|
Most of us like to think our self-esteem is securely our own. We take pride in believing we stand on a firm internal foundation—confident, calm, and self-sufficient. Yet in certain relationships, especially where narcissism or coercive control is present, we can lose that internal anchor so quickly it feels as though we’ve been tossed into a washing machine: one moment stable, the next moment disoriented and shaken. This article explores how that subtle but devastating “flip” from internal stability to external dependency happens, why it’s so confusing, and how learning self-esteem as a practice is vital to recovery—especially for those who find themselves in the Narcissist Survivors’ Club.
The Flip: From Self-connection into Unsafe Disconnection An internal sense of self can feel quite solid until a partner’s disapproval or sudden withdrawal of warmth triggers guilt, shame, and a frantic desire to “fix” the relationship. What was once grounded self-confidence dissolves into a desperate quest for outside confirmation: “Maybe I just need to be more understanding,” “Maybe I’m the problem,” “I’ll do whatever it takes to get back in their good graces,” “I’m hurting them by leaving and ruining everything.” That moment of turmoil—like the spin cycle of a washing machine—is the “flip” from an internal locus of esteem to an external one. Psychotherapist Melody Beattie, in her work Codependent No More, describes how this external shift can happen unconsciously when we start basing our worth on another person’s moods or needs. She writes, “The hardest part of recovery is coming to accept we cannot control or fix other people, no matter how compelled we feel.” Unfortunately, for many, the compulsion to fix or appease can override our self-trust, unraveling the internal resources we thought we had. Self-doubt thereby overrides the self, and we favour the external locus of esteem: a locus which, when narcissistic, is unsafe. Narcissistic Sun, Wobbling Planets and Gravity In healthy relationships, each person has gravity of their own, and together, they create a respectful dance of give-and-take. In a narcissistic dynamic, however, one person becomes the “narcissistic sun,” pulling the other into a forced orbit. Rather than freely dancing as an equal partner, the “planet” wobbles into a position of perpetual submission or support, its path now dictated by the gravitational force of a person who’s addicted to dominance. The narcissistic puppeteer may even be unaware of their own self-preoccupation. They believe (or pretend to believe) their controlling behavior is justified, loving, or even “for your own good.” Meanwhile, the recipient becomes disoriented, unable to see just how much their self-worth is being eclipsed. As Karen Horney noted in Neurosis and Human Growth, people who “move toward” others out of fear often do so in hopes of receiving love or security. Before they know it, their internal sense of esteem is surrendered to the other’s whims or approval. Trauma Bonding and Coercive Control Psychologist Patrick Carnes, writing in The Betrayal Bond, coined the term “trauma bonding” to describe the powerful attachment formed when a person who experiences abuse is also given occasional doses of affection or recognition. “Trauma bonds,” Carnes writes, “are chains that link a victim to someone who is or was dangerous to them.” These chains form precisely because the victim begins to hinge their worth on the abuser’s unpredictable acts of kindness. Sociologist Evan Stark, in Coercive Control, explains how an abuser systematically creates an environment of fear, isolation, and dependence. The victim vacillates between feeling sure of themselves and feeling terrified of losing approval—a prime setup for that quick flip from internal to external “esteem-locus.” Once shame or guilt is triggered by the abuser’s withdrawal of affection, the victim scrambles to restore the bond, rejecting their own perspective in favor of the narcissistic partner’s worldview. It’s worth noting that these relationships often bemuse concerned friends who, on learning of the dynamic, cannot understand why a person keeps returning to a partner who so regularly plays victim, blaming, creating drama and manipulating self-esteem. The cycle of misery is confusing and disorienting as the Survivor is pitched into wobbly orbit time and time again, and it’s very difficult for them to understand what is happening. After all, if feeling worthy, feeling good is dangled on the outside, like a carrot, you can understand why it’s chased. For people who’ve grown up conditioned to deny the self, it’s second nature to gift the power of esteem into other hands. Shame, Self-doubt and Washing Machines The confusion is profound—people often describe feeling like they’ve lost themselves, or they’re “walking on eggshells,” never certain which version of their partner they’ll face. John Bradshaw, author of Healing the Shame That Binds You, underscores how shame is the engine driving this dynamic: “Toxic shame is experienced as the all-pervasive sense that I am flawed.” When shame and guilt rear their heads, we’ll do almost anything to regain acceptance. We abandon our inner compass, chasing that moment of warmth or approval. It’s a perpetual spin cycle—exhausting and deeply destabilizing. It’s a cycle that relies upon a lack of self-respect. Brené Brown echoes this sentiment in her research on vulnerability and shame. She points out that when we fear disconnection