Like Williamson’s words, freeing our minds from the limitations of Fear is central to what we have been exploring in this book. The societal oppression of curiosity and knowledge after the fall of Rome became a way in which the dark triumphed over the light; and then, after a thousand years of darkness, the Imaginative light and knowledge of the Scientific Revolution broke free. So far, so good.
My interest in Williamson’s words here, however, stems from what I see as a potential blind spot for us. For while she is accurate that so many of us suffer needlessly with a dimming of our personal light, there is an unseen and paradoxical danger arising from too much light. What we need to explore further here is that even the gentle warmth of the sun can eventually burn us.
Earlier in the book, I showed that Imagination grew up under the tutelage of Fear. The need to see into the dark, to predict and prepare, was the first task Imagination learned. From there, Imagination appears to have assisted Fear with countless innovations for threat detection, defense, and attack. From the telescope to the CT scan, from the bow and arrow to the atomic bomb, so much of what our civilization has invented is focused on promoting security. Indeed, much of civilization itself could be said to have been born from this union of Fear and Imagination—a union, not inconsequentially, consummated in the dark. In other words, Imagination bears the imprint of Fear from its origins.
But when Imagination was given the task of solving the dark, something unintended happened. The essential qualities of the dark—its uncertainty and unknowability—became, not only the veils that hid danger, but new forms of danger in and of themselves. Tangible fear of what might exist within the dark was generalized into a metaphoric fear of all that was uncontrollable, unknowable and, ultimately, imperfect. This metaphoric experience, arising from our fear of the dark, transformed an understandable desire to stay safe into a paradoxical escalation of danger.
With this in mind, let’s take a closer look at how this came about.
Blindness
From my clinical work and studies, I have found that there are two elements at play in our personal and societal attempts to deal with the dark. The first I call the “curation of light” and the second, the “eradication of the dark.” And while it will be useful to deal with them here somewhat discretely, in actuality, they are two parts of a whole.
Curating the light is a seemingly benign approach that seeks to neutralize the danger of the dark and quell our insecurity by Imagining that if we “light enough candles”—i.e., become smart enough, rich enough, technologically advanced enough—we can eventually change the dark’s very composition.
Eradicating the dark is a more aggressive strategy designed to root out unseen dangers. Much of this work is quite positive in nature, such as our efforts to wipe out unseen killers like cancer, cholera, and the plague. Without a doubt, this eradication has furthered our feelings of security, but it has also brought forth the destructive development of new and better ways to torture, extract confessions, invade online privacy, and exorcise spiritual demons. We might even say that it is present in rituals such as the “laying on of hands” for medical healing and the hope many find in ridding a newborn baby of sin through “baptism.” Eradicating the dark has both furthered our security and diminished our humanity.
Paralleling this movement of eradication are the efforts we make to usher in more light. As we saw in the previous chapter, much of this curation is brought about through the expansion of knowledge. Our desire to have the light of knowledge transform the dark has driven us to dissect, categorize, and explain the workings of the natural world. We seek out the how, why, when, and where of cause and effect.
Technological innovation is also prominent in our work to bring greater light to the world. So much of what we invent shows the influence of our longing to be soothed by the light of progress. Many of these innovations shape light within our society in literal ways, such as the use of flint for fire-starting, whale blubber for oil lamps, the invention of the incandescent light bulb, and now, the everlasting LED.
Technology has also attempted to metaphorically satisfy our need for light with inventions such as GPS, heart and activity monitors, laparoscopic surgery, the printing press, space travel, the personal computer, the iPhone, and vision-correcting lenses. We strive to see better, express ourselves more expansively, and extend the reach of our minds to the very edges of the universe. The odyssey of Edison and his ten thousand attempts to find the right filament for the light bulb provides us with a perfect hero in this mythological journey of bringing light to soothe our fearful hearts.
What we fail to see in all these efforts, however, is the intoxication that comes as we follow the light and vanquish the dark. This is the intoxication of righteousness, and it promotes a great deal of the ill effects of the Fear Paradox.
For us personally, the light of righteousness takes shape most precariously through the pursuit of perfection. Dieting, nutritional supplements, helicopter parenting, fashion trends, tutors for college essays, self-help books, personal trainers, cosmetic surgery, and religious dictates on goodness and sin are all ways in which we strive to be perfect. Much of this, I believe, happens unconsciously, and is hidden in the light of good intentions. And because perfection is impossible, the only satisfaction we can extract is the belief that what we do is right.
In my view, the infusion of righteousness into our relationship to light stems from light’s age-old connection to security. The value of security was so high for us and light was so integral to it, it is no wonder our pursuit of light has taken on the mantle of “the good.” Unfortunately, as we seek to increase light and safety, we simultaneously fill ourselves with an inflating sense of our own virtue. And this is when people get hurt.
In 1945, the Scottish physician and scientist Alexander Fleming gave a speech. He was addressing the Nobel Prize audience after receiving the award that year. Dr. Fleming was being honored for discovering, and I would add, “weaponizing,” penicillin. In many ways it was a victory speech.
From what I have read, it would be impossible to know how many lives have been saved by his discovery. Estimates I have seen hover between eighty million and two hundred million. Before penicillin, a mere scratch could end in death. Childbirth and surgeries were quite dangerous. The use of antibiotics has contributed greatly to both the reduction in infant mortality as well as the scope and depth of what is surgically possible. But what really promoted the early adoption and production of antibiotics was their value to soldiers in World War II. Unlike the devastation suffered in World War I, where deaths from bacterial pneumonia alone were 18 percent, now we had a weapon against our limitations, against a hidden enemy, a weapon that could make the Allies better killers.
We had won the war, and Fleming’s preventive contribution to that victory was significant. His Nobel speech traces his early path to penicillin’s discovery and its early uses in treatment. What is now notable, though, is that Dr. Fleming ends his speech with a warning to be careful of underdosing, because bacteria learn quickly.
In his warning was a simple prescience. We now know that he was right to caution us against underdosing. As Matt Richtel and Andrew Jacobs report in a recent article in the New York Times, the dangers of drug resistance are profound.116 In addition to too many prescriptions being written, there is an additional danger from the flood of generic antibiotics, often manufactured in China or India, coming into slums in developing countries—communities such as Kibera in Nairobi, Kenya. Said to be the largest urban slum in Africa, with estimates ranging from five hundred thousand to two million inhabitants, poverty, lack of hygiene, and unavailability of clean water make this a kind of hell on earth.
People living there have no financial resources with which to see doctors and instead go to local dispensaries that not only sell, but also diagnose illnesses and prescribe medications. With no training or education, the diagnoses are often inaccurate and the
prescriptions inadequate. And even if a prescription for an infection works, the patient often fails to take enough or continue the regimen long enough. The result of this is what Fleming warned us about, “smarter bacteria.”
In thinking about how “smart” bacteria might become—in other words how threatening bacteria might become to our existence—it might be meaningful to note that the CDC currently estimates that 2.8 million people a year become infected with antibiotic-resistant bacteria in the United States and, of these, 35,000 die.117
Every year new resistant bacteria are discovered, and some of these are quite dangerous. Recently, a bacterial fungus, Candida auris, has been making its way around the globe. Difficult to identify, C. auris is showing up in hospitals, where it preys upon weakened immune systems. In one case, identified by Richtel and Jacobs, an elderly man died of the infection, but the fungus remained alive in his body and in his hospital room. They report that the hospital required special cleaning equipment, and even had to remove ceiling and floor tiles to completely eradicate it. C. auris is resistant to major antifungal treatments, and it is now one of the most dangerous and intractable infections in the world today. If something isn’t done quickly, thirty-year projections put the yearly deaths from antimicrobial resistance at ten million—that’s ten million people dying each year.
In summary, we brought the light of our Imagination to the problem of an invisible enemy: bacteria. We found a brilliant solution to eradicate it: penicillin. But beneath the simple inventive drive to attack bacteria was a secondary drive to eliminate, not only bacteria, but what they represent: the metaphoric dark. This then became a noble but unrealizable goal. From penicillin to the vast array of antibiotics, and from the common sense act of washing one’s hands to the incessant squirting of Purell, we have needlessly hounded bacteria to the point at which their only defense was to attack.
This is the Fear Paradox. Our efforts to combat the deadly effects of bacteria have only made them more powerful. And with each new resistant strain, we invent a new antibiotic, more powerful than the last. In actuality, our efforts to eradicate the metaphoric dark only make that darkness stronger.
It is easy to see countless examples in which the Fear Paradox may play a role. We longed for the security of increased social connectedness and ended up with an internet that promotes misinformation, cyberbullying, and loss of privacy. Our efforts to eliminate obstacles from the life paths of our children entering college have turned some loving and well-intentioned parents into people willing to cheat their way in by buying college admissions. And let us not forget how the fear of Nazi Germany’s atomic weapons program in WWII propelled Albert Einstein, a brilliant and moral man, to personally advocate for the construction of a bomb that we righteously used to destroy hundreds of thousands of lives.
In identifying these, I am not suggesting that Fear’s effect upon Imagination is the sole cause of what went wrong. Certainly, ignorance, greed, and narcissism, to name just a few other possible causes, also played a role. But regardless of the multiplicity of influence, Fear and its paradoxical relationship to Imagination appear to be primary. And what is even more crucial for us to consider is that these ill effects are not limited to the cultural and the societal. They are present for each of us in our own lives.
Top of the World
When I first met my patient Bob, he was working at a help desk for a software company. He was so anxious it was hard for him to do his job. His goal for therapy was to find a way to make more money. He was convinced that if he could, he wouldn’t be so anxious anymore. What emerged, however, was that beneath his anxiety, Bob had a deep fear of everything in his life disappearing.
As I got to know him, Bob revealed that, until he was about five or six years old, his family had been quite wealthy. But then it all suddenly changed. He never quite knew what happened because his parents refused to tell him. But there was clearly a period of time before they moved out of the “big house” and a period of time after. Bob and his family faced a great deal of hardship for several years after this. Bob remembered going to bed hungry and having to move out of an apartment in the middle of the night, presumably because of back rent.
From our early work, it was clear that these experiences were quite traumatizing. What seems to have been most disruptive was the loss of certainty. Money to Bob became synonymous with security, but equally, the loss of security became synonymous with not knowing—not knowing where his next meal would come from or whether his mother and father would one day leave him. From what he said, his parents never threatened abandonment, but whether this was accurate or not, as a child, he feared it.
With time and care, Bob and I worked slowly to untangle these years of deprivation. The stress on his parents, after losing everything, turned them into unpredictable threats, and Bob walked on eggshells around them. Exploring Bob’s worry and anxiety led us to buried memories and an almost intolerable emotional pain. His sense of security had been hobbled, and he believed that money was the only thing that could save him. In addition to the anxiety, however, Bob and I found a great deal of submerged rage and powerful fantasies of revenge.
At this stage, our work involved helping Bob to tolerate intense emotions that he had denied for so long, particularly his deep anger. The work was proceeding well, and he was becoming noticeably less anxious. This continued until one day, during a session, when Imaginings of revenge against his father began to fill his mind. As I guided him to follow the inclination of these images, he described what he was seeing and feeling. He moved from a visceral and painful anger in which his hands seemed to be around an Imaginary throat, to a quiet, almost peaceful place where there was nothing but sadness. There were no words, just an almost slow-motion movement of his head back and forth as if to say no, no, no. And with that, tears began to fill his eyes, as he said, “My sister…my sister.”
As I heard these words, I couldn’t quite figure out what he meant. I had been working with him for over a year, and I had never heard him speak of a sister. Quite abruptly, then, Bob wiped his eyes and sat up straight.
I checked in with him to see how he had experienced the Imagining of his father, and he said, “It was weird. I didn’t expect that.” I then delicately added, “I heard you speak of your sister.” He said, “Yes, that’s what was weird.” “You know,” I said, “I didn’t know you had a sister.” “Really?” he asked with surprise. It was clear to me that this omission had unacknowledged meaning.
After that session and over the next few months, Bob began to uncharacteristically miss sessions, and he never brought up his sister again. At one point, I asked him about the misses and wondered aloud whether these were related to the session in which he had mentioned her. He said that he didn’t think so, that maybe it had more to do with the book he was currently reading.
I soon came to learn that the book he was referring to was a spiritual self-help book that offered a positive approach to prosperity and manifesting desires. Evidently, the author was not a big proponent of psychotherapy, and cautioned her readers to be skeptical of psychological approaches that focus on talking about “issues from the past.” Bob told me he was working to change his negative “core beliefs” related to unworthiness. The book suggested visualization and affirmations as an antidote to these limiting beliefs.
In truth, I was skeptical. The timing of his interest in New Age spirituality, something he had never before shown an interest in, coinciding with the emergence of what appeared to be buried memories of his sister, and the missed sessions, all seemed to be too meaningful to be a coincidence. That was my hunch, at least.
Things continued on like this for a few months until, one day, Bob came in with an “important dream.” That was what he called it, and I came to agree. Before telling me the dream, he gave me a gift-wrapped copy of the book he had been studying. I opened it and a soothing aroma of incense filled the air. It reminded me of the years when I was q
uite involved in yoga and meditation. I thanked him. It was a genuine gift from the heart. I knew it meant a lot to him, and his sharing it was quite meaningful to me. It also felt to me as if it had an ever-so-delicate touch of innocent proselytizing.
Bob began to tell me his dream. In the first part, he was on his way to therapy, but he kept getting lost. Every time he tried to take a step toward where my office was, he would find himself in a dangerous neighborhood. Eventually, a woman he didn’t know came up to him and guided him to my new office location. It was a penthouse in a “hip” new skyscraper uptown.
The second part of the dream took place in the elevator to my new office. Bob pressed the button for the top floor, but when he did, a new button would appear above it. He kept pressing the topmost button, but he never reached my office. Finally, in desperation, he climbed the stairs, but instead of finding my office, he found himself on the roof.
In the third part of the dream, Bob was looking out over the city toward the horizon. Somehow, he could see the entirety of the world from where he stood. He had a good feeling looking down, and he realized that he never really intended to get to my office; the roof was perfect. As he stood there on the roof, he looked over at a man he knew from business and said matter-of-factly to himself, “I am on top of the world.”
When I asked Bob what he thought about the dream, he told me it probably had to do with his plan to end therapy. Everything was going great, he told me, and in the two weeks since he last saw me, he had invested his entire savings in a business venture that a friend of a friend had offered to him. He was sure it would make him a millionaire. For a moment, I sat there trying to figure out what I was feeling. His announcement to end therapy certainly felt abrupt, and that was notable. But also, I felt a strange sense of incompetence as he told me all of this. I waited a bit until I had reconstituted myself, and then decided to forgo a discussion of his ending therapy until we better understood the dream. I calmly asked, “What stands out most for you in the dream?”
The Fear Paradox Page 10
