VOLUME 1. Mobilizing the Self

Part 1. Orienting the Self

IV. DIRECTED AWARENESS

EXPERIMENT 10: Converting Confluence into Contact

Thus far, in developing awareness-technique, we have limited ourselves to helping you to improve the orientation of your self with respect to environment and physical organism. We have worked on the senses, fantasies and memories, pains and body-sensations. Awareness has been undirected, in the sense that we were not asking you to seek anything in particular, but only to notice and acknowledge anything and everything that “caught the attention.” We come now to directed awareness, in which we narrow and sharpen our focus in an attempt to single out and become aware of particular blocks and blind-spots. To do this, more stress must be laid on the self’s manipulation of the body and environment. Your problem is to become aware of how you yourself manipulate yourself and your world. More attention must be given to the motor—specifically, the muscular—system. As you approach what is hard to observe, you will have to facilitate and manipulate figure/ground processes through active use of your muscles.

It is reasonable to correlate orientation (extero- and proprioception) with the sensory system, and movement and manipulation with the muscular system. This is the usual distinction between receptor and effector-function. It is important to remember, however, that in all healthy behavior, senses and muscles work in functional unity. For instance, seeing is impossible without continual small movements of the eyes. Similarly, the spastic who has lost proprioception from his limbs and can execute none but the crudest and most graceless of movements, still draws on a good deal of sensory experience—gravitational pulls, directional cues, and so on.

Despite this genuine functional unity of senses and muscles, to approach our problems with initial emphasis placed on sensory orientation offers a tactical advantage. What we merely notice and register requires no conspicuous muscular action on our part and does not attract the attention of others. It is, rather, in the big, overt movements which we make in our environment that we run our greatest risks of incurring humiliation, suffering embarrassment, or in various ways bringing down punishment on ourselves. It is, therefore, easier and more sensible to work first to improve our orientation. But once we have a certain confident awareness of where we are, we can begin to move our muscles and, without unbearable anxiety, feel what we do in our larger actions.

Also, in working initially with orientation and then with manipulation, we retrace in proper order the steps by which symptoms and blocks have developed. What usually has happened is that, first, as a child we inhibited overt muscular approaches and expressions when they made too much trouble for us in our social environment. Gradually we became unaware that we were deliberately inhibiting them. In other words, since their suppression was chronic and the situation held no promise of changing in a fashion that would render the suppression unnecessary, this suppression transformed into repression. That is, by no longer holding our attention (which requires change and development), it became “unconscious.” Then since constriction of muscular action tends to constrict the senses and make them inefficient, we began to lose our orientation. In these experiments we reverse the process and sharpen our sense of where we are and what we feel. With some degree of orientation recovered we can then begin to regain ability to move about and manipulate ourselves and our environment constructively.

We emphasize that in all types of activity, whether it be sensing, remembering, or moving, our blind-spots and rigidities are in some aspect aware and not completely buried in an inaccessible “conscious.” What is necessary is to give whatever aspect is aware more attention and interest so that the dim figure will sharpen and become clear against its ground. We can, at least, be aware that there is a blind-spot, and, by working alternately on what we can see or remember and on the muscular manipulations by which we make ourselves blind, we can gradually dissolve the blocks to full awareness.

Every healthy contact involves awareness (perceptual figure/ground) and excitement (increased energy mobilization). Every block conversely necessitates the performance of actual work to prevent contact. This work consists precisely of manipulating one’s orientation—that is, limiting or distorting receptor-functions—in such a fashion that figure/ground does not form and, instead of there arising these two differentiated parts of the field, what would be figure and what would be ground simply flow together indistinguishably. In other words, there is “confluence,” the condition to which we devote ourselves in the present experiment. If, despite all efforts to counteract it, figure/ground tends to form anyway the process will be accompanied by its usual excitement. This poses an additional problem in the prevention of contact: since it is not intended to apply the energy in the excitement as would be the natural next step in making and living through the contact, it must be suppressed. Suppression of excitement produces the breathing difficulty which is anxiety—the problem to be dealt with in our next experiment.

A sensing and the object sensed, an intention and its realization, one person and another, are confluent when there is no appreciation of a boundary between them, when there is no discrimination of the points of difference or otherness that distinguish them. Without this sense of boundary—this sense of something other to be noticed approached, manipulated, enjoyed—there can be no emergence and development of the figure/ground, hence no awareness, hence no excitement, hence no contact!

It is only where confluence is maintained as a means of preventing contact that it is unhealthy. After contact has been achieved and lived through, confluence has an entirely different meaning. At the end of any successful experience—one that is not interrupted but allowed to complete itself—there is always a confluence of energy or energy-producing materials. For example, when food has been savored, chewed and swallowed, one is no longer aware of it. The contact-functions have finished their work. Whatever novel operations were necessary to make this particular food assimilable are finished, and the further work be handed over to the standard, automatic and unaware digestive apparatus which has phylogenetically evolved. The stored energy of the food is assimilated—literally, made similar to—what is already present in the tissues and organs of the body. It is no longer foreign, different, but been “naturalized.” It is now new strength added to the resources of the organism. It and the organism flow together—that is, what was food and what was organism are now in confluence.

The process of acquiring new knowledge has exactly the same form. What is new must attract attention by its being different from what one already knows, and must excite interest as something to be accepted, rejected, or partly accepted and partly rejected. It may be a potential extension of ones existing knowledge, or possibly a replacement or substitute for something one has hitherto believed. To assimilate it one must inspect it, try it for fit, work it over, and to some extent work oneself over. In this way the already-known and the new knowledge are actually assimilated to each other. The range and scope of what one can understand and do are thereby increased. If assimilation is not carried through to completion, one may accept the new knowledge on a tentative basis as something to “be applied” in such and such circumstances. With complete assimilation the knower and his knowledge are one. There is no “application of knowledge” to a situation, like ointment to a wound or cold cream to the fact but only the person-in-action. The person and his knowledge are in healthy confluence.

Should a way of thinking, believing, or doing which one has fully assimilated come later on any grounds to seem inefficient or be challenged by something which offers itself as possibly more adequate, it will raise a problem, come fully into awareness again, be worked through once more, and then be reaffirmed, modified, or discarded in favor of what proves itself to be better. It is only what one has been told he should believe, only what one has felt compelled to accept as what he ought to do—in other words, what one has not fully accepted as his own and assimilated to himself—that one feels himself unable to question, even though all present circumstances warrant it. Too much guilt and anxiety would be roused if he thus interrupted his confluence with “the authorities”!

Pathological confluence is the situation where component parts, previously differentiated and separated from each other, have been brought together and then kept together by being isolated from the play of further experience. This “binds the energy” —literally ties up the actual and potential activity—of both parts in a way that makes them of no further functional use to the organism. Consider, for example, the structure of some chronic inhibition. Suppose one inhibits sobbing by deliberate contraction of the diaphragm and this becomes habitual and unaware. Then the organism loses both activities—that is, the man who manipulates his functioning in this way can neither sob nor breathe freely. Unable to sob, he never releases and gets finished with his sadness; he cannot even properly remember what loss he is sad about. The tendency to sob and the contraction of the diaphragm against sobbing form a single stabilized battle-line of activity and counter-activity, and this perpetuated warfare is isolated from the rest of the personality.

The task of psychotherapy, obviously, is to bring back the boundary of demarcation—the awareness of the parts as parts, and, in the specific instance, of the parts as consisting of crying and diaphragm-contraction. Crying is a genuine need of a human organism which has sustained loss. Aggression against crying—in this instance, tightening of the diaphragm—has become a need only through the establishment of confluence with “the authorities” who say “big boys don't cry.” To dissolve the inhibition requires that the confluents bound energy of the opposed parts be again differentiated into sobbing and aggression-against-sobbing, that the conflict be revived under present, more favorable circumstances, and that it be resolved. The resolution must include not just one but both sides of the conflict. The sadness will be released by crying it out once and for all. The aggression-against-sobbing—contrary to one’s own natural functioning—will be redirected outward against anti-biological “authorities”.

Useful habit sets attention free for what is novel and interesting. There would certainly be no point in making wholesale changes in one’s ways of doing things simply to demonstrate ability to change. However, many of our habits were not freely developed and are not maintained because of their efficiency, but are confluences with someone who taught them to us, with a model of some sort, or with some abstract conception of duty, propriety, or utility. We take for granted that they were spontaneously acquired, but any attempt to change them brings us up against resistances so strong as to be unmistakable evidence of unhealthy confluence.

Notice some of your habits—the way you dress, the way you brush your teeth, the way you open or close a door, the way you bake a cake. If they do not seem as efficient as they could be, or if some alternative seems just as good and has the advantage of offering variety, try to change. What happens? Do you take pleasure in learning the new way? Or do you encounter strong resistances? Does changing Some item in your usual schedule throw off the rest of your routine? What happens if you watch someone perform a task similar to one of your own? Do you get annoyed, irritated, indignant at small variations from your own procedure?