from those we value—even if they are harming us—we’ll often betray ourselves to feel that temporary sense of belonging. It’s in that desperate moment that the internal anchor is replaced by someone else’s approval, and our sense of identity bends around their gravitational pull. Childhood Priming and Reactive, Dependent Esteem For many survivors, these patterns of relying on external esteem began in childhood. If a child grows up in a family where love is conditional—dependent on meeting the parent’s emotional needs or appeasing the parent’s judgement—that child learns a deep, unconscious lesson: “I’m only worthy if I please you.” Carl Rogers, the pioneering humanistic psychologist, emphasized the damaging effects of “conditions of worth” imposed on children. Over time, those conditions shape an individual who is primed to respond to external validation and approval. Karen Horney observed similar dynamics, noting how children adapt to unsafe environments by learning to “move toward” (placate) or “move away” (detach) from others, losing a cohesive sense of self in the process. Self-Rejection and the Narcissistic Puppeteer When you “flip” to an external locus of esteem, you’re in essence rejecting your inner self and adopting the narcissist’s worldview, even if it’s harmful or distorted. You see yourself through their eyes. This is the ultimate triumph of the “narcissistic sun,” who—intentionally or not—manipulates your orbit. It’s not merely that you’re subordinating your preferences; you’re subordinating your entire sense of worth. It’s as if your inner voice is muted, replaced by the narcissist’s opinion, instruction, or expectation. Heinz Kohut’s concept of the “selfobject” offers insight here: a person with shaky self-esteem seeks out external figures to maintain a cohesive sense of self. In an abusive relationship, the abuser becomes the selfobject, feeding or starving the victim’s self-esteem at will. Over time, it’s easy to forget that a self was ever separate from the abuser’s gravitational field. Self-Esteem as Practice The good news is that self-esteem can be cultivated. Rebuilding from an external locus of esteem to an internal one is a gradual, dedicated practice—very much like learning a new skill. In therapy, health coaching or groups, survivors often do the following:
Conclusion: Return from Orbit to your own Gravity Recovering from narcissistic control or other forms of emotional manipulation often means learning to trust yourself again—removing yourself from the gravitational field of an unstable sun. It involves gently but firmly re-centering your self-esteem so that no one else’s approval can topple your internal worth. This is not a one-time event but a series of small, courageous decisions taken day by day. It’s a practice in which we expect failure, but learn how we’re failing, building determination and know-how so we can get better. In the Narcissist Survivor’s Club, and in the broader journey of healing, the ultimate goal is to break free from the washing machine spin cycle, to step away from being that wobbling planet, and rediscover what it means to stand firmly on your own ground. Little by little, you can re-establish a gentle, loving connection to your true self—one that won’t flip when another person withholds their warmth. And that, in the end, is what genuine self-esteem is all about.
0 Comments
I once worked with a client in his early 60s who had a habit of saying, “You get your report card by this age.” It was his way of concluding that the world had sized him up—judged his life’s work, his accomplishments, his worth—and found him wanting. Over the course of our sessions, I came to see this statement as a window into a much larger set of beliefs about identity and success. He wasn’t merely disappointed with certain professional outcomes; he believed there was a cosmic or divine ledger, disguised in corporate HR trappings, tallying his deficits and handing down a final verdict: “Subpar.” This notion of a cosmic “report card” is an unsettling hybrid. It carries the moral weight of old religious ideas of being judged by an omniscient deity, yet it borrows language and imagery from the modern, performance-based world of career metrics. It suggests a higher authority—a God in business-casual attire—who weighs our worthiness and stamps us “pass/fail.” And what I found most troubling was how my client used this metaphor to silence any discussion of life’s complexity, any acknowledgment of chance, and any place for self-compassion. His psyche was, in essence, outsourcing - or projecting - the role of an inner punisher to an imagined external authority that he believed knew all and judged him accordingly. The Temptation of a Simplistic Verdict I’ve often reflected on why such a harsh, dualistic mindset holds so much sway, as I recently spoke about: splitting is something we should all be more aware of. In a related sense, perhaps it’s comforting, in a paradoxical way, to imagine a scoreboard that sums up our entire existence. If the “score” is low, we can at least cling to a sense of order: Things are the way they are because I wasn’t good enough. Chaos and randomness, by contrast, can feel disorienting and unreliable. Many people I’ve worked with find unpredictability more anxiety-provoking than the bleak certainty of “I failed.” But reducing our lives to a grade—or an eternal “A” or “F”—is to oversimplify the extraordinary mix of influences that shape who we are. In truth, we’re enmeshed in a swirl of genetics, family narratives, unconscious motivations, and yes, plain old luck. Equating self-worth with worldly success is not just unfair; it distorts the human experience into an all-or-nothing test rather than an ongoing process of evolution. The Myth of a Fair and Omniscient World What made my client’s conviction so tenacious was his belief that “if I were really deserving, I’d have been recognized by now.” He assumed there existed an equitable global order—like a giant HR department in the sky—that tallied his virtues and flaws without error. From my vantage point, such a view overlooks the countless structural, social, and familial factors that affect our trajectories. The world doesn’t operate like a fair-minded teacher grading math quizzes. People are born into wildly different circumstances. Their opportunities hinge on upbringing, cultural norms, economic resources, and timing. Luck, in fact, looms larger than we like to admit. In the realm of possibility, a single conversation or random event can open doors or close them forever. The idea that we receive precise cosmic feedback about our moral and existential worth is, in many ways, a projection of longing—a desire for an orderly universe that we can make sense of. Not Masters of Our Own Castle Sigmund Freud’s famous line--the ego is not master in its own house—often echoes in my mind when I hear clients talk about failure. We like to believe our conscious self is at the helm, steering the ship. Yet psychoanalytic and Jungian approaches remind us that our actions, desires, and sense of identity are shaped by unconscious forces. My client’s “report card” fixation, for instance, likely developed from early life experiences and internalized family judgments. We might call it a punitive superego that demands perfection while ignoring the fact that much of what we do is driven by roots buried out of sight. Jungian psychology goes even deeper, suggesting that we inherit certain archetypal patterns, and if we remain unconscious of them, they tend to direct our lives behind the scenes. When we awaken to these deeper layers—perhaps through therapy, dreams, or creative expression—we reclaim some measure of agency. But until then, the illusions of total control and total responsibility for every outcome continue to feed that feeling of cosmic condemnation when things don’t go our way. Inheriting the Family Narrative One of the hidden drivers of the “report card” mentality is the family legacy: the unspoken scripts about success, failure, love, and worth passed down through generations. If a family line has experienced trauma, displacement, or chronic marginalization, certain pressures or anxieties can be deeply internalized without conscious awareness. For example, if a family has historically hinged its identity on outward status—college degrees, fancy job titles, or social standing—then a descendant who doesn’t measure up may come to feel they are not just disappointing their parents but tarnishing the entire lineage. This amplifies the sense that “the world’s verdict is final” because it becomes entangled with ancestral expectations and unprocessed collective grief. The Burden of Personal Responsibility—and Its Liberation Lest this all paint too fatalistic a picture, it’s important to remember that we do hold some measure of responsibility for our actions. We shape our lives through daily choices, relationships, and our willingness to face inner conflicts. I believe deeply in the Humanistic notion that we have an innate capacity to grow, to move toward self-actualization, and to find meaning despite adversity. That said, true responsibility should not be confused with taking on the entire weight of cosmic judgment. It’s a delicate dance: accepting we have agency while recognizing the complexity of what shapes us. In my experience, when someone shifts from “I am wholly to blame” to “I am a co-creator of my life, navigating luck, unconscious patterns, and societal factors,” they begin to break free from the tyranny of the cosmic HR department. They can hold themselves accountable without surrendering to condemnation. A Crisis of Love and Self-Respect The deeper I delved into my client’s story, the more I realized that his report-card mindset was not just a flawed world-view—it was also a failure of love and respect toward himself. A self-described cultural Christian who was exasperated by religious literalism, he came to a startling insight: He was Old Testament in need of the New. His vision was obscured by despair; he could not see that beneath the harsh self-judgment, he was a person of genuine warmth, curiosity, and compassion—thoughtful and deeply caring to his family, eager to learn about the world, a “walking miracle” in his own fragile yet magnificent humanity. This recognition was accompanied by shame. He saw that, paradoxically, the greatest failure was not that he hadn’t been an incredibly rare member of his corporation to have worn the mantle of C-Suite doyen, but his inability to treat himself with the very tenderness and empathy he extended to, and valued in, others. In psychoanalytic terms, he was punishing himself for not measuring up to ideals he had never fully questioned. In more humanistic, spiritual terms, he had forsaken a basic commandment of love neighbour-as-self. His failure, at root, was more a failure of love and forgiveness than realized ambition. Seeing this was painful but liberating. Suddenly, his focus shifted from external judgments—what a God-like projection of harsh judgement might think—to an inner reckoning: How do I care for myself in the face of life’s inevitable ups and downs? What can I actually control? He realized his true responsibility was to monitor his own self-disrespect, to catch, in regular amazement, moments when he belittled himself, and to cultivate a principle of rigorous self-love that he had long neglected. Toward a Curative Perspective In working through these issues, I’ve found a blend of psychoanalytic, Jungian, and Humanistic approaches to be especially healing. This includes, crucially, a reorientation toward love—both divine and human, both spiritual and deeply personal:
