This goal-oriented focus presents a challenge to helping professionals. Rapport, after all, matters for the effectiveness of the professional encounter. In psychotherapy the interpersonal chemistry between therapist and client determines whether a working alliance will form. In medicine, a good rapport helps the patient trust the physician sufficiently to comply with his recommendations.
People in helping professions must work hard to ensure that the ingredients of rapport operate during their professional encounters. Their detachment needs to be balanced with sufficient empathy to allow at least a bit of I-You feeling to bloom.
THE PAIN OF REJECTION
The moment of truth for Mary Duffy—when she realized that she had ceased being known as a person and was now simply “the carcinoma in Room B-2”—came to her the morning after her surgery for breast cancer.
Duffy was still half-asleep when, without any warning, she was surrounded by white-coated strangers—a doctor and a group of medical students. The doctor, without a word, pulled off her blanket and stripped off her nightgown as though she were just a mannequin, leaving her naked.
Too weak to protest, Duffy managed a sarcastic “Well, good morning” to the doctor, who ignored her.
Instead he launched into a lecture on carcinoma for the gaggle of medical students who circled her bed. They duly stared at her naked body, detachedly indifferent to her.
Finally the doctor deigned to speak directly to Duffy, asking distractedly, “Have you passed gas yet?”
When she tried to assert a bit of humanity with a snappy come-back—“No, I don’t do that until the third date”—the doctor looked offended, as though she had let him down.16
What Duffy so urgently wanted in that moment was for the doctor to affirm her personhood by even a small gesture that would allow her a bit of dignity. She needed an I-You moment. What she got was a cold dose of It.
As Duffy was, we are inevitably troubled when someone we expect to loop with for one reason or another fails to take up their half of the circuit. The result: we feel bereft—something like a baby whose mother refuses to pay attention to her.
That feeling of hurt has a neural basis. Our brain registers social rejections in the very area that activates when we are hurt physically: the anterior cingulate cortex (or ACC), which is known to generate, among other things, the distressing sensations of bodily pain.17
Matthew Lieberman and Naomi Eisenberger, who did the study at UCLA, suggest that the ACC operates as a neural alarm system for detecting the danger of rejection and for alerting other parts of the brain to react accordingly.18 As such, they opine, it forms part of a “social attachment system” that piggybacks on the existing wiring for alerting the brain to physical harm.
Rejection resonates with a primal threat, one the brain seems designed to highlight. Lieberman and Eisenberger remind us that in human prehistory being part of a band was essential for survival; exclusion could be a death sentence, as is still true today for infant mammals in the wild. The pain center, they propose, may have evolved this sensitivity to social exclusion as an alarm signal to warn of potential banishment—and presumably to prompt us to repair the threatened relationship.
That idea makes sense of the very metaphors we use to indicate the sting of a rebuff: a “broken heart” and “hurt feelings” suggest the physical nature of the emotional ache. This equation of physical and social pain seems tacitly recognized in many different languages around the world: the words that describe social pain all borrow from the lexicon of physical hurts.
Tellingly, a monkey infant whose ACC is damaged will fail to cry in distress when separated from its mother; such a failure in nature could easily imperil its life. Likewise, a monkey mother whose ACC has lesions no longer responds to the cries of a distressed infant by gathering it close for protection. In humans, when a mother hears her baby cry, her ACC lights up with activity until she responds.
Our ancient need to maintain connection may explain why tears and laughter share proximity in the brain stem, the oldest part of the brain.19 Laughing and crying come spontaneously in primal moments of social connection—births and deaths, weddings and long-deferred reunions. Distress at separation and joy at bonding both bespeak the primal power of connection.
When our need for closeness goes unmet, emotional disorders can result. Psychologists have coined the term “social depression” for the particular unhappiness caused by troubled, threatened relationships. Social rejection—or fearing it—is one of the most common causes of anxiety. Feelings of inclusion depend not so much on having frequent social contacts or numerous relationships as on how accepted we feel, even in just a few key relationships.20
Small wonder that we have a hardwired system that is alert to the threat of abandonment, separation, or rejection: these were once actual threats to life itself, though they are only symbolically so today. Still, when we hope to be a You, being treated like an It, as though we do not matter, carries a particularly harsh sting.
EMPATHY OR PROJECTION?
A psychoanalyst recounting his first meeting with a new patient recalled feeling subtly nervous: “I vaguely recognized it as one of the many versions of anxiety to which I am susceptible.”
What exactly had made him so nervous? Scanning his patient while listening attentively, he realized that the most unsettling detail was that the patient was wearing pants that were crisply creased and wrinkle free.
His patient, as he wryly put it, looked like “the main Eddie Bauer catalog entry, and I was the addendum on the back page that stated that odd sizes and seconds were available on inquiry.” The analyst felt so unnerved that he leaned forward in his chair, never breaking eye contact, to pull down the cuffs of his own totally wrinkled chinos.
