Honoring the Self

by Nathaniel Branden

  Or again, suppose that a woman feels enraged at her husband. It is important for her well-being—and for the well-being of the relationship—that she be able to accept her rage. Her right to accept it is not dependent on whether or not it is “justified.” At the same time she accepts and experiences her rage, it is possible—and necessary—for her to be aware that her rage may or may not be an authentic response to her husband’s behavior, that it may be the result of unresolved conflicts within herself having little relevance to her husband’s behavior. So two different issues are involved, both of which deserve awareness and acknowledgment. One is the fact of her emotional state. The other is the matter of objectivity: What has happened in reality between her husband and herself? It would obviously be a mistake for her to assume, before examining the objective reality of the situation, that her rage is entirely “justified.” But it is equally a mistake to forbid herself to know that she feels rage until and unless she can “prove” that it is justified. In either case, the mistake involved is essentially the same: avoiding reality. She can accept her feeling without being obligated to act on it.

  If a person believes that objectivity consists of accepting and experiencing only “justifiable” emotions, the person ends up by corrupting the ability to be objective. It happens when one feels uncomfortable simply experiencing an emotion and perhaps expressing it. Ignoring the feeling, the person sets out to “prove” that the object of the emotional response is “immoral” or “wonderful” or “vile” or “brilliant” or whatever. Now, sometimes it happens that the qualities he or she projects are justifiable, but that is not the point. The point is that the person is incapable of knowing it.

  Self-acceptance is, quite simply, realism. That which is, is. That which I feel, I feel. That which I think, I think. That which I have done, I have done.

  Reason and emotion need not be adversaries. If the essence of rationality is respect for the facts of reality, that includes the facts of our own psychological state.

  Reason is the conceptual instrument of awareness; reason is the power of integration made explicit and self-conscious; it is the faculty by means of which we apprehend logical relationships and organize the contents of our awareness.

  Clearly the appropriate exercise of reason does not entail the conceptual analysis of every experience, an undertaking neither possible nor desirable. Often, however, we sense the presence of significant relationships we cannot grasp, or the presence of some dissonance among the signals we are receiving from the external world or from ourselves. In such instances it becomes the task of reason to guide the process of integration on a (relatively) explicit and self-conscious plane.

  In seeking to dissolve conflicts within ourselves, we sometimes need to reflect conceptually on the meaning of our feelings, responses, and actions, to engage in a sustained process of reasoning. But sometimes we merely need to bring some aspect of our experience into awareness. In any case, reason remains the ultimate arbiter, since only reason can determine which course of mental action is appropriate to a given set of circumstances.

  If we understand this concept of reason and rationality, we can appreciate that self-acceptance is the application of the principle of reason to the world of inner experience.

  The essence of self-assertion is to respect our own values and live by our own judgment, so that we experience integrity: what we do in the world is the appropriate expression of what we are.

  When self-assertion is thus defined, the ability to be angry, to meet challenges to our dignity with appropriate aggressiveness, or to “stick up for our rights” plays a very small part. Important as these responses may sometimes be, they are far from the entirety of what self-assertion entails.

  There is a sense in which everything I have been discussing in this book pertains to self-assertion. The choice to be conscious is the ultimate act of self-assertion. The decision to be true to the judgments of our own mind is an act of self-assertion.

  The choice to see is an act of self-assertion. Humility and insecurity are associated with downcast eyes. The training of Carmelite nuns, who are taught that their ego is the single most formidable barrier between themselves and God, contains the specific admonition to see as little as possible.

  This issue of sight is both literally applicable and a metaphor that illuminates the deepest meaning of self-assertion. Therefore I will allow myself a momentary historical digression.

  There is an extraordinary passage in Augustine’s Confessionsin which, after denouncing all the pleasures of the flesh, Augustine goes on to say:

  To this is added another form of temptation more manifoldly dangerous. For besides the concupiscence of the flesh which consists in the delight of all senses and pleasures … the soul has through the same senses of the body, a certain vain and curious desire, veiled under the title of knowledge and learning.… The seat whereof being in the appetite of knowledge, and sight being the sense chiefly used for attaining knowledge, it is in Divine language called the lust of the eyes.

  If the quest for knowledge is a “lust,” then it would be hard to name an era in history as chaste as that during which Augustine’s precepts held sway. There was little sight to pollute it, or reason or mind or science or progress. Once again, as in the pre-Grecian centuries, human beings crawled from generation to generation making tortuously minute improvements in their store of knowledge—while the alleged philosophers were debating such topics as whether a mouse that slips into a church and happens to eat the eucharistie bread does or does not achieve communion with God, and while the masses of the people were existing in a state now recognized as mass neurosis, mass hysteria.

  What was the battle cry of the Renaissance? The right to see. The right to that “lust of the eyes” denounced by Augustine. In philosophy, the right to study the universe. In science, the right to study physical nature, with the rebirth of such forbidden sciences as anatomy and astronomy. In art, the right to study this earth and to depict the full reality of the human body, of nature, of perspective, of three-dimensionality, as perceived by our senses.

