In Praise of Missing Out: Psychoanalyst Adam Phillips on the Paradoxical Value of Our Unlived Lives
The unexamined life is surely worth living, but is the unlived life worth examining? It seems a strange question until one realizes how much of our so-called mental life is about the lives we are not living, the lives we are missing out on, the lives we could be leading but for some reason are not. What we fantasize about, what we long for, are the experiences, the things and the people that are absent. It is the absence of what we need that makes us think, that makes us cross and sad. We have to be aware of what is missing in our lives – even if this often obscures both what we already have and what is actually available – because we can survive only if our appetites more or less work for us. Indeed, we have to survive our appetites by making people cooperate with our wanting.
We pressurize the world to be there for our benefit. And
yet we quickly notice as children – it is, perhaps, the first thing we do
notice – that our needs, like our wishes, are always potentially unmet. Because
we are always shadowed by the possibility of not getting what we want, we
learn, at best, to ironize our wishes – that is, to call our wants wishes: a
wish is only a wish until, as we say, it comes true – and, at worst, to hate
our needs. But we also learn to live somewhere between the lives we have and
the lives we would like.
We refer to them as our unlived lives because somewhere
we believe that they were open to us; but for some reason – and we might spend
a great deal of our lived lives trying to find and give the reason – they were
not possible. And what was not possible all too easily becomes the story of our
lives. Indeed, our lived lives might become a protracted mourning for, or an
endless tantrum about, the lives we were unable to live. But the exemptions we
suffer, whether forced or chosen, make us who we are.
We are always haunted by the myth of our potential, of
what we might have it in ourselves to be or do... We share our lives with the
people we have failed to be. Our lives become an elegy to needs unmet and
desires sacrificed, to possibilities refused, to roads not taken. The myth of
our potential can make of our lives a perpetual falling-short, a continual and
continuing loss, a sustained and sometimes sustaining rage.
We have an abiding sense, however obscure and obscured,
that the lives we do lead are informed by the lives that escape us. Because we are nothing special – on a par with ants and
daffodils – it is the work of culture to make us feel special; just as parents
need to make their children feel special to help them bear and bear with – and
hopefully enjoy – their insignificance in the larger scheme of things. In this
sense growing up is always an undoing of what needed to be done: first,
ideally, we are made to feel special; then we are expected to enjoy a world in
which we are not... When people realize how accidental they are, they are
tempted to think of themselves as chosen. We certainly tend to be more special,
if only to ourselves, in our (imaginary) unlived lives.
So it is worth wondering what the need to be special
prevents us seeing about ourselves – other, that is, than the unfailing
transience of our lives; what the need to be special stops us from being. This,
essentially, is the question psychoanalysis was invented to address: what kind
of pleasures can sustain a creature that is nothing special? Once the promise
of immortality, of being chosen, was displaced by the promise of more life –
the promise, as we say, of getting more out of life – the unlived life became a
haunting presence in a life legitimated by nothing more than the desire to live
it. For modern people, stalked by their choices, the good life is a life lived
to the full. We become obsessed, in a new way, by what is missing in our lives;
and by what sabotages the pleasures that we seek.
We make our lives pleasurable, and therefore bearable,
by picturing them as they might be; it is less obvious, though, what these
compelling fantasy lives – lives of, as it were, a more complete satisfaction –
are a self-cure for. Our solutions tell us what our problems are; our fantasy
lives are not – or not necessarily – alternatives to, or refuges from, those
real lives but an essential part of them...
There is nothing more obscure than the relationship
between the lived and the unlived life. (Each member of a couple, for example,
is always having a relationship, wittingly or unwittingly, with their partner’s
unlived lives; their initial and initiating relationship is between what they
assume are their potential selves.) So we may need to think of ourselves as
always living a double life, the one that we wish for and the one that we
practice; the one that never happens and the one that keeps happening.
There is a gap between what we want and what we can
have, and that gap ... is our link, our connection, to the world... This
discord, this supposed mismatch, is the origin of our experience of missing
out.
Our utopias tell us more about our lived lives, and
their privations, than about our wished-for lives.
In our unlived lives we are always more satisfied, far
less frustrated versions of ourselves... Our possibilities for satisfaction
depend upon our capacity for frustration; if we can’t let ourselves feel our
frustration – and, surprisingly, this is a surprisingly difficult thing to do –
we can’t get a sense of what it is we might be wanting, and missing, of what
might really give us pleasure... That frustration is where we start from; the
child’s dawning awareness of himself is an awareness of something necessary not
being there. The child becomes present to himself in the absence of something
he needs.
The more we frustrate ourselves in wanting something,
the more we value our desire for it... Waiting too long poisons desire, but
waiting too little pre-empts it; the imagining is in the waiting... Wanting
takes time; partly because it takes some time to get over the resistances to
wanting, and partly because we are often unconscious of what it is that we do
want. But the worst thing we can be frustrated of is frustration itself; to be
deprived of frustration is to be deprived of the possibilities of satisfaction.
No comments:
Post a Comment