My previous post focuses on how our thinking gets in the way of our being: we are more than our minds. If you have read this blog, you know this is a struggle of mine, and I don’t think I’m all that unusual. It is, however, an unending tension: where does that line appear to cross over into mental illness or whatever other term you want to use. Peggy in Fargo (previous post) may have some issues. Maybe Lester Burnham in American Beauty (earlier post). Likewise, the 1976 film Network relies on and dances around this question in two ways: macro and micro. The micro is Peter Finch’s character, Howard Beale. The macro is all of us, who Beale rails against with increasing rancor as the film progresses. Audiences and critics saw truth here; the film was a success along different measures (and Finch won the Oscar for his role).
Obviously I titled this post with this clip in mind, though I didn’t use the more familiar line (the “I’m as mad as Hell and I’m not going to take this anymo!” rant/refrain).
This notion that our thinking, or our zombie-like lack of it as Beale frets, as something distinct from who we are isn’t new. Moreover, outside of therapy and psychoanalysis, we celebrate the brain, perhaps more than ever these days. We revel in its possibilities. We marvel at what it does and what it can do.
My children love that “Brain Games” show. And yeah, it’s cool. But when I watch it (either really watch it—sitting in the room absorbing what’s on the screen with one or both of my kids—or sort of watch it—sitting in a different room hearing what’s going on and either responding vocally without moving or popping my head in to see what’s on the screen), I always notice the show’s punchy positivity (the narrator’s voice, the colorful visuals, etc.). Makes sense: the show celebrates that amazing entity, the brain!
But the brain also plays us. And when it does, we react in different ways. I feel like I can recognize this more easily now as I transition off of antidepressants. I’m not blocked like I was before. Howard Beale would be satisfied: I’m able to get mad again. Beale says that first, you have to get mad. My feelings and emotions are no longer six feet under. And so what if they’re not always happy or even? Better to feel some madness than nothing at all, right?
Our popular culture has turned against this since the late ’70’s of Howard Beale and Fargo‘s Peggy. For example, I love this exchange from one of my all-time favorite films, Adaptation (2002):
Or more recently: the way that Joy continually tries to contain Sadness in last year’s animated film, Inside Out.
Our most popular songs have gone from “Let It Be” to “Let It Go” and “Shake It Off.” Maybe “it” does “get better” for some, but maybe that doesn’t happen for a long long time. Or maybe it only happens when we radically accept (DBT reference there–see previous post) and finally figure out how to expand what it means for something to “get better.” What if it isn’t getting better? What if you have tried? In so many ways? Does it leave you with false hope? “It” may require some really blind faith, perhaps. No, change that. Not faith—faith is too embedded with other meanings. Hope. Blind hope.
What does a typically glass-half-full person do with all this? If, as one of my therapists has said, I hold so true to my values, my natural inclination and need for hope and rightness and justice, that the world will sort itself out and that there will be a correction to the blatant injustice applied toward my professional career, then what am I supposed to do when it doesn’t? Well, there my friend, that is when therapy doubles your dosage of antidepressants. And it’s also when you, dear reader, go back to the beginning of this post and read through it again and again to invoke this stupid, vicious cycle of futility.
