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Bonds That
Make Us Free, Part 16: Self-Justifying Styles
by
C. Terry Warner
Back
to Part 15
Begin Reading Part 1
Fable: Conscience
always tells us what's right, according to our own deepest values.
Fact: Like perceptions,
memories, emotions, moods, impulses, and so on, conscience can become
distorted, so as to support the lie we're living. We can make right
seem wrong and wrong seem right.
Self-Justifying
Styles
The varieties of moral counterfeiting seem endless, but here
are a few examples:
Conscientiousness,
a good thing in a person whose heart is right, is, when counterfeited,
what we call self-righteousness. Another version of it is perfectionism.
Forthrightness
when counterfeited is tactlessness or insensitivity.
Humility counterfeited
is self-disparagement.
Standing up
for one's rights, again a good thing if done with a considerate
heart and for the right reason, becomes, when counterfeited, contentiousness.
Counterfeit
consideration is the cloying behavior of the "pleaser."
It will be helpful
to describe just a few of these counterfeits, which we will call
styles of self-betrayal. Knowing the pitfalls makes it easier
to avoid them.
We might also
call them story lines, for they are the various plot patterns
we invent in which we turn out to be exonerated or deserving in
the way we have chosen to live. What we do may in fact be counterfeit,
but in our stories we appear morally courageous, or worthy of much
better than we got, or unwilling to give in to opposition or bad
fortune, or in some other way fully excused or justified.
Some of these
story lines emphasize our conscientiousness. We think of ourselves
as doing our duty in spite of how other people are treating
us. In other story lines we admit to falling short of doing what
we know we should, and we blame others for it. In stories of both
kinds, accusation and resentment play a central part. We blame others
either for making it hard for us to do our duty or for keeping us
from doing it.
In learning
about these story lines, it helps to keep before us some actual
examples, such as those that follow.
Self-Assertiveness
Jennifer, the college student we just discussed, worked herself
into believing that visiting her aunt, who after all probably wouldn't
want to talk with her, would cost her too much personally. So she
felt she was in danger of being taken advantage of and therefore
needed to look out for herself. "It's just not right for me
to have to spend one of my few nights off traveling across town
on the bus to see a person who probably doesn't even want me to
come," she said to herself. Thus she transformed the wrong
of neglecting her aunt into the counterfeit right of taking care
of herself. Self-assertiveness counterfeits our legitimate need
and obligation to take proper care of ourselves.
Self-Righteousness,
or Making Oneself a Martyr
Instead of staying home self-assertively, Jennifer could have
gone ahead and visited her aunt in spite of the personal sacrifice
it required. Precisely because of the hardship involved—remember,
her thoughts and feelings focused on her aunt's criticisms of her
and on the difficulties of taking the bus to the hospital—she
could have silently congratulated herself for rising to her duty,
in spite of all the obstacles. We call this style "self- righteousness."
It consists of doing what's outwardly the right thing, but resentfully
and grudgingly—and therefore proudly.
Self-righteousness
can also be considered an instance of holding feelings inside ourselves
rather than letting them out. Here is an example of that type of
self-righteousness: Philip, one of my research associates, said
he came home one night fantasizing about how loving he was going
to be to his children.
I planned, after
an orderly dinner with no squabbling and no stern looks from me,
to gather our two little children around the fireplace, read them
a story, tuck them into bed, and tell them I loved them.
My train was
an hour late. When I finally got home, I went through the door determined
to be cheerful and kind. But dinner wasn't on the table. Marsha
wasn't even getting it ready. It was her turn to fix it, too. Was
she waiting for me to do it?
For a moment
I felt I ought to help her out. But then I just got bitter. How
could I be the kind of father I'm supposed to be in this kind of
mess?
I felt like
letting out a bellow, but I didn't. I never do. I did what I always
do. I hung up my coat (so there would be at least one thing put
away in the house) and went to work cleaning up the mess. First,
I put the children in the tub and got them properly bathed. Then
I did the dishes and put away clothes and vacuumed everywhere.
Marsha said,
"Please, stop, will you?" I'm sure she felt humiliated
to have me pitch in when she had obviously been wasting time. People
who don't act responsibly are going to feel humiliated by people
who do.
But I didn't
say anything back. Maybe I should have given her "what for"
or not helped her at all. But I wasn't going to stoop to her level.
And I tried not to have an angry expression, even though it was
hard. I'm above pouting and tantrums and that sort of thing.
It took till
ten o'clock. When we went to bed, Marsha was still upset. After
all these years I know her well enough to know that no matter how
hard I had worked, she still wouldn't have appreciated it.
In some ways,
Philip appeared to be doing what he felt he ought to do and
did not seem to be a self-betrayer at all. He rolled up his sleeves
and went to work. He didn't bellow, though he felt he had plenty
of reason to do so, and he didn't storm out of the house in a huff.
He was a man who felt he should do his part and work with his wife
at home, and so he pitched in and he helped her. . . .
But not really.