Conclusion My client’s phrase—“You get your report card by this age”—became a mantra for self-condemnation, masquerading as a clear-eyed acknowledgment of “reality.” Yet the truth is, this reality was heavily coloured by his own beliefs and deeply internalized cultural and familial scripts. In challenging these beliefs, he began to see that no single authority—be it a boss, a family legacy, or a cosmic divider—could possibly judge his entire being. More importantly, he came to recognize that his greatest shortfall was, in fact, a shortfall of love and respect for himself. He had lost sight of his own humanity, failing to notice his inherent worth and beauty—the parts of himself that were caring, curious, and intelligent. In so doing, he was missing an existential truth: that every person is, in some sense, a fragment of the divine, a miraculous spark of being. This shift in perspective did not magically solve all his struggles, but it did offer him a new kind of personal responsibility: to watch for and act on his own self-disrespect. He learned to catch himself in moments of harsh self-critique, to soften that punitive superego with empathy, and to reclaim the loving principle that he’d so often extended to others but denied himself. He began to develop a practice of self-esteem. In this way, breaking free from the “report card” mentality is about more than dismantling a flawed worldview and reorienting toward a growth-esteem mindset, which is necessarily loving, creative and curious. It is about reconnecting with the deeper wellspring of love—both within and beyond ourselves—that reminds us we are whole, evolving, and worthy of compassion. It is about recognizing that no cosmic leveller can reduce our humanity to a simple grade, and that our capacity to love, respect, and honour who we are may be the truest measure of success we ever find. Interestingly, within a few months, this client had begun taking drawing and painting classes. He never judged these in a harsh sense - they were never binary to him - and in parallel, that old report card of his gradually receded into the background, only sporadically returning to its previously rigid psychological dominance. Narcissism, as conceptualized in psychoanalytic thought, is not merely the inflated self-regard of an individual. It is a deep-seated, pervasive force that can affect every level of human life, from our most intimate relationships to the grandest structures of global politics. While we often think of narcissism as a purely personal disorder—identified in individuals who bully, manipulate, or dominate those around them—its roots and ramifications stretch far beyond any one person’s psyche. It shapes our families, our communities, our cultural norms, and even our civilizations. Understanding narcissism on this macro scale is essential if we hope to address humanity’s many interlocking crises, from systemic racism and historical empires to modern ecological catastrophes.
On a personal level, narcissism can be understood as a struggle rooted in early developmental experiences, something psychoanalysts have described for decades. A baby’s earliest phase of relating to the world—often termed “primary narcissism”—is one in which the self is the universe, and all others exist solely to meet its needs. While this is a healthy and necessary stage for infants, problems arise when we fail to mature beyond this viewpoint. Adults who remain caught in narcissistic patterns treat the world as an object, a mirror reflecting only their needs, triumphs, and grandiosity. This can lead to subtle forms of emotional manipulation at home—spouses or children treated as “narcissistic supply”—or overt tyranny in the workplace or public sphere. We see, however, that this same dynamic plays out on larger scales. Consider historical empires. The logic of empire, after all, often boils down to narcissism at scale: the empire’s needs, resources, and worldview are placed above all others, justifying domination and exploitation. Entire cultures can be infused with a collective narcissism—a belief in their inherent superiority or “manifest destiny”—that leads them to rewrite histories, commit atrocities, or rationalize profound social inequalities. The vile prejudice of racism and the cruelty of colonial expansion have roots in this same grandiose self-regard. Empires have not merely sought power; they have sought the right to define reality itself, a privilege that belongs to the narcissist who does not acknowledge the subjectivity and equal worth of others. Cultural narcissism can also manifest more subtly: a wealthy nation insisting that its way of life is the only civilized route; a corporation behaving as though the market’s logic is the sole compass of human value; a political party that regards opposition not as fellow citizens with competing visions, but as enemies to be humiliated and destroyed. At every level, the narcissistic pattern repeats: one viewpoint, one group, one class, one nation enthrones itself and denies the full personhood and legitimacy of those on the margins. The consequences are dire. On a global scale, our collective inability to see beyond the “self” leads us to degrade the environment as though it were an infinite resource bank existing only for us. We deepen global inequality as though the suffering of distant populations does not matter, as if they were mere props on our stage. We perpetuate ancient grudges, despite the overwhelming need for cooperation. Our species-wide mental health crises—rising anxiety, depression, a profound sense of alienation—are further fueled by this narcissistic mindset that isolates us from one another. Addressing the problem of narcissism, then, requires interventions at multiple levels. Individually, therapeutic efforts—like those discussed in psychoanalysis and relational forms of therapy—seek to reintegrate a person’s capacity for empathy, help them see others as complex individuals, and restore a sense of humility in the face of one’s own limitations. But tackling narcissism at larger scales requires cultural and institutional work. We must ask: how can we construct social systems that discourage grandiose worldviews and reward empathy, humility, and genuine dialogue? Religions have, in various forms, tried to provide the answer: by emphasizing transcendence and humility, by placing God or a higher moral order at the center of reality, many religious traditions aim to decenter the ego. Although religious institutions themselves have sometimes been corrupted by narcissistic dynamics, their spiritual teachings often include a profound critique of self-absorption. Similarly, the founding of democratic institutions and the rule of law are, in part, efforts to contain narcissism at the societal level. A robust democracy is structured to prevent any single faction from amassing too much power, and thus it reminds us that no one voice—no matter how charismatic, wealthy, or powerful—is entitled to dominate. Free press, separation of powers, and civil rights legislation work as checks against collective narcissism, insisting that each citizen deserves respect and moral consideration. On the cultural front, we must learn to value multiplicity and complexity. Education that includes exposure to other cultures, languages, histories, and worldviews can mitigate narcissism by undermining the assumption that one’s own perspective is the sole, correct reality. Media, when not weaponized for propaganda, can challenge parochial views by highlighting stories of those on the margins, those who have been historically silenced. In this way, cultural production can become a mirror that reflects not just our own image back to us, but a world inhabited by many equally valid stories. Even in modern attempts to address global problems, we see the seeds of anti-narcissistic thinking. The calls for international cooperation on climate change reflect an understanding that we must look beyond national interests. The principles of human rights law—though imperfectly upheld—proclaim the fundamental dignity of each human being. In essence, the greatest institutional and cultural advancements have all tried, in their own way, to contain or transcend humanity’s narcissistic tendencies. If we are to genuinely reduce suffering and move towards a healthier, more sustainable future, we must grapple with narcissism at all these scales. Narcissism is not a peripheral issue; it is at the root of countless human miseries, from racial oppression and gendered violence to ecological devastation and authoritarian regimes. The task before us is immense: we must encourage individuals to break out of the mirror-maze of their own minds; we must build systems of governance and culture that promote genuine mutual recognition; we must question and reshape entrenched traditions that sustain the narcissistic illusion of one’s superiority over another. Ultimately, the path forward involves honest confrontation with our past and present narcissisms. It means acknowledging that no tribe, nation, or civilization is inherently chosen or more worthy than another. It demands that we learn to see ourselves as part of a greater whole, one among many, dependent on each other and the planet. Only then might we outgrow the constraints of our narcissism—personal, familial, cultural—and approach one another with the empathy, fairness, and respect that a truly interconnected humanity requires. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), widely promoted for its structured techniques and short-term outcomes, also harbors an unsettling potential: it can reduce psychotherapy to a form of mechanization and social management. When a therapy model simplifies the human mind to a system of measurable inputs and outputs—thoughts to be “corrected,” behaviors to be “modified”—it risks aligning itself with a broader cultural drift toward commodification. In such a scenario, psychological treatment can become a convenient instrument of societal norms or corporate interests, functioning less like a healing practice and more like an arm of a capitalist Human Resources department tasked with smoothing out inconvenient wrinkles in the workforce’s “mental productivity.”
The language of CBT itself—talk of “cognitive restructuring” and “thought correction”—conjures a top-down, almost surgical approach. It implicitly casts therapist and patient into a hierarchical dynamic: the expert and the subject. The therapist, equipped with a clinical toolkit and standardized interventions, “fixes” the patient’s faulty cognitions much as a technician might replace a defective part in a machine. While such precision appeals to those seeking clear-cut efficiency, it fails to appreciate the complex inner life of the person sitting in the room. Patients, in this view, are molded from the outside-in, with interventions administered like pharmaceutical doses rather than discovered collaboratively. Long-term, this approach tends to falter. People are not static systems; they are evolving, storied, and deeply contextual beings, for whom growth emerges through self-understanding, not mere compliance with an external script. Nancy McWilliams, a psychoanalytic psychologist revered for her humane and nuanced approach, advocates for a therapy that engages with the patient’s subjective world in a more relational, empathic manner. She suggests that true psychotherapeutic work involves grappling with and integrating the many layers of the psyche—layers shaped by personal history, unconscious currents, relational patterns, and existential concerns. Such healing is a creative, “inside-out” process. It respects the individual’s inner complexity, the subtle interplay of emotions and meanings that cannot be captured by symptom inventories or corrected by cognitive dictates. In other words, it tends the soul rather than tinkers with the machinery. This “inside-out” orientation values empathy and acute listening over pre-set interventions, fostering an environment where the self can emerge and flourish. It encourages patients to discover their own truth rather than internalize a therapist’s directives. Here, the therapist is not a cognitive surgeon cutting out “distorted” beliefs, but a companion in a shared journey toward wholeness. The emphasis is on integration: weaving together the emotional, intellectual, relational, and spiritual dimensions of a person’s experience into a coherent narrative that feels authentic and alive. Contrast this with the potential endpoint of a CBT-dominated culture: therapy reduced to productivity coaching, where the nuance and individuality of patients is sacrificed at the altar of quick fixes and “evidence-based” maneuvers designed to keep people functional, compliant, and unquestioning. By privileging what can be measured and standardized, we risk erasing what cannot: the soul’s inner life, moral imagination, and search for meaning. Psychotherapy then ceases to be a sanctuary for personal growth and becomes another form of social control, producing docile individuals who think appropriately, behave acceptably, and never rock the boat. When therapy becomes just another means to render humans more efficient in a capitalist system, it betrays its original aim: to nurture human freedom, self-understanding, and profound well-being. None of this is to say that CBT and its techniques have no place; exposure therapy, for example, can help alleviate certain phobias and anxieties. Nor is it to dismiss the value of having some structure or measurable outcomes in clinical practice. But we must remain vigilant. When the language of therapy drifts into the realm of managerial efficiency—words like “optimization,” “compliance,” or “restructuring”—and when the goals become indistinguishable from corporate mental hygiene standards, we are moving away from the transformative power of psychotherapy. True healing requires presence, depth, open-ended exploration, and a respect for the ineffable qualities of human experience that cannot be itemized on a behavioral checklist. In the end, the soul does not yield to top-down corrections. It requires a setting in which the therapist’s humanity can meet the patient’s humanity, without the intrusion of rigid protocols or hidden agendas. Therapy is at its best when it is an art of listening, a craft of empathy, and a commitment to nurturing wholeness. By approaching our patients from the inside-out, we ensure that psychotherapy remains a space of liberation and meaning, rather than a cog in society’s machinery. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) has often been lauded as the “gold standard” of evidence-based treatment, celebrated for its structured protocols and measurable outcomes. Yet, an increasing number of informed critics, including well-respected voices in the field, question the true depth and breadth of its efficacy. They argue that CBT can be limited, mechanistic, and insufficiently attentive to the complexity of the human psyche—particularly the nuanced dimensions of the Self. In this critique, I will examine the underlying theoretical assumptions of CBT, its approach to the therapeutic relationship, and its impact on both patient and therapist. Drawing on the work of Jonathan Shedler and other respected commentators, I will highlight the ways in which CBT’s positivist orientation may undermine the goal of psychotherapy: the integration and well-being of the whole person in a complex and meaningful world.