Later, the patient mentioned a powerful memory of his mother’s expression of stern and silent disapproval. That rang a bell with the analyst, who himself recalled repeated exhortations by his own mother to wear pressed slacks.
The psychoanalyst cited that moment to exemplify the crucial role in therapy of finely attuned empathy—those moments, as he put it, when the therapist feels “on target” with the patient, accurately sensing what feelings are roiling through the patient.21 Unfortunately, part of what the analyst feels comes from his own emotional baggage, a projection of his own inner reality onto that of the patient. Projection ignores the other person’s inner reality: when we are projecting, we assume the other feels and thinks as we do.
This tendency was noted long ago by the eighteenth-century philosopher David Hume, who observed a “remarkable inclination” in human nature to bestow on other people “the same emotions we observe in ourselves, and to find everywhere those ideas which are most present to us” in our own minds.22 In full-fledged projection, though, we simply map our world onto someone else’s, with no fit or attunement whatsoever. People who are self-absorbed, lost in their own inner world, have little choice but to project that sensibility onto whomever they perceive.
Some argue that every act of empathy entails a subtle sort of projection—that tuning in to someone else triggers in ourselves feelings and thoughts that we can readily, though mistakenly, attribute to them. The analyst’s challenge is to distinguish her own projections—technically, the “countertransference”—from genuine empathy. To the degree that a therapist is aware of which of her inner feelings mirror the patient’s and which come instead from her own history, she can sort out what the patient actually feels.
If projection makes the other an It, empathy sees the other as a You. Empathy creates a feedback loop, as we work toward a “fit” between our perception and the other person’s reality. The therapist monitoring his own reactions might first note a feeling in his own body that did not originate there; the feeling arises from what he senses in the patient. Its meaning will emerge as it recurs, passed back and forth as the client-therapist relationship builds. By sharing that inner sense, he can reflect the other person’s experience back to her, as empathy sharpens it
s attunement.
Our sense of well-being depends to some extent on others regarding us as a You; our yearning for connection is a primal human need, minimally for a cushion for survival. Today the neural echo of that need heightens our sensitivity to the difference between It and You—and makes us feel social rejection as deeply as physical pain.
If being treated as an It unnerves us so, then those who always regard others as such are particularly disturbing.
8
The Dark Triad
My brother-in-law, Leonard Wolf, is a gentle and caring man by nature, a Chaucer scholar by training—and also an expert in the terror and horror genres in film and literature. Those interests brought him, some years ago, to consider writing a book about a real-life serial killer.
The man had murdered ten people, including three of his own family members, before being caught. The murders were horrifyingly intimate: he strangled his victims.
Leonard visited the murderer in prison several times. Finally, he worked up the courage to ask the one question that most intrigued him: “How could you do such a terrible thing to people? Didn’t you feel any pity for them?”
To which the killer replied very matter-of-factly, “Oh, no—I had to turn that part of me off. If I had felt any of their distress, I couldn’t have done it.”
Empathy is the prime inhibitor of human cruelty: withholding our natural inclination to feel with another allows us to treat the other as an It.
That strangler’s chilling phrase—“I had to turn that part of me off”—alludes to the human capacity for intentionally capping off our empathy, for turning a cold eye and ear to another’s plight. Suppressing our natural inclination to feel with another unleashes cruelty.
When being tuned out of caring is a person’s defining trait, they typically belong to one of the types that psychologists dub “the Dark Triad”: narcissists, Machiavellians, and psychopaths. All three types share to varying degrees an unappealing, though sometimes well-concealed, core: social malevolence and duplicity, self-centeredness and aggression, and emotional coldness.1
We would do well to familiarize ourselves with the hallmarks of this threesome, if only to better recognize them. Modern society, glorifying me-first motives and worshiping celebrity demigods of greed unleashed and vanity idealized, may be inadvertently inviting these types to flourish.
Most people who fall into the Dark Triad do not qualify for a psychiatric diagnosis, though at their extremes they shade into mental illness or become outlaws—particularly psychopaths. But the far more common “subclinical” variety live among us, populating offices, schools, bars, and the routine byways of daily life.
THE NARCISSIST: DREAMS OF GLORY
A football player whom we’ll call Andre has a justified reputation as “flashy.” He’s adored for making tough, spectacular plays at crucial moments in important games. Andre does his best when the crowds roar loudest, when the spotlight shines, and when the stakes are highest.
“When the game is on the line,” one teammate told a reporter, “we’re happy to have Andre on the team.”
But that same teammate also added, “Andre is a real pain in the neck. He’s chronically late to practice and struts around like he’s God’s gift to football, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him throw a decent block for another player.”
Moreover, Andre has a habit of blowing easy plays, especially in practice or in games with little significance. And on one infamous occasion he nearly got into a fight with a teammate who passed the ball to another player instead of to Andre—even though the other player scored.
