by John de Graaf; David Wann; Thomas H Naylor; David Horsey; Vicki Robin
LET THEM EAT VIAGRA
Other research demonstrated that barely detectable molecules of a certain plastic unexpectedly leached off laboratory beakers, mimicked estrogen, and initiated cancerous growth in lab experiments with human breast cells. Perhaps most startling of all is the 1992 study involving fifteen thousand men in twenty countries, indicating up to a 50 percent decline in human sperm production since 1938. “Consider what it might mean for our society if synthetic chemicals are undermining human intelligence in the same way they have apparently undermined human male sperm count,” write the authors of Our Stolen Future,14 who also speculate on possible connections between chemicals and the increased incidence of hyperactivity, aggression, and depression—all behaviors regulated by hormones.
The products that cause industrial diarrhea are innocent enough on the surface: plastic packaging, toys, cars, and computer circuit boards. But when we track hazardous chemicals to their sources and end points, we slosh through muck every step of the way. Even the familiar bacon on our plates literally results in industrial diarrhea, as writer Webster Donovan describes:
Raising hogs used to be a family business, until one enterprising North Carolina farmer made it big business. But this booming national industry is churning out at least one unwelcome by-product—millions of gallons of pig waste that soil the water and foul the air.
The smell is what hits you first. Like a hammer, it clamps against the nerve endings of your nose, then works its way inside your head and rattles your brain. Imagine a filthy dog run on a humid day; a long-unwashed diaper in a sealed plastic bag; a puffed roadkill beneath the hottest summer sun. This is that smell: equal parts outhouse and musk, with a jaw-tightening jolt of ammonia tossed in.
In recent years, this potent mix of acrid ammonia, rotting-meat ketones, and spoiled-egg hydrogen sulfide has invaded tens of thousands of houses— and millions of acres—across rural America. The vapor billows invisibly, occasionally lifting off and disappearing for hours or weeks, only to return while the neighbors are raking leaves, scraping the ice off their windshield, or setting the table for a family cookout.15
Isn’t it time to say good-bye to the Industrial Revolution—plagued from the start with diarrhea—and bring in a new era of ecological design and caution?
CHAPTER 13
The
addictive virus
The urge sweeps over them like a tidal wave.
They go into a kind of trance, an addictive high,
where what they buy almost doesn’t matter.
—PSYCHOTHERAPIST OLIVIA MELLAN
In my family, money was used to
express love, so I later spent money
to show myself love.
—Participant in Debtors Anonymous,
a 12-step program
You suspect you may be a coffee addict when you start answering the front door before the doorbell rings! But when you can’t resist buying a coffee mug with a picture of a coffee mug on it. . . it’s official. You’re hooked. For you and at least thirty-five million other javaholics (four to five cups a day), coffee is life; the rest is only waiting.
But coffee’s not the worst of our addictions, not by a long shot. Fourteen million Americans use illegal drugs, twelve million Americans are heavy drinkers, and sixty million are hooked on tobacco. Five million Americans can’t stop gambling away their income and savings. And at least ten million can’t stop buying more and more stuff—an addiction that in the long run may be the most destructive of all.1
Lianne, a department store publicist in New York City, is a problem shopper. Every year, she uses her employee discount to rack up more than $20,000 in clothing and accessories. She finally suspected she might be addicted when she broke up with her boyfriend and moved her stuff out of his apartment. “Some women tend to shop a lot because they live out of two apartments, theirs and their boyfriend’s,” she explains. “You never look at your wardrobe as one wardrobe. But when I saw how many things I had that were identical, I began to see that maybe I did have a problem.”2
Addiction to stuff is not easily understood. It’s a bubbling cauldron of such traits as anxiety, loneliness, and low self-esteem. “I’d like to think I shop because I don’t want to look like everybody else,” Lianne confides, “but the real reason is because I don’t want to look like myself. It’s easier to buy something new and feel good about yourself than it is to change yourself.”
Addicts need to go back for more in order to feel good again. The addictive substance or activity takes away the emotional discomfort of everyday life and also releases the built-up tensions of craving. The goal is to get back to a place of perceived power and carefree abandonment. The drinker suddenly becomes loose and uninhibited, certain he’s the funniest man in the world. The gambler feels the elation of risk and possibility—putting it all on the line so Lady Luck can find him. The addicted shopper seeks the high she felt a few days earlier, when she bought a dress she still hasn’t taken out of the box.
According to Dr. Ronald Faber, compulsive buyers often report feeling heightened sensations when they shop. Colors and textures are more intense, and extreme levels of focus and concentration are often achieved—literally, altered states of consciousness. Some extreme shoppers compare their highs to drug experiences, while others have compared the moment of purchase to an orgasm.3
“I’m addicted to the smell of suede, the smooth texture of silk, and the rustle of tissue paper,” admits one shopping addict. She also loves the captive attention she commands when she shops. And because her credit card is always ready for use, she can shop whenever she wants. Now that’s power.