His was not the manner of a person who dives into the work because
he's anxious to help, any more than was Ethan's cleaning the car,
packing the lunches, and so on, for the family vacation. The primary
point of Philip's conduct wasn't to rise to his duty and help, but
to prove he was rising to his duty. He cleaned the house
not because of Marsha but in spite of her. He made the effort
not for her but for himself. So he cleaned the house without
really being helpful—a counterfeit act, like Glen's participation
in the Christmas projects and my "mature" and steely voiced
answer to my son Matthew's question.
Childishness
You can also imagine Philip acting in a childish manner that
is one of the opposites of self-righteousness. Picture him refusing
to pitch in and help clean up the house and loudly criticizing Marsha
besides. He doesn't hold his feelings in when he wants to bellow;
he lets them out. He throws down his coat, stamps his feet, and
yells, "Don't you know Thursday's my hardest day? I come home
exhausted, hoping for a little peace, and this is what I get! What've
you been doing since you got home? Watching TV? I take over when
you're late, but when I'm late nothing gets done—even
though it's not my fault the train was delayed!" (To keep this
childish version of Philip distinct from the self-righteous one,
I'll call him Philip II; we'll talk about an I-You version, Philip
III, in the next sections).
The differences
between childishness and self-righteousness are all behavioral and
outward, not attitudinal and inward. The thoughts and feelings from
which these responses spring are nearly identical. Both versions
of Philip feel victimized by what they see as their wives' inconsiderateness;
they both live in a world transformed into a place that makes it
hard to do the right thing. This inner similarity of the two might
seem surprising, because the outward differences could scarcely
be greater—the childish Philip rants, swears, and refuses to
help, while the self-righteous one furiously vacuums the floors,
broils the hamburgers, and scours the kitchen. But inwardly, in
regard to their perception of the world and their feelings about
it, they are very much alike. They differ in style, not in substance.
Thus self-betrayers'
outward style should be considered a matter of insignificant detail.
Indeed, a self-righteous person who becomes convinced she's "wound
too tight" and needs to change will try to find some way to
express her pent-up feelings and "let off steam"—and
as a result only manages to act childishly. The outward details
change, but the accusing attitude remains. Similarly, the childish
person who realizes his anger is destroying his relationships will
try to find a way to "control his emotions"—and if
he does, he will only be acting self-righteously. Again, the details
of his way of being change, but not its accusing, I-It essence.
Perfectionism
Perfectionism is a close cousin of self-righteousness. The difference
seems to be that self-righteousness is arrogant, self-congratulating,
dramatic, and usually interested in making sure everyone understands
that "I'm doing my duty." Perfectionism, on the other
hand, seems obsessed with the duty itself, whether or not people
can see it being done. Perfectionists seem more obsessed with convincing
themselves, rather than other people, of their worth.
Imagine a perfectionist
person in Jennifer's place. Not only would she have immediately
gone off to visit her hospitalized aunt, but she would have found
other ways to convince herself of her worth, like bringing homemade
snacks, brightening the hospital room with decorations, and following
up with a note on a perfumed card. To those of us in a perfectionist
mode, the world presents us with a barrage of "moral"
demands, and we consider ourselves members of a moral militia marching
bedraggled but brave to the cadence of "shoulds" and "oughts"
that we alone can hear. We are desperately anxious to prove we are
doing everything that might possibly be good to do, fearful we will
not qualify as worthwhile if we pass up any chance to sacrifice
ourselves. Hence we're perpetually exhausted. We're sure our health
is slipping. It's hard for us to sleep. We feel we're getting old
before our time. We're forever postponing opportunities to rest
or play. Our conduct seems to pose the question: What more can possibly
be expected of a human being?
Yet we are not
at peace. Our massive conscientiousness is accompanied by an equally
massive, though possibly denied, resentment. In our eyes, others
seldom do their share. We've got to do it or it won't get done.
When others volunteer to help us, we don't readily consent. "Oh,
no, it's all right. I can manage it." And why don't we want
their help? Because we so desperately seek approval, especially
our own approval, that we cannot miss an opportunity to get it.
But a perfectionist's
conscience cannot be satisfied. Meeting its demands does not put
it to rest. This is simply because, fundamentally, perfectionists
are interested not in being conscientious but in proving
their conscientiousness, and this requires demanding more and more
of themselves, unendingly.
This, incidentally,
helps us understand what's wrong with one frequently heard excuse.
People sometimes say, when they think about self-betrayal, "If
I did everything that seemed right to do, I'd be so frenzied and
weary I wouldn't have time for anything else. I can't put that kind
of pressure on myself!" However, when we are not betraying
ourselves we do not require more of ourselves than we can
do. We may wish we could do two needed things at once, but we don't
have any reason to beat ourselves up because we can't. We do that
only if we're self-betrayers of the perfectionistic kind, having
to prove we're doing all we can because our hearts are not at peace
about ourselves.
Next,
more about one more style of excuse-making: one we will call "self-
disparagement"....
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