Andre embodies garden-variety narcissism. Such people are driven by one motive: dreams of glory.2 Narcissists, though bored by routine, flourish when they are facing a difficult challenge. This trait can be adaptive in domains where performance under stress counts, from litigation to leadership.
The healthy variety of narcissism originates in the well-loved infant’s notion that she is the center of the world, that her needs are everyone else’s priority. In adulthood this same attitude matures into a positive self-regard that gives her confidence appropriate to her level of talent—an essential ingredient for success. Lacking such self-confidence, people shrink from deploying whatever gifts or strengths they may have.
Whether a given narcissist is healthy or unhealthy can be gauged by their capacity for empathy. The more impaired the person’s ability to consider others may be, the less healthy is their narcissism.
Many narcissists are drawn to pressured, high-profile jobs where they can use their talents well and the potential laurels are great—despite any risks. Like Andre, they make their best effort when a grand payoff beckons.
In the business world such narcissists can end up as larger-than-life leaders. Michael Maccoby, a psychoanalyst who has studied (and treated) narcissistic leaders, observes that the type has become increasingly common at the top echelons of business today as competitive tensions—as well as executive pay and glamour—have escalated.3
Such ambitious and self-confident leaders can be effective in the present cutthroat business world. The best are creative strategists who can grasp the big picture and navigate risky challenges to leave a positive legacy. Productive narcissists combine a justified self-confidence with openness to criticism—at least to criticism that comes from confidants.
Healthy narcissistic leaders have the ability for self-reflection and are open to reality checks. They develop a sense of perspective and can be playful even as they pursue their goals. If open to new information, they are more likely to make sound decisions and are less likely to be blindsided by events.
But unhealthy narcissists crave to be admired more than to be loved. Often innovators in business, they are driven to achieve—not because they have a high internal standard of excellence but because they want the perks and glory that achievement brings. Caring little about how their actions affect others, they feel free to pursue their goals aggressively, regardless of the human costs. In times of great turbulence, Maccoby proposes, such leaders can seem attractive, if only because they have the audacity to push through programs that bring radical changes.
But such narcissists empathize selectively, turning a blind eye to those who do not feed their striving for glory. They can close or sell a company, or lay off multitudes of employees, without feeling an ounce of sympathy for those for whom those decisions are personal disasters. In the absence of empathy, they have no regrets and are indifferent to the needs or feelings of their employees.
Unhealthy narcissists typically lack a feeling of self-worth; the result is an inner shakiness that in a leader, for example, means that even as he unfurls inspiring visions, he harbors a vulnerability that closes his ears to criticism. Such leaders avoid even constructive feedback, which they perceive as an attack. Their hypersensitivity to criticism in any form also means that narcissistic leaders don’t seek out information widely; rather, they selectively seize on data that supports their views, ignoring disconfirming facts. They don’t listen but prefer to preach and indoctrinate.
While some narcissistic leaders get spectacular results, others create disasters. When they harbor unrealistic dreams, lacking any restraint and ignoring wise counsel, they drag a company down the wrong track. Given the large number of narcissistic leaders at the helm of companies today, Maccoby warns, organizations must find ways to force leaders to listen and take others’ views into account. Otherwise, such leaders will likely stay isolated behind a wall of sycophants who will be supportive no matter what.
One narcissistic CEO came to Maccoby for psychotherapy to learn why he so readily flew into rages at the people who worked for him. He would take even helpful suggestions as slights and turn on whoever had made them. The CEO traced his anger to childhood feelings of being unappreciated by his aloof father. No matter what he accomplished, his father was unimpressed. The CEO realized that now he sought emotional restitution in the form of unstinting praise from his employees, and that he ne
eded to hear it in abundance. But when he felt underappreciated, he became enraged.
With that insight, the CEO began to change, even learning to laugh at his craving for applause. At one point he announced to his top team that he was in psychoanalysis and asked what they thought. There was a long pause; then one executive worked up the courage to say that he didn’t seem as angry anymore, so whatever he was doing, he should keep it up.
The Dark Side of Loyalty
“My students,” a business school professor confides, understand “organizational life as a kind of ‘vanity fair,’ in which those who want to get ahead can do so by playing to the vanity of their superiors.”
One plays this game, his students know, by using outright flattery and adulation. Enough sycophancy, they believe, will lead to promotions. If in the process they have to withhold, downplay, or distort important information, so be it. Through guile and with a bit of luck, the hard consequences of that suppression will fall on someone else’s watch.4
That cynical attitude goes to the heart of the danger of unhealthy narcissism in organizational life. An entire organization can be narcissistic. When a critical mass of employees share a narcissistic outlook, the outfit itself takes on those traits, which become standard operating procedures.
Organizational narcissism has clear perils. Pumping up grandiosity, whether it is the boss’s or some false collective self-image held throughout the company, becomes the operating norm. Healthy dissent dies out. And any organization that is cheated of a full grasp of truth loses the ability to respond nimbly to harsh realities.
Social Intelligence: The New Science of Human Relationships Page 14