NEVER ENOUGH
The thrill of shopping is only one aspect of the addiction to stuff. Many Americans are also hooked on building personal fortresses out of their purchases. Whether it’s a new set of golf clubs or a walk-in closet full of sweaters and shoes, having the right stuff and sending the right signal somehow reassures addictive buyers. The problem is that the world’s signals keep changing, so addicts never reach a point of having enough. The computer never has enough memory or virus protection, and it’s never as fast as everyone else’s. The SUV doesn’t have a satellite-linked Global Positioning System, so how do we know where we are? The phone system is obsolete without cell phone Internet access, image messaging, and call waiting; the refrigerator doesn’t dispense ice cubes, filter water, or have push-button, movable shelves (some now have a flat-screen TV on the door); and the big-screen TV is a good six feet narrower than the living-room wall. Glaring deficiencies like these become unacceptable when affluenza sets in.
Economists call it the law of diminishing marginal utility, jargon that simply means we have to run faster just to stay in place. As social psychologist David Myers phrases it, “The second piece of pie, or the second $100,000, never tastes as good as the first.”4
Yet, despite diminishing returns that are plain to see, affluenza victims get stuck in the more mode, not knowing when or how to stop. If eating pie ultimately fails to satisfy, we think we need more pie to become satisfied. At this point, the affluenza virus has become an addiction. “Consuming becomes pathological because its importance grows larger and larger in direct proportion to our decreasing satisfaction,” says economist Herman Daly.5
In terms of the social factors that trigger the addictive virus, our thanks go first to the “pushers” on the supply side. For example, when the highways to which we are addicted become clogged, dealers push more highways, which soon become clogged as well. When we get used to a certain level of sexually explicit advertising, the pushers push it a step further, and then further, until preteens pose suggestively on network TV ads in their underwear.
It’s the same in restaurants, fast-food outlets, and movie theaters, where portions get bigger, and then get huge. Plates of food become platters, Biggie burgers become Dino-burgers, and boxes of popcorn become buckets. What’s next, barrels requiring hand trucks? Our stomachs expand to accommodate the larg
er portions, which we soon regard as normal (sixty-four-ounce soft drinks and 1,400-calorie Monster burgers, normal?!).
Sometimes more and bigger are not enough. When we can’t maintain our consumer highs with familiar products and activities, we search for new highs. Sports become extreme sports or fantasy sports in which thrill seekers bungee-jump off skyscrapers or gamble in Internet fantasy sports leagues. Even real professional athletes, with fantasy salaries, can never get enough. When a bright young baseball prospect signs for $25 million a year, a veteran who makes $12 million suddenly feels dissatisfied. This is the plight of the affluenza addict: even too much is not enough.
SHOPPING TO FILL THE VOID
Similarities among addictions are alarming. When the pathological becomes normal, an addict will do whatever is necessary to maintain a habit. Gamblers and over-spenders alike bounce checks, borrow from friends, and go deep into debt to support their habit, often lying to loved ones about their actions. It’s not hard to see the connection between addictive behavior and the huge craters in our culture and environment. Just as gamblers sell family heirlooms to continue gambling, so addicted consumers sacrifice priceless natural areas, contentment, and tradition to maintain a steady stream of goods.
Psychologists tell us pathological buying is typically related to a quest for greater recognition and acceptance, an expression of anger, or an escape through fantasy— all connected to shaky self-images. Writes Dr. Ronald Faber:
One compulsive buyer bought predominantly expensive stereo and television equipment but demonstrated little interest when discussing the types of music or programs he liked. Eventually, it came out that his motivation for buying came mainly from the fact that neighbors recognized him as an expert in electronic equipment and came to him for advice when making their purchases.6
Faber reports that anger is often encoded in pathological buying—debt becomes a mechanism for getting back at one’s spouse or parent. Or in other cases, extreme shopping is a fleeting getaway from reality:
Buying provides a way of escaping into a fantasy where the individual can be seen as important and respected. Some people indicated that the possession and use of a charge card made them feel powerful; others found that the attention provided by sales personnel and being known by name at exclusive stores provided feelings of importance and status.7
WHAT ARE WE THINKING?
If we could read the minds of the busy, intent shoppers at the region’s largest mall, wouldn’t we be amazed? Certainly we’d feel a little less abnormal, because we’d see that the mall is packed with “shoppers in therapy.” (We’re all crazy!) At least three in ten flee to the mall when things get out of control at home or work. Others come without a particular purchase in mind, just wanting to be around people, to feel less lonely. One woman resents having to buy a present for her son, who recently stole money from her purse. Several teenagers are desperately hoping their new clothes will facilitate sexual conquests that evening. At least six in ten of the shoppers feel a sense of euphoria from all the stimulation, but it’s euphoria with a twist of anxiety. Each shopper knows from past experience that guilt, shame, and confusion—consumer regret—lurk right outside the door.
Still, they’ll keep coming back, because they’re addicted.