Shortly after awakening in the morning one slips into a feeling-tone that is habitual and a sequence of actions which unquestionably neutralize much of one's available attention and energy.

Before arising think of feeling or acting differently. Do not make resolutions to be grimly carried through, but simply visualize in a vivid way the execution of some simple and easily practicable alterations in your usual routine.

Persons who live in unhealthy confluence with one another do not have personal contact. This, of course, is a common blight of marriages and long friendships. The parties to such confluence cannot conceive of any but the most momentary difference of opinion or attitude. If a discrepancy in their views becomes manifest, they cannot work it out to point of reaching genuine agreement or else agreeing to disagreeю No, they must either restore the disturbed confluence by whatever means they can or else flee into isolation. The latter may emphasize sulking, withdrawing, being offended, or in other ways putting the brunt upon the other to make up; or, despairing of restoring the confluence, it may take the form of hostility, flagrant disregard forgetting, or other ways of disposing of the other as an object of concern.

To restore interrupted confluence one attempts to adjust oneself to the other or the other to oneself. In the first case one becomes a yes-man, tries to make up, frets about small differences, needs proofs of total acceptance; one effaces his own individuality, propitiates, and becomes slavish. In the other case where one can-not stand contradiction one persuades, bribes, compels or bullies.

When persons are in contact, not in confluence, they not only respect their own and the other’s opinions, tastes, and responsibilities, but actively welcome the animation and excitement that come with the airing of disagreements. Confluence makes for routine and stagnation, contact for excitement and growth.

To be sure, there may be a healthy confluence in marriages and old friendships—when it means the secure taking-for-granted of the other as “like oneself.” But this assumption must prove itself, as must any other healthy habit, by its flexible utility in fostering satisfaction and growth.

A most important case of personal confluence is unaware identification (which we shall later discuss further as an introjection). All social solidarity depends on identifications with our intimates, our vocational party, language, etc. They constitute the “we” that enlarges the “I.” Like anything that is assimilated, identifications become unaware and they are healthy only if, should occasion arise, they can again be noticed and then be once more affirmed or else modified or discarded.

Consider as many of your traits as you can—speech, dress, general behavior—and ask yourself from whom you acquired them by imitation. From friends? From enemies? If you approve of a trait, can you feel grateful to the source?

Interpersonal confluence is an instance of trance or hypnosis. We are all suggestible in this ways but the safeguard is the availability of the suggestion to awareness and the ability to evaluate the emotional attachment to the other person.

Observe your reaction at a movie or play. Notice how, unaware, you identify with the characters. With which characters? Are there characters with whom you find it hard to identify?

Ability to evoke such identifications from the audience is crucial to an art-work’s success in establishing its “reality”—that is to say, its illusion of reality. Popularity of the work stems largely from this. Yet works of art which accomplish only this have no great value, for it is a cheap experience (in no sense a re-creation) to drain off emotions by habitual channels, whether real or fantasied. An art-experience is worth your while only if it leads you to a difficult identification, some possibility in yourself different from what is customary in action or wish—a larger vision or a subtler analysis. Furthermore, since from the standpoint of the serious artist, the handling, style and technique is of highest importance, remember that you cannot grasp this by simply sinking into the characters but only by concentrating on how they are being created. As you become aware of the style along with your awareness of the characters and plot, you will be identifying with the artist and will share something of his joy of creation.

Before concluding this discussion of confluence we should like to have you consider guilt and resentment as symptoms of disturbed confluence. If a confluence between Persons A and B is interrupted, A will think that either he or B interrupted it—and is, therefore, guilty. If he feels that he himself has done it, then he must make restitution to B in order to restore the confluence; but if he regards B as guilty, then he feels resentment, feels that B has to pay him something, which may range from an apology to a willingness to accept punishment. In German, Schuld means either guilt or debt; to apologize is sich entschuldigen—to indebt or “en-guilt” oneself.

The aim of these inconclusive attitudes of nagging oneself or nagging the other party—guilt and resentment—is to restore the upset balance and mend the intolerable situation of broken confluence. What is avoided in such cases is actual contact with the other person as a person, whether this contact were to take the form of an explosion of anger, a generous act of understanding and forgiveness, enjoying the other’s pleasure, being frank about oneself, or any one of a number of other actions which would be possible and appropriate if first consideration were not given to slavish restoration of the status quo.

Notice with whom you feel guilty or resentful. Would the same action rouse the same feeling if performed by another person? Now consider your other relationships to this person. How much do you assume is taken for granted that is perhaps by this person not taken for granted? Do you want to change the status quo? Then, instead of nagging yourself with guilt or resentment, think of ways of enlarging the area of contact!

The guilty and the resentful are, for the most part, clingers. They hang on. (We shall return to this mechanism in discussing suckling biting, and chewing, in the experiments on introjection.) Such persons fear that, should a particular confluence be broken, then, no matter how contactless and unnourishing this emotional tie has actually been, they will be utterly and irredeemably starved!

Many students regard the invitation to notice their habits as sheer nonsense, being quite certain that they have experimented with various ways of performing a task and then chosen the one most efficient and desirable. Why bother, then, to try something else as an alternative, since it is sure to mean loss of time and inconvenience? Several point to the tragic fate of the centipede which stopped to consider which leg came after which.

A few went through several customary performances in an uncustomary way, found this possible, and thereupon concluded that they were not “a slave to habit.” Others varied all the way from the admission that slight changes in routine—in shaving, for instance—were irritating, to bewildered confession that in some quite ordinary activities they couldn’t diverge by one iota without getting considerably upset.

One man found that he could introduce novelties into his behavior only at the price of feeling very “unlucky.” He discovered, furthermore, that many of his interpersonal relations were strained by his need to conceal the extent of his superstitiousness. With respect to his “lucky” daily route, he said:

“If someone else is with me and wants to go a different way, I force myself to go his way because I wouldn’t want him to know that I believe so helplessly in good and bad luck. But, although I’ve known that when I do this—that is, go the other fellow’s way—I feel miserable and mad at myself, I never realized until now that I get mad at the other fellow and feel that he owes me a lot for my willingness to go his way when I secretly feel it’s unlucky for me.”

Some say that they can with complete equanimity watch others do things in a way contrary to their own. Others feel annoyed or anxious. We quote a few examples:

“My wife was ironing one of my shirts, a practice with which I myself am not unfamiliar. But, of course, when I iron a shirt, I don’t use the same care and patience as she. My system stresses speed and, as a result, I got annoyed after watching her for a while, as if I could feel myself straining in an attempt to push the iron faster.”

* * *

“I take pride in my proficiency in driving a car, but I'm very rigid about it. It has made me quite intolerant of other drivers—either in my car or in theirs. I’m irritated when any fellow-driver on the road violates any ‘rule’ which I myself follow, even though the violation involves no hazard to me or anyone else. My wife incenses me highly if she deviates even slightly from what I consider proper technique, such as staying in low gear for a fraction of a second longer than I would.”

* * *

“I’m beginning to realize that I frequently experience anxiety when an alternative course of action is offered me.”

* * *

“I have what amounts to a compulsion to close doors that I find someone has left open. If I try to ignore these doors, I sit in agony, restless until the door is shut. I’ve attempted to ignore this, but I can’t. The discomfort of getting up to close a door is much less than that of waiting until someone else sooner or later does it.”

* * *

“I’m very disturbed when people do a job in a way different from the way I’d do it. I'm sure they’re going to botch it. This feeling is so strong that I have to go someplace where I can’t see what they’re doing, or, if I stay there, I have to tell them how to do it—and sometimes I even take it right out of their hands and do it myself.”

A more extended statement goes as follows:

“I find that I’m a slave to my concept of efficiency. It has been my lifelong habit to reduce all necessary actions to systems of habits (l comb my hair before shaving so thar moisture won’t later roll down my face affect talcum is on it), presumably so that I’ll have more time for the serious business of ‘thinking.’ Since studying the literature on psychotherapy I have, of course, become aware of the mechanism of compulsive tidiness and I have managed to rid myself of good many habits which had become inappropriate and ritualistic. In the present experiment I have tried changing my habits (tentatively) even when I was convinced that the habit was the most efficient possible. This does create anxiety. Awareness that the new procedure is an experiment and can be abandoned at any time alleviates the feeling of uneasiness to a degree, but my ‘superego’ (me) keeps bothering my ‘ego’ (me) until we (me) do something about it.

“In the case of observing others performing tasks which I do in a certain (most efficient) stylized manner. I am indeed disturbed when they ‘go off the beam.’ I find it most difficult to keep from coaching them, even when their actions do not affect and when unsought advice would be resented. I usually resort to fantasy for relief: ‘Stupid bastard isn’t worth fooling with!’”

Far from feeling bound to any fixed routine in their daily life, a few reported a “deplorable” lack of any regular and effort-saving system for handling routine matters.

With regard to the experiment of imagining, while still lying in bed, feeling or acting differently, some declare that when they first wake up they are much too sleepy to do anything of this sort; others state that “the seemingly small changes which result” may make quite a difference in their day.

“For years I’ve tried to make myself get up a little earlier so that there wouldn’t be this exasperating last-minute rush to get off to work. Last week, instead of turning off the alarm and snoozing for fifteen more minutes, one morning I lay there and visualized what would happen if I renounced this small luxury. It wouldn’t make any appreciable difference in my total amount of sleep, and it would give me a chance to start the day without pressure. The funny thing that happened when I looked at it this way, was that I didn't feel that I had to make myself do it, but, instead, I wanted to do it. The result has been that I don’t feel rushed, I’m less groggy all morning, and much more relaxed.”

Most persons admitted to identifying rather fully with some particular character-type in movies or plays. Those who identified themselves with the hero or heroine assumed that everyone else did this too, but there were many who preferred to imagine themselves the under-dog, the top-dog, the saintly, the sinful, regardless of whether their preferred role was that of the hero or not. One man stoutly affirmed: “I’m always—but always—the villain!”

Except for bits of outstanding behavior, few were aware of having copied personality traits from others.

“One striking bit of behavior that I know I’ve imitated from my father is that of being the ‘sage,’ the solver of other people’s problems, the one friends rely on to fix things. I’m uneasy about this, because I don’t believe it rests on sound foundations—that is, I don’t have this understanding of all kinds of problems. While I get true pleasure from helping close friends where I can—and so does my father—I don’t feel grateful to him for teaching me to be the center of the troubles of all and sundry.”

In connection with guilt and resentment, our suggestion to “think of ways of enlarging the area of contact” brought forth a chorus of impatient questions on how to go about doing this. A few, on the other hand, reported that they had started “enlarging the area of contact.”

“Recently I had some trouble with my girl. For once I put my pride in my back pocket and enlarged the area of contact by a frank discussion of my grievance. Presto, she stopped kicking me!”

Another said:

“For the last thirteen years my relations with my parents have been strained. I don't enjoy being with them, and usually I manage to make myself so unpleasant that they surely can get little enjoyment out of being with me. I feel resentment, primarily because I think they’ve been too strict. Probably I feel guilty, too, but this I’m not aware of.

“I don’t know whether they sense my animosity, but I assume they still love me in spite of my rebellious behavior. I do respect them for they have many fine qualities. I’ve never mentioned my feelings to them. By God, I think will! It can't make matters worse.

“If I were to air how I feel (and, of course, also enumerate the things which I do admire in them), the worst thing that could happen would be to bring my ‘war’ out into the open where it could be waged more intelligently. And we might even come to a better understanding and find that we have much more in common than I now let myself believe. It’s certainly worth a try.

“In the light of these experiments, my behavior at present is silly, childish, and unadaptive. I hope my present enthusiasm for this long overdue project lasts, for I won’t be able to put it into operation until I see my folks a month from now.”

EXPERIMENT 11: Changing Anxiety into Excitement

Relief from guilt and anxiety has always been one of psychotherapy’s chief ends. Guilt (and resentment) we have discussed as a function of confluence. Guilt is the self-punitive, vindictive attitude toward oneself when one assumes responsibility for interruption of confluence; resentment is the demand that the other person feel guilty. Both constitute a resistance to contact, awareness, and differentiation; they are a clinging to the object in isolation from the rest of experience. Both pervade all neurosis (Further complications of guilt as the result of “conscience” we shall discuss in later experiments on projection.)

Anxiety is the neurotic symptom par excellence. Even if the person does not feel it because it is repressed, it will manifest itself to anyone with an eye for it in such signs as restlessness increased pulse, or impaired breathing. Since therapists encounter it as the basic symptom in all patients, they have theorized about it ad infinitum. Birth-trauma, choking by the mother’s large breast, “converted” libido, inhibited aggression, the death-wish—all these and others have seemed to one theorizer or another to be the central phenomenon in anxiety. With respect to certain striking cases perhaps each theory is correct, but what they have in common has been overlooked. It is a very simple psychosomatic event. Anxiety is the experience of breathing difficulty during any blocked excitement. It is the experience of trying to get more air into lungs immobilized by muscular constriction of the thoracic cage.

We use the term “excitement” to cover the heightened energy mobilization which occurs whenever there is strong concern and strong contact, whether erotic, aggressive, creative or whatever. In excitement there is always an upsurge in the metabolic process of oxidizing stored food-substances—and hence an imperious need for more air! The healthy organism responds in simple fashion by increasing the rate and amplitude of breathing.

The neurotic, on the other hand, invariably attempts to control excitement—and his chief method is to interfere with his breathing. He attempts to create the illusion for himself and others of being unmoved, of remaining “calm and collected,” self-controlled. Instead of spontaneously deepening his breathing, both exhalation and inhalation, he deliberately tries to continue the breathing which was adequate before the excitement with its stepped-up oxidation rate. Then, in spite of himself he narrows the chest to force exhalation, to rid the lungs of carbon-dioxide (by-product of oxidation), to create a vacuum into which fresh air can rush. Anxiety (from angustia, narrowness) comes with the involuntary constriction of the chest. It develops in all situations, neurotic or otherwise, where the organism is deprived of adequate oxygen. It is, thus, not in itself a symptom of the neurosis, but it occurs in neurosis as an emergency measure produced by the conflict between strong excitement and fearful self-controls.

Anxiety and fear are to be sharply distinguished, yet the connection usually felt between them is easily understood. Fear is experienced with respect to some formidable object in the environment which must be either tackled or avoided. Anxiety, on the other hand, is an intra-organism experience without direct reference to external objects. To be sure, the excitement of fear, if suppressed, produces anxiety, but so does the suppression of any other excitement. It is a fact that many situations give rise to fear, but in our society no “strong” person wishes to reveal fear by panting or gasping, and this establishes the close connection between fear and anxiety.

A pleasant prospect may be accompanied by anxiety—when, for instance, we say we are “breathless with anticipation.” The anxiety occurs when we try to rein in the excitement within the limits of decorum. This is what Freud called “instinct-anxiety,” caused precisely by over-controlling necessary functions of the organism. Another frequent instance of non-fearful anxiety is stage-fright. The audience is not something to be actually tackled or avoided and it presents no real danger unless it is the tomato-throwing kind. The actor is keyed up with excitement, without which his performance would be frigid and lifeless. Once he has overcome his breathing difficulty, he warms up and enjoys the excitement. Before the performance begins he may generally be seen pacing restlessly up and down. While this is better thon standing still, what would be more profitable would be to exhale deeply and gasp. The complication of this situation by “self-consciousness” is a matter which we must discuss later but essentially it involves the actor’s apprehensiveness that something will go awry, that he will give a bad performance and thus interrupt the confluence between himself as the actual performer and his ideal of himself as someone who never lets the audience (himself) down.

Although any anxiety will have its particular quality, determined by what kind of excitement is being blocked, most often, as we said before anxiety is toned with fear. Since sexual and aggressive excitement are especially dangerous and punishable, the fearful control of such excitement in various ways interferes with normal breathing. To control a burst of rage or angry shouting one holds one’s breath. This has the double function of denying the excitement its fuel, oxygen, and also of choking back what would be expressed if one permitted free exhalation. During masturbation or intercourse one may, for the sake of concealment or in shame of one’s animality, suppress excited, noisy breathing. The pompous he-man chest, symptomatic of the need to exhibit a powerful torso, gives insufficient air, for, fearful that this facade will collapse since there is nothing much behind it, one maintains it rigidly. In artificial concentration and staring one holds one’s breath as part of the suppression of the feared distracter.

There is nothing pathological in the momentary arrest of respiration which occurs when a strong stimulus abruptly presents itself. Observations throughout the animal kingdom indicate that, suddenly alerted, an organism halts overt movements, including breathing. It is as if, when full attention is needed to orient oneself to what is novel, the very sounds and sense of muscular movement that go with breathing are sources of distraction. We try to get rid of these distractions, either by breathing more shallowly or by suspending breathing altogether for a few seconds. What is pathological is to extend this emergency behavior indefinitely.

Breathing is not just inhaling; it is the full cycle of exhaling-and-inhaling. Under normal conditions exhaling does not require effort, since it is simply letting go and allowing the muscles which lift the ribs and lower the diaphragm to relax. But exhalation is, of course, just as important as inhaling, for it cleanses and empties the lungs so that fresh air can enter. The amount of air that can be exhaled obviously depends on how much has been inhaled, and it is to the inhalation phase that health cultists give emphasis. If there is interest and excitement and physical exertion of a meaningful sort, depth of inhalation takes care of itself quite adequately without resort to artificial setting-up exercises.

Although unrestricted breathing dispels anxiety, the neurotic who suffers anxiety-states simply cannot follow the advice to exhale and inhale—that is, simply to breathe. This is precisely what he cannot do—namely, breathe—for, unaware of what he is doing and therefore uncontrollably, he maintains against his breathing a system of motor tensions, such as tightening the diaphragm against tendencies to sob or express disgust, tightening the throat against tendencies to shriek, sticking out the chest to appear substantial, holding back the aggression of the shoulders, and a number of other things which we shall discuss later under retroflection. He is utterly incapable of a complete, unforced exhalation. Instead, his breath comes out in uneven spurts—staircase breathing—and it may stop, as if bumping into a wall, long before thorough emptying of the lungs. After hitting such a wall, he may then, by forced contraction, expel more air, but this is artificial and continues only as long as the deliberate effort.

The cure of anxiety is necessarily indirect. One must find out what excitements one cannot at present accept as one’s own. Since they arise spontaneously, they must be related to genuine needs of the organism. Ways must be discovered to fulfill these needs without jeopardizing other functions of the organism. One must also find out just how, by various patterns of muscular contraction, one arrests full exhalation.

While, as stated, the cure of anxiety is roundabout, involving awareness of what the excitement would express and overcoming the resistances to accepting this as one’s own, a partial relief of any given instance of anxiety can be obtained, paradoxically by tightening even further the narrowness of the chest instead of resisting it. In other words, give in to and go along with the motor impulse that you feel (but do not add others). A basis for achieving deeper and more lasting relief from anxiety is presented in the next two experiments on muscular-concentration and development.

If you are prone to anxieties and aware of them, try out and confirm for yourself the suggestion made above. A student comments as follows:

“I have experienced one mild anxiety attack during the past four months. This was while studying for an exam in physiology. The harder I worked, the less seemed to know. To fail the exam threatened my self-esteem unbearably, I tried the business of tightening my chest even more and practiced the exhalation suggestion. It seemed to help. At least. I was then able to reconcile myself to failing the test (l passed it, after all). My main point here is that I was able to think with greater perspective after I relieved the physical tension of not-breathing.”

* * *

“After reading about anxiety I attempted to dispel my own anxieties when they arose in later situations by the breathing exercises mentioned. By freer exhalation-inhalation, relaxation of the diaphragm etc., I was able to end the tautness and semi-paralysis of anxiety, leaving myself much freer to act and think in that situation (and others since anxiety aroused by one incident or stimulus seemed to expand to others and to remain for a time after the precipitating stimulus had been removed). However, the anxiety invariably returned, since nothing was done to “direct the originally provoking incident or stimulus.”

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“When I read the discussion of anxiety I can’t say I was very much impressed. I forgot all about it until I went for an interview a few days later, an interview that I was very much interested in having turn out well. During the time while I was kept waiting I tried reading a magazine, but when I found I didn’t know what I was reading, I realized I was displaying just those symptoms of anxiety that the experiment had described. I was breathing rapidly but very shallowly and I was getting more and more keyed up every minute.

“So I tried breathing deeply. At first it was very difficult, because I actually rebelled against slowing down my breathing and taking it easy. However, I kept at it, and soon I could feel that I was getting a grip on myself. At the same time I noticed that the cold perspiration that was standing out on my neck and arms was stopping. I felt less and less like a lamb about to be slaughtered and more like a person going in to have an interview with a man who was no less a human being than myself. I was truly amazed by discovering that I could do something about a thing that I had previously considered completely out of my control.”

A few misinterpreted entirely what had been said, as in the following statement: “…I’m not sure that deep breathing is the answer to anxieties.” Of course it isn't! The breathing procedure of this experiment was introduced with the explicit statement that it was no magic cure-all but merely a means of obtaining relief from acute attacks, with permanent changes in anxiety-proneness dependent on modification of the underlying basis—that is, on release of the blocked excitements.

“Breathing is related to anxiety, undoubtedly. But even now, as I breathe in and out, still feel an overwhelming anxiety. I feel like crying, but I can’t. I only gasp and feel myself tense all over. My hands clench and unclench, my lower jaw is tight, and I shrug my shoulders and think, ‘It can’t be helped; I’ll just have to make the best of it.' I can feel everything that you say in your description of breathing except ‘exhalation is simply the effortless elastic return of ribs and muscles to the resting condition which preceded inhalation.’ My exhalation certainly is not effortless. It is as though I were pushing the breath out with strong resistance from some part of me, the breath ending in a suppressed sob. Funny, I had never noticed that before. Now I am trying to exaggerate that and, much to my surprise, it does bring relief, just as you said it would. Also, when I have felt extremely keyed up I have forced myself to breathe in and out, preferably outdoors, and have found that that helps too.”

Some prefer to keep their investigations of breathing in the anxiety-situation at the verbal level:

“About this conception of anxiety, are you serious? It’s a cute idea, but I don’t know enough physiology to judge. Anyway, I would think a little evidence in order.”

A number of references could be given to relevant physiological researches. We are not in this work, however, attempting to say everything that is relevant to this subject, particularly where it would involve unnecessary technicalities; instead, we are limiting ourselves, for the most part, to what you yourself can validate in terms of your own experience. On the present issue, if you discover in your own functioning that anxiety does indeed arise when excitement is blocked and, conversely, is dispelled if you can lift these self-imposed restrictions on breathing, what better evidence could you want?

Whether you are at present aware of anxiety or not, we recommend that you begin to notice your breathing. Think of yourself and feel yourself as a breather. Remember that the very term “psychology” derives from a Greek word which came to mean “soul” after it had originally meant “the vital breath.” At first it will be simpler for you to notice the breathing of others: the rate, amplitude, irregularity, stoppages; the yawns, gasps, sighs, coughing, choking, sniffs, sneezes, wheezing, and so on. Then, in your own breathing, see if you can differentiate the parts of this complicated process. Can you feel the air going into your nose, down through your throat and neck, into the bronchi? Can you feel your ribs spread apart as you inhale, the stretching of your back, the increase in the amount of space you occupy as you expand your chest? Can you feel exhalation as simply the effortless elastic return of ribs and muscles to the resting condition which preceded inhalation?

Yawning and stretching are usually associated with drowsiness. We yawn and stretch in the morning when not yet fully aroused from slumber or at night when tired and ready for sleep. Unless they are suppressed in the name of good manners, yawning and stretching occur spontaneously on many other occasions; for instance, when we are bored, but feel that we have to pay attention, or, on the other hand, when tensely alert, perhaps while waiting for an examination to begin or just before walking onto the stage or meeting someone. All these instances have this in common: the organism needs to limber itself up and to change the existing situation.

To see yawning and stretching at their luxurious best, watch a cat which has just awakened from a siesta. It arches its back, extends to the utmost legs, feet and toes, drops its jaw, and all the while balloons itself up with air. Once it has swelled until it occupies its very maximum of space, it permits itself slowly to collapse—and then is ready for new business.

The morning yawn-and-stretch restores working tonus to muscles gone slack during sleep. All other occasions for this vigorous puffing up and then subsiding are apparently spontaneous efforts of the organism to break loose from the constriction of deliberately holding something back. Not much yawning occurs at night if one can tumble into bed without delay. It is when one feels obliged to stay awake despite wanting to go to sleep that he is beset by a succession of yawns.

Boredom is a state of suspense. In clock-watching situations one knows boredom will disappear as soon as one is set free and able to go about doing what he finds more interesting. In a situation where one is apparently free, but says, “I don’t know what to do with myself,” he is himself blocking his needs from coming through to awareness. In waiting for the examination to begin or for one’s cue to go out on the stage, one is keyed-up but must await the starting-signal.

All of these are situations of suppressed excitement. The suppression is achieved by contracting one’s muscles, breathing shallowly, and thus immobilizing the organism. To eliminate this constriction, or at least to soften its severity, it is the spontaneous and healthy tendency of the organism to yawn and stretch. The suppression of this, too, has been enforced by those who, rightly or wrongly, assumed that such an action on the part of anyone indicated boredom with them! However, even if one still, in “polite company,” chooses to follow this tenet of good breeding, he can, at least on other occasions, make it a steadfast practice to yawn and stretch to his organism’s delight.

Make it a habit to yawn and stretch frequently. Take the cat as your model. When you start your yawn let your jaw drop as if you were going to let it fall right off. Draw in fresh air as if you had not just your lungs to fill but your whole body. Let your arms, bent at the elbows, come up and push your shoulders back as far as they will go. At the peak of your stretch and your inhalation, let go and allow the built-up tensions to collapse.