  And throughout the world today, the most punishable crime in any dictatorship is self-assertion—that is, the exercise of independent judgment, independent sight, in defiance of authority.

  It is an act of self-assertion to challenge any dogma, whether that dogma originates in religion, science, government, or the teachings of our parents. It is an act of self-assertion to ask, “Why?”—and to refuse to accept a club, a gun, or a frown of condemnation as an answer.

  Remembering once again the Milgrim experiments, we can appreciate the act of self-assertion on the part of those few who retained a sufficient moral autonomy to refuse to push the electric shock buttons.53

  Every new invention, every true work of art, every genuinely creative act—any commitment taken by anyone, anywhere, to his or her own evolution—is an act of self-assertion.

  On the simple level of everyday life, one of the most important ways in which we support our self-esteem is through the courage and integrity to say no when we want to say no and yes when we want to say yes. Sometimes such self-assertion is difficult. Doubtless all of us can remember occasions in life when, out of fear of one kind or another, we said yes when we wanted to say no or vice versa, and we know the marks such defaults leave on the soul. I am not referring here to the normal process of compromise and accommodation that all of us practice when motivated by courtesy, kindness, or love; I am talking about violations to the self in which we cooperate when cooperation is neither necessary nor desirable. Sacrificing our judgment, values, needs, self-respect. Giving up a deeply felt ambition because others are not sympathetic to it. Sleeping with someone to break a “siege.” Remaining silent and unprotesting when our political convictions are being ridiculed, to avoid being challenged. Relinquishing a personal and passionate vision in order to belong. Declining a career opportunity we long for in order to placate a disapproving family. Running from the possibility of love because
we are afraid of hurt and rejection. Fearing to reach out to life because success is not guaranteed.

  Sentence completion can help put people in touch with this issue.

  If I could say no when I want to say no and yes when I want to say yes—

  I would be afraid.

  I would like myself more.

  I’d have to risk peoples anger.

  I think I would like people more.

  I wouldn’t so often feel cowardly.

  I might lose some friends.

  I’d have more self-respect.

  I would probably be kinder.

  I could be more relaxed.

  I wouldn’t be so afraid of other people’s expectations.

  I would live more adventurously.

  I’d feel more.

  I’d accomplish more.

  I wouldn’t get so angry when other people didn’t do what I wanted.

  I might lose my parents.

  I’d be a grown-up.

  I’d have more dignity.

  I wouldn’t feel so weak.

  I’d trust myself.

  I wouldn’t hate other people for my own cowardice.

  I’d be more alive.

  I’d wonder what had ever stopped me.

  I’d see that other people are just … other people; why did I have to take their reactions all that seriously?

  Every act of self-assertion is an implicit affirmation of my right to exist. It implies that I am not the property of others and that I am not bound to live my life in accordance with their expectations—neither my parents nor my teachers nor my friends nor my colleagues nor the government nor the salesperson trying to browbeat me into a purchase I have no wish to make. Self-assertion can be frightening—it connects me to my aloneness.

  Sometimes I will ask a lecture audience, “Do any of you believe you have a right to exist?” Almost everyone responds affirmatively, but when I ask someone to stand in front of the room facing everyone present and say, “I have a right to exist,” take a breath, experience how saying that sentence feels, and say it again five or ten times, the person tends to speak timidly, with hostility, placatingly, defiantly, pleadingly, apologetically, defensively, or resentfully. Even after I point this out and remark that no one is denying the speaker’s right to exist, few persons can say the sentence with simple, good-natured serenity. Clearly, the activated anxiety says a good deal about our fear of aloneness and self-responsibility. It also says a good deal about how we were raised and educated, about the values of our culture.

  And yet there is a place deep inside us where, I am convinced, we know that we do have a right to exist, do have a right to the space we occupy. But we need courage to know it and to admit it.

  We sometimes seek to conceal from ourselves our fear of self-assertion. “I don’t like to be pushy” is a sentence we often hear when a person is reluctant to assert a perfectly ordinary right—such as returning unsatisfactory food in a restaurant, or complaining about unsatisfactory service, or challenging someone’s rudeness or disrespect. “I’m a private person” is a favorite rationalization for hiding our feelings when there is no good reason to hide them: concealing our excitement for fear of being thought silly, feeling uncomfortable about holding a lover’s hand in a public place, feigning indifference when we are actually hurt or angry or joyful, in order to be thought sophisticated—in other words, misrepresenting the reality of our experience out of preoccupation with our “image.”

  Obviously there are times when it is not strategic to express our thoughts or emotions. I may not tell a client what I think about some behavior, for instance, because such a communication might not be therapeutic if I am seeking to nurture the client’s capacity for independent judgment. I may choose not to express my impatience or anger at someone’s incompetent performance of a task because I believe that such a communication will lead to a further deterioration of competence; so I choose to stay focused on the job that needs to be done rather than on my feelings.

  The fact remains that our lives are filled with situations where it is appropriate and desirable to express what we think and feel, because such expression can be intrinsically satisfying, can enhance and enliven the moment, can serve our personal integrity. And yet, out of fear, we remain silent. The moment is unlived. For many people, that is the pattern of their entire lives.

  Following is the distillation of countless sentence completions that concern themselves with this issue.

  If I were more honest about expressing my thoughts and opinions—

  I’d probably lose some of my friends.

  I’d feel cleaner.

  People would know me.

  I’d be frightened about other people’s reactions.

  I wonder if I would be alone.

  I think I would find it is all right.

  I wouldn’t feel like a phony.

  I’d at least know that my friends liked the real me.

  I’d have to risk being challenged.

  I’d have to learn to stick up for myself.

  I’d be prouder of myself.

  I’d be free.

  I’d wonder why I waited so long.

  I wouldn’t feel like a bystander in my own life.

  I’d be in reality.

  I’d laugh more.

  I’d have a chance to find out if I’m mistaken in my thoughts. I would grow.

  I would come out of this fog I’m in.

  I’d walk straighter.

  I’d understand self-esteem.

  If I were willing to be more straightforward about expressing my desires and emotions—

  I’d be a different person.

  I’d have to make some hard choices.

  I’d really have to look at my life.

  I’d probably have to face some hostility.

  I might be rejected.

  I might be ridiculed.

  I’d have more integrity.

  I wouldn’t have to resent other people for not being able to read my mind.

  I’d feel like an adult.

  I could have more honest relationships.

  I wouldn’t worry so much about other people’s approval or disapproval.

  I’d feel stronger.

  I’d be more independent.

  I’d feel like a person in my own right.

  I think my whole life would change.

  I think the people who mattered would respect me more.

  I’d feel alive.

  The next set of stems is especially useful for helping us understand some of the consequences for our life when we fail to recognize our deepest wants and/or to strive for their fulfillment.

  If I were to treat my deepest wants with full seriousness—

  I’d have to take my life seriously.

  I’d think more about how I spend my time.

  I’d know that a lot of the ridiculous things I want now are just substitutes.

  I wouldn’t waste my time pursuing things that don’t mean a damn to me.

  I’d have to have courage.

  I’d have to be willing to take risks.

  I’d have to stop kidding myself about most of the goals that occupy me now.

  I’d reorganize my priorities.

  I’d understand why I’ve always felt empty.

  I’d be true to myself.

  I wouldn’t just play at life.

  I’d question just about everything I’m now doing.

  I’d wonder who I gave it all up for.

  I’d feel solemn.

  I’d feel scared.

  I’d wonder if it’s too late for me.

  I’d have to recognize that what I choose to do is important.

  I couldn’t pretend I have all the time in the world.

  I’d be what people call “selfish.”

  I’d have more energy.

  I think it would be the bravest thing I could do.

  I’d tell the woman I care for that I love her, and I’d stop fooling around.

  I’d cha
nge jobs.

  I’d travel.

  I wouldn’t spend time with people that don’t mean anything to me.

  I’d play with my children more.

  I’d read and study more.

  I’d admit how much of my life bores me.

  I’d face the frustration in my marriage.

  I’d give myself a chance to be young before I grow old.

  I wouldn’t apologize for loving my work more than my family.

  I’d weigh carefully whom I choose to spend time with.

  I’d really think about how I want to spend my remaining years.

  I wouldn’t wonder that other people don’t take my wants more seriously than I do.

  I think I could have the things I want.

  I would have a better sense of who I am.

  I wouldn’t always be wondering, “Is this all there is?”

  I’d feel like more of a human being.

  I wouldn’t be angry at other people for robbing me of my chances.

  I’d feel more self-responsible.

  I’d be more aware of my own choices.

  I wouldn’t be so preoccupied with pleasing other people.

  I wouldn’t always be worrying if people liked me.

  I could create a life that would mean something to me.

  Along the path to higher levels of self-expression, self-actualization, and individuation, one of the most formidable obstacles that the self-assertive tendency encounters is the internalized parental message forbidding the individual to evolve beyond a particular point: “You’ll never accomplish anything.” “You’re not to be any happier in your marriage than we were in ours.” “It’s not what you think that matters, it’s what other people think.” “Who are you to think you know what’s right?” “Dreams are impractical.” “Just be happy to get by.” “Don’t aspire; greatness is not for you.” “You’re a big disappointment.” “Don’t be too smart; people won’t like you.”

  Many men and women have too much energy and independence to accept these messages completely—and yet not enough to break entirely free of them. So they live in a chronic state of tension and conflict that they do not understand. The frustration of their unused capacities—for love, for creativity, for happiness—may generate an amorphous cloud of rage that permeates their personalities.