pain and stress, I'm projecting it outside into someone who complains and whom I mentally criticize.

This is a simple example of owning a projection, and one that many of you will likely be able to replicate.  It's more difficult when we're projecting experiences such as shame or neediness.  In those cases, our entire character structure may be organized around validating the reality of the projection.  The characteristic defenses against shame, for example, have as a common goal projecting damage or unworthiness into other people and then treating them in such a way as to insist upon the validity of the projection -- by blaming or regarding them with contempt.

Finding Your Own Way:

Experiment with grouchiness and let me know what you find.  Does my description of the process hold true for you as well?

Next, think about other areas where an intense focus on or preoccupation with someone else may indicate that a projection is at work.  Do you find yourself dwelling on somebody's else behavior or personality in an intensely critical or angry way?  You may have legitimate reasons, but you may also be projecting something into them.

Some other feelings that may indicate an underlying projection:  contempt (projection of shame), feelings of superiority (projection of neediness ), recrimination (projection of guilt) or envy (projection of an idealized fantasy).  I don't mean to suggest that these are always signs of projections, but when joined to an especially intense preoccupation with the other person, they're a strong indication.

Notice the polarity involved in these projections:  I don't complain about stress and it annoys me that you do.  I feel no shame about my own damage but you're a contemptible loser.  I'm not needy and pathetic like you because I've got it all!  I did nothing wrong and you're entirely to blame.

Now if only I could stop thinking about you.

The Tenacity of Defenses

Despite the fact that clients in psychotherapy long for transformation, very few change anywhere near as much as they'd like (I discussed this in an early post), often remaining trapped in destructive patterns of behavior such as the cycle of crime and punishment; even when they understand that the repeated behaviors they engage in are harmful, even when they wish to do something different, they can't seem to alter those behaviors enough.  To understand why this is so, it helps to know something about the nature of defenses as well as our neuro-anatomy.

Psychological defenses are lies we tell ourselves when we can't bear the emotional truth.  Deeply entrenched defenses -- the kind that form a part of our character, our personally distinct way of navigating emotions and relationships -- originally came about because we had no other way to cope with pain as we were growing up.  If we'd had other psychological resources during childhood, we wouldn't have needed to develop these strong defenses in the first place.  Once they've been active for years, they're extremely difficult to change because they're neurologically habitual.  Let me explain.

Every emotion or thought you have is a chemical/neurological event; each defense has a set of neural pathways associated with it in your brain and the more powerfully entrenched the defense, the more deeply "etched" those neural pathways.  I like to think of defenses as deep ruts in a well-traveled road.  Whenever you travel familiar upsetting terrain, you'll tend to fall into those ruts -- that is, you'll use the same old defenses -- just as a wheel will slip into an actual rut.  You might be able to lift the wheel out of that rut for a time, but unless you exercise constant vigilance, it will always fall back in.  Always.  It's like the force of gravity, virtually inevitable.  In order to stay out of that rut, you either have to change the emotional terrain or figure out some other way to navigate it.  Even when you develop other techniques -- laying down new "ruts", so to speak -- the old ones will always be a problem because they've been around much longer, with years of heavy traffic to dig them deeper.

Continue "The Tenacity of Defenses"

Different Types of Depression

As I discussed in an earlier post, most people use the word "depression" to describe many separate and distinct experiences -- grief, disappointment, mild forms of unhappiness, etc.  When I use the word here, I mean clinical depression, the sort of mental and emotional suffering that sends people into therapy or to their physician for prescription-based relief.  I've seen many depressed men and women over the years; from my experience, the roots of their suffering usually lie in three common areas.  I'd like to offer some thoughts about these types of depression and their origins.  I don't view them as necessarily distinct; they often overlap and mingle in various ways.

1.  Post-Apocalyptic Rage:

Beginning with Freud, psychotherapists have noted the frequent connection between anger and depression; you may heard depression described as "anger turned inward."  I'd take this a step further and say that explosive and violent rage often lies at the heart of certain severe forms of depression.  I use the phrase "post-apocalyptic" because, with many severely depressed clients, I have felt almost as if a nuclear bomb has gone off inside them, devastating their minds and laying them waste.  Such clients might make it to session but lie inert and mute on the couch; they might say they feel nothing, or describe their body as feeling numb, weighted down by a pressure that flattens all emotion.  In the room with these clients, I often feels as if meaning has been completely destroyed and the emotional realm is void.  Such clients might describe themselves as feeling no interest or motivation to do anything.  They often mention intense pressure around their eyes or face.

Re-creating the emotional events that led to this state of devastation takes time and patience.  The task is complicated by the fact that the rage is almost always unconscious:  the client has no idea that he or she has been raging.  Sometimes you might hear hints of it in the client's material when he or she begins to speak; more often, you see it in dreams or simply feel it by intuition.  The landscape of the apocalypse often appears in the dreams of depressed people: bleak ghettoes, vast lifeless deserts or scorched terrain borrowed from movies such as The Terminator.  If you have a strong empathic link with your client, you may find feelings of rage rising inside you during the silence, for no reason you can understand.

Continue "Different Types of Depression"

Emotional Dependency and Stealth Control

In my psychotherapy practice, I've had a number of clients who suffered from emotional dependency issues:  in their personal relationships, they often seemed helpless and extremely needy.  I'm sure you've known such people.  They may appear clingy and possessive; they often get involved with someone very strong and competent, a Rock of Gibralter type.  In extreme cases, the relationship consists almost entirely of one person taking care of the other.  Incapacitating depressions may be frequent or continuous, to such an extent that the emotionally dependent person may be unable to hold down a job or function as an independent adult, so completely reliant on the other person that at times he or she seems infantile.

As clients, such individuals quickly become dependent on treatment for support.  Even if they're coming for more than one session per week, the gap between those sessions will feel too long; they may make frequent "emergency" calls on weekends or in the middle of the night.  If a therapist isn't careful, such clients can become extremely taxing and emotionally draining.  We may feel intense pressure to provide emotional relief; if we're not empathic or supportive enough, these clients may become intensely angry with us.  In some cases, it actually feels like a relief when they quit in a rage and seek treatment elsewhere.

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Insufficient Mind in Anxiety Attacks and Disorders

This discussion may sound a little abstract at first but it's crucial for understanding many psychological difficulties, especially in the realm of anxiety attacks and disorders.  It concerns the literal inability to tolerate one's emotions. In an earlier post, I discussed how hatred can function as a kind of glue to hold the psyche together when a person is unconsciously terrified of falling into pieces under the pressure of intense experience; in my most recent post, I described the fear of psychic disintegration lying behind some anxiety symptoms and panic attacks.  If you haven't done so already, it would help to read both those posts before this one.

In my psychotherapy practice, I find it useful to think of the mind as a sort of container for emotional experience.  Think of emotions and feelings as shapeless liquid and the mind as a vessel that holds and gives them form -- that is, it makes sense of them and gives them meaning.  I know this sounds a little abstract; an example might help make it less so.  Say I'm watching a movie and I start to feel a sensation around my eyes and at the back of my throat.  There's a tightness in my chest, too; my breathing becomes a little quivery.  My mind brings all those sensations together, and from past experience, I understand that I am feeling sad.  This isn't a conscious process, of course, but I do believe it's how we assign meaning to inchoate experience.

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