That is, unless they find a way to beat the all-consuming bug, as Thomas Monaghan did. In 1991 the founder of Domino’s Pizza suddenly began to sell off many of his prized possessions, including three houses designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and thirty antique automobiles, one of which was an $8 million Bugatti Royale. Construction was halted on his multimillion-dollar home, and he even sold his Detroit Tigers baseball team because it was just a “source of excessive pride.” He was quoted as saying, “None of the things I’ve bought, and I mean none of them, have ever really made me happy.”8
CHAPTER 14
Dissatisfaction quaranteed
The only chance of satisfaction we can imagine
is getting more of what we have now. But what
we have now makes everybody dissatisfied.
So what will more of it do—make us more
satisfied, or more dissatisfied?
—AN INTERVIEWEE OF
PSYCHOLOGIST JEREMY SEABROOK
More than ever, we have big houses and
broken homes, high incomes and low morale,
secured rights and diminished civility. We
excel at making a living but often fail at
making a life. We celebrate our prosperity
but yearn for purpose. We cherish our freedoms
but long for connection. In an age of
plenty, we feel spiritual hunger.
—PSYCHOLOGIST DAVID MYERS
It’s like entering a room and forgetting what you came for, except in this case the whole culture is forgetting. We forget to ask, What’s an economy for?
En route to a brand-new millennium, we got waylaid. Price tags and bar codes began to coat the surfaces of our lives, as every single activity became a transaction. Eating, entertainment, socializing, health, even religion—all became marketable commodities. To sleep or to jump-start sex, take a pill. To eat, grab some fast food or order “room service” from a three-course store-to-door caterer. To exercise, join a health club. For fun, buy e-products on the Internet. To quit smoking, buy a nicotine patch, or ask your doctor for clinical doses of laughing gas! (No joke.)
To live, we buy. Everything (except “free air” at the gas station, and even that often costs half a buck). But this way of life is not sustainable. You can withdraw only so much money from a trust fund (or fossil fuel and fossil water from underground). You get only so many miles out of a vehicle—even a high-end race car. The American race-car lifestyle is fast approaching burnout because it requires long, stressful workweeks that eat up chunks of life, natural resources, and health. It programs us to substitute consumption for both citizenship and companionship. And it tries to meet nonmaterial needs with material goods, a losing strategy.
GAME OVER
Psychologist Richard Ryan points to scores of studies—his own among them— showing that material wealth does not create happiness. “We keep looking outside ourselves for satisfactions that can only come from within,” he explains.1 In the human species, happiness comes from achieving intrinsic goals like giving and receiving love. Extrinsic goals like monetary wealth, fame, and appearance are surrogate goals, often pursued as people try to fill themselves up with “outside-in” rewards. Says Ryan, “People with extrinsic goals sharpen their egos to conquer outer space, but they don’t have a clue how to navigate inner space.
“We’ve documented that unhappiness and insecurity often initiate the quest for wealth,” he continues. Is this surprising, given other evidence that addiction often springs from childhood abuse? In three studies with 140 adolescents, Ryan and colleague Tim Kasser showed that those with aspirations for wealth and fame were more depressed and had lower self-esteem than other adolescents whose aspirations centered on self-acceptance, family and friends, and community feeling.
“The wealth seekers also had a higher incidence of headaches, stomachaches, and runny noses,” Ryan says. He believes that while people are born with intrinsic curiosity, self-motivation, and playfulness, too often these qualities are squelched by “deadlines, regulations, threats, directives, pressured evaluations, and imposed goals” that come from external sources of control rather than self-motivated choices and goals. Curious about the origins of extrinsic goals, the psychologists looked at family influences. “When mothers were controlling and cold (based on perceptions of family and friends), individuals were more likely to base their self-worth and security on external sources like money.” Their findings do not prove that rich people are always unhappy (some are, some aren’t, depending on how they use their money). But they do point out that seeking extrinsic goals can dislodge us from vital connections with people, nature, and community—and that can make us unhappy.
Dysfunctions and
disconnects seem to disrupt everyone’s life these days, rich and poor alike. Donella Meadows cuts to the heart of it in Beyond the Limits:
People don’t need enormous cars; they need respect. They don’t need closets full of clothes; they need to feel attractive and they need excitement and variety and beauty. People don’t need electronic entertainment; they need something worthwhile to do with their lives. People need identity, community, challenge, acknowledgment, love, joy. To try to fill these needs with material things is to set up an unquenchable appetite for false solutions to real and never-satisfied problems. The resulting psychological emptiness is one of the major forces behind the desire for material growth.2
Opinion polls reveal that Americans crave reconnection with the real sources of satisfaction, but we can’t find our way back through all the jingles, static, broken gadgets, and credit card bills. We adopt a pattern clinically proven to lower our resistance to affluenza when we ask “How much?” rather than “How well?” The inevitable result can only be dissatisfaction, guaranteed. Quantity can’t satisfy the way quality can, and even an infinite supply of virtual reality will never actually be real.