At the heart of CBT lies a logical-seeming premise: that by identifying distorted thoughts and practicing new behaviors, emotional distress will decrease. This focus on symptoms and their management is certainly pragmatic, and, in the right circumstances, can be helpful. However, the approach frequently treats the human mind as a kind of cognitive apparatus that can be recalibrated through discrete interventions. In other words, CBT’s founding metaphor is that of a “thinking machine,” reducible to inputs (cognitions), outputs (behaviors), and measurable states of distress. Such a perspective inherently veers toward reductionism. When human life is understood predominantly as a set of maladaptive thought patterns to be corrected, vital aspects of the person’s inner world—unconscious conflicts, complex emotions, relational dynamics, and existential yearnings—may remain unaddressed. Jonathan Shedler, a clinical psychologist and a vocal advocate for psychodynamic therapy, has offered a thorough critique of CBT’s inflated claims. In his widely cited article published in American Psychologist, Shedler states, “The claim that only CBT and other ‘evidence-based’ therapies have scientific support—and that psychodynamic concepts and treatments lack empirical support—does not withstand scrutiny.” (Shedler, 2010). He points out that while CBT studies often highlight short-term symptom reduction, they rarely capture the longer-term growth, self-knowledge, and personal integration that more depth-oriented therapies can foster. This discrepancy suggests that CBT’s evidence-based reputation is, at times, built on a selective reading of research data, placing short-term, easily quantifiable outcomes above the richer tapestry of long-term mental health and the fullness of selfhood. Such a selective lens is closely tied to CBT’s underlying positivist mindset, which privileges what can be observed, measured, and standardized. In clinical practice, this can unintentionally encourage therapists to become technicians applying standardized protocols rather than empathic companions engaged in a deeply relational process. The intricacies of the therapeutic relationship—such as the way patients grow through the trust, empathy, and presence of the therapist—are not easily captured by the manualized frameworks favored by CBT. When therapy becomes a scripted sequence of interventions, space for the patient’s individuality, subjective experience, and complexity can be diminished. Indeed, the task of discovering one’s Self—layered, contradictory, meaningful, and evolving—may be overshadowed by a relentless focus on “fixing” negative thought patterns. Critics have also underscored CBT’s tendency to disregard or minimize the patient’s inner world. While exposure therapy, one of its acknowledged strengths, can desensitize individuals to frightening situations, it also risks glossing over the deeper reasons why certain fears emerge and how they relate to the patient’s core identity. Real psychological transformation often requires encountering, understanding, and integrating these internal truths, not merely neutralizing their symptomatic manifestations. Nancy McWilliams, a prominent psychoanalytic clinician, emphasizes that true psychological well-being involves “developing a richer, more integrated, and more humane understanding of oneself,” something that cannot be accomplished by cognitive restructuring alone. Therapy should not be confined to symptom management but extended into the domains of meaning, authenticity, and identity. The consequences of a doctrinaire and pseudo-scientific approach go beyond the patient’s experience. Therapists trained predominantly in CBT risk intellectual and clinical impoverishment if they adhere uncritically to its frameworks. A rigid, protocol-driven stance can limit their ability to respond flexibly and creatively to the complexities of human distress. By centering a methodology that treats symptoms in isolation, a therapist may fail to engage with the patient’s capacity for growth, meaning-making, and self-integration. A more holistic approach, one that includes an understanding of unconscious processes, relational attachments, and existential concerns, is often necessary to foster deep and lasting transformation. The goal of psychotherapy, as classically conceived, is not merely symptom reduction. It is the integration and flourishing of a whole self: a nuanced, multilayered being with desires, fears, dreams, and a relational existence in the world. This vision cannot be realized by a form of therapy that narrows its focus to quantifiable thoughts and behaviors. It demands approaches that acknowledge mystery, engage complexity, and embrace the profound relational work of healing. While CBT’s methods—especially exposure techniques—can offer useful tools and may serve as a valuable adjunct in certain clinical scenarios, we must not mistake its partial utility for an entire theory of mind and selfhood. In conclusion, CBT’s emphasis on measurable outcomes, standardized protocols, and a flattened view of the human mind has understandably drawn both praise and critique. Figures like Jonathan Shedler have revealed how inflated claims of superiority and evidence-based certainty do not hold up under closer examination. Beyond these claims, the deeper problem lies in CBT’s philosophical underpinnings: its reductive conceptualization of the human being and its disregard for the complexity of the Self. Psychotherapy, at its best, is an endeavor to foster true integration, inner freedom, and meaningful engagement with the world. Any approach that sacrifices these broader aims for the comfort of measurable simplicity ultimately does a disservice to patients—and to the rich, evolving field of psychotherapy as a whole. We have all been there: a friend makes an offhand remark, a family member forgets to do a small favor, or a co-worker slightly misreads the tone of an email. Suddenly, the room crackles with tension, and before we know it, a conversation spirals into a heated confrontation. The trigger might have been trivial—an unwashed dish, a missed text message—but the emotional intensity and severity of the argument feel entirely disproportionate. Why do we sometimes break down our world into stark extremes and become so quick to blame and attack? This pattern of thinking and relating to others is often captured by the psychological concept known as “splitting.” Splitting refers to an unconscious defense mechanism where people view others, situations, or themselves as wholly good or wholly bad, with no middle ground. In essence, it is an all-or-nothing approach to interpretation, one that eliminates nuance. While splitting often appears in certain personality disorders—particularly Borderline Personality Disorder—it can manifest in anyone under stress. More importantly, it is not just an individual phenomenon; splitting has social implications that ripple through communities, organizations, and even the political sphere. Understanding Splitting on a Personal Level At its core, splitting emerges when we feel threatened, overwhelmed, or insecure. The mind seeks to impose order on chaos, and one way to accomplish this is through simplification. If someone hurts our feelings, instead of parsing out their intentions, their good qualities, and our long history with them, it can feel safer or more satisfying to paint them as entirely selfish, cruel, or “the enemy.” Similarly, in arguments, if we feel misunderstood, we may reduce the other person to a single negative trait—“He’s always so careless”—thereby justifying our anger and moral high ground. This black-and-white thinking rarely leads to resolution. Instead, it can trap us in cycles of conflict. We become locked into roles: victim and villain, righteous and wrongdoer, hero and failure. The truth, of course, is far more complex. Few people are all good or all bad. Relationships are almost always multifaceted, shaped by context, stressors, past experiences, and countless shades of gray. By relying on splitting, we deny ourselves the opportunity to empathize, understand, and appreciate complexity. As a result, minor disagreements inflate into bitter rifts, leaving both sides feeling depleted and unheard. From the Individual to the Collective While splitting begins in our personal psyche, it doesn’t stay confined there. In fact, the collective expression of splitting is increasingly visible in our broader society. Cultural and political landscapes often mirror the psychological tendencies of the individuals who shape them. Consider the tenor of modern political discourse. We see parties and ideologies cast as wholly correct or utterly misguided. Opponents become caricatures to be mocked or demonized, rather than fellow citizens with legitimate, if differing, perspectives and life experiences. This tendency is exacerbated by modern media ecosystems, particularly social media. Online platforms, built on algorithms designed to maximize engagement, often reward the most emotionally charged, polarizing content. Arguments over nothing—trivial misstatements, small cultural faux pas—balloon into movements of outrage that feed tribal lines. The anonymity of the internet makes it easier for people to slip into splitting: we turn our opponents into monoliths—ignorant, malicious, or “just stupid”—and our own camp as enlightened champions of truth. The effect is that the public sphere begins to look like a battleground of extremes, where nuance and empathy become casualties in the crossfire. Consequences for Civic Life When societies embrace splitting on a large scale, the implications are profound. Complex policy debates—on healthcare, environmental regulation, economic policies—become flattened into caricatures. Instead of grappling with intricate trade-offs, costs, benefits, and long-term consequences, public debates devolve into a chorus of simplistic slogans. Political opponents may no longer be seen as worthy of debate; they are unworthy, illegitimate, or even dangerous. Similarly, social issues become moralized with such intensity that any conversation that tries to find a middle ground is suspect. The result is deadlock, resentment, and a sense that we are arguing, often viciously, over issues that could be approached with more understanding and cooperation. Ironically, these societal trends feed back into our individual behavior. When we witness leaders, pundits, and social influencers engaging in splitting, it normalizes the pattern. We come to expect—and even prefer—simple stories: heroes and villains, us versus them. This validates our own inclination to reduce complexity in our personal lives. The more we see splitting in the headlines, the easier it becomes to justify splitting in our homes, workplaces, and friendships. Finding a Path Toward Complexity and Understanding Breaking the cycle of splitting, both personally and collectively, requires conscious effort. On an individual level, we can start by practicing self-awareness. The next time a small disagreement flares into anger, pause and ask: Am I painting this person into a corner? Can I see another side to this story? We can also seek therapy or engage in conversations with friends who challenge us to consider alternatives. Mindfulness practices, which encourage observing our thoughts non-judgmentally, can help identify the early signs of splitting before it overtakes our interactions. On a societal level, the remedy involves supporting institutions and media outlets that resist sensationalism. This means valuing journalism that embraces complexity and thoughtful debate. Encouraging open dialogue in our communities, schools, and workplaces fosters an environment where differences are acknowledged and respected. As citizens, we can demand leaders who refuse to reduce their opponents to simplistic stereotypes. Over time, with committed effort, we can cultivate cultures that reward nuance, depth, and patience rather than haste, outrage, and simplification. Conclusion Splitting is a psychological defense mechanism that, when left unchecked, can lead to needless conflict and misunderstanding. When magnified through media and cultural forces, it can transform our public sphere into one of polarization and acrimony. Yet, by becoming aware of our own tendencies, challenging the impulse to simplify, and nurturing environments that value complexity and cooperation, we can begin to heal these rifts. In doing so, we might just find that the things we once argued over—trivial or otherwise—can become opportunities for deeper understanding, not harder division. |
Tom BarwellPsychotherapist, working in private practice online Archives
December 2024
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed