The Foundations of Personality - Abraham Myerson (best large ereader .txt) 📗
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soul to take on responsibility for choosing. Sometimes he gets
good ideas, but never dares to put them into execution and shifts
that to others.
He hates himself for this weakness in an essential phase of
personality but is gradually accepting himself as an inferior
person, despite intelligence, training and social connection.
Yet his sister is exactly the opposite type. She makes decisions
with great promptness, never hesitates, is “cocksure” and
aggressive. If M. is ambivalent, his sister B. M. is univalent.
Choice is an easy matter to her, though she is not impulsive. She
rapidly deliberates. She never has made any serious errors in
judgment, but if she makes a mistake she shrugs her shoulders and
says, “It’s all in the game.” Thus she is a leader in her set,
for if some difficulty is encountered, her mind is quickly at
work and prompt with a solution. If she is not brilliant, and she
is not, she collects the plans of her associates and chooses and
modifies until she is ready with her own plan. Her father sighs
as he watches her and regrets that she is not a man. It does not
occur to him or any of his family, including herself, that she
might do a man’s work in the business world.
In pathological cases the inability to choose becomes so marked
as to make it impossible for the patient to choose any line of
conduct. “To do or not to do” extends into every relationship and
every situation. The patient cannot choose as to his dress or his
meals; cannot decide whether to stay in or go out, finds it
difficult to choose to cross the street or to open a door; is
thrown into a pendulum of yea and nay about speaking, etc. This
psychasthenic state, the folie du doute of the French, is
accompanied by fear, restlessness and an oppressive feeling of
unreality. The records of every neurologist contain many such
cases, most of whom recover, but a few go on to severe incurable
mental disease.
I pass on, without regard for logic or completeness, to a
personality type that we may call the anhedonic or simpler a
restless, not easily satisfied, easily disgusted group. Some of
these are cyclothymic, overemotional, often monothymic but I am
discussing them from the standpoint of their satisfaction with
life and its experiences. The ordinary label of “finicky” well
expresses the type, but of course it neglects the basic
psychology. This I have discussed elsewhere in this book and will
here describe two cases, one a congenital type and the other
acquired.
T. was born dissatisfied, so his mother avers. As a baby he was
“a difficult feeding case” because the very slightest cause, the
least change in the milk, upset him, a fact attested to by
vigorous crying. Babies have a variability in desire and
satisfaction quite as much as their elders.
Apparently T. thrived, despite his start, for as a child he was
sturdy looking. Nevertheless, in toys, games, treats, etc., he
was hard to please and easy to displease. He turned up his nose
if a toy were not perfection, and he had to have his food
prepared according to specification or his appetite vanished.
Moreover, he had a very limited range of things he liked, and as
time went on he extended that list but little. He was very choice
in his clothes—not at all a regular boy—and quite disgusted
with dirt and disorder. “A little old maid” somebody called him,
having in mind of course the traditional maiden lady.
As T. grew his capacity for pleasure-feeling did not increase. On
the contrary his attention to the details necessary for his
pleasure made of him one of those finicky connoisseurs who,
though never really pleased with anything, get a sort of pleasure
in pointing out the crudity of other people’s tastes and
pleasures. This attitude of superiority is the one compensation
the finicky have, and since they are often fluent of speech and
tend to write and lecture, they impose their notions of good and
bad upon others, who seek to escape being “common.” In T.‘s case
his attitude toward food, clothes, companions, sports and work
created a tense disharmony in his family, and one of his brothers
labeled him “The Kill-joy.” Secretly envious of other people’s
simple enjoyment, T. made strenuous efforts at times to overcome
his repugnances and to enlarge the scope of his pleasures, but
because this forfeited for him the superiority he had reached as
a very “refined” person, he never persisted in this process.
When he was twenty he found himself the theater of many
conflicts. He was weary of life, yet lusted for experiences that
his hyperestheticism would not permit him to take. Sex seemed too
crude, and the girls of his age were “silly.” Yet their lure and
his own internal tensions dragged him to one place after another,
hoping that he would find the perfect woman, able to understand
him. At last he did find her, so he thought, in the person of a
young woman of twenty-five, a consummate mistress of the arts of
femininity. She sized him up at once, played on his vanity,
extolled his fine tastes and never exposed a single crudity of
her own, until she brought him to the point where his passion for
her, his conviction that he had found “the perfect woman,” led
him to propose marriage. Then came the blow: she laughed at him,
called him a silly boy, gave him a lecture as to what constituted
a fine man, extolling crudity, vigor and virility as the prime
virtues.
His world was shattered, and its shadowy pleasures gone. At first
his parents were inclined to believe that this was a good lesson,
that T. would learn from this adventure and become a more hardy
young man. Instead he became sleepless, restless and without
desire for food or drink; he shunned men and women alike; he
stared hollow-eyed at a world full of noise and motion but
without meaning or joy. Deep was this anhedonia, and all
exhortations to “brace up and be a man” failed. Diversion, travel
and all the usual medical consultations and attentions did no
good.
One day he announced to his family that he was all right, that
soon he would be well. He seemed cheerful, talked with some
animation and dressed himself with unusual care. His parents
rejoiced, but one of his brothers did not like what he called a
“gleam” in T.‘s eyes. So he followed him, in a skillful manner.
T. walked around for a while, then found his way to a bridge
crossing a swift deep river. He took off his coat, but before he
could mount the rail his watchful brother was upon him. He made
no struggle and consented to come back home. In his coat was a
letter stating that he saw no use in living, that he was not
taking his life because of disappointment in love but because he
felt that he never could enjoy what others found pleasurable, and
that he was an anomaly, a curse to himself and others.
He was sent away to a sanatorium but left it and came home. He
began to eat and drink again, found he could sleep at night (the
sleepless night had filled him with despair) and soon swung back
into his “normal” state. He passes throughout life a spectator of
the joys of others, wondering why his grip on content and desire
is so slender, but also he thinks himself of a finer clay than
his fellows.
As a complement to this case let me cite that of the ex-soldier
S. He reached the age of twenty-two with a very creditable
history. Born of middle-class parents he went through high school
and ranked in the upper third of his class for scholarship. His
physique was good; he was a joyous, popular young fellow; and
wherever he went was pointed out as the clean young American so
representative of our country. That means he worked hard as
assistant executive in a production plant, was ambitious to get
ahead, took special courses to fit himself, read a good deal
about “success” and how to reach it, dressed well, liked his
fellow men and more than liked women, enjoyed sports, a good
time, the theaters, slept well, ate well and surged with the
passions and longings of his youth. Had any one said to him,
“What is there to live for?” he would have had no answer ready
merely because it would have never occurred to him that any one
could really ask so foolish a question.
Came the war. Full of the ardor of patriotism and the longing for
the great experience, he enlisted. He took the “hardships” of
camp life, the long hikes, the daily drills, the food dished out
in tins, as a lark, and his hearty fellowship identified him with
the army, with its profanity, its rough friendliness, its
grumbling but quick obedience and its intense purpose to “show
‘em what the American can do.” He went overseas and learned that
French patriotism, like the American brand, did not prevent
profiteering, and that enlistment in a common cause does not
allay or abate racial prejudices and antagonisms. This, however,
did not prey on his mind, for he took his Americanism as superior
without argument and was not especially disappointed because of
French customs and morals. He took part in several battles, made
night attacks, bayonetted his first man with a horror that
however disappeared under the glory of victory.
One day as he and a few comrades were in a front line trench,
“Jerry” placed a high explosive “plump in the middle of it.” When
S. recovered consciousness, he found himself half covered with
dirt and debris of all kinds, and when he crawled out and brushed
himself off, he saw that of all his comrades he alone survived,
and that they were mangled and mutilated in a most gruesome way.
“Pieces of my friends everywhere,” is his terse account. He lay
in the trench, not daring to move for hours, the bitterest
thoughts assailing him,—anger, hatred and disgust for war, the
Germans, his own countrymen; and he even cursed God. When he did
this he shuddered at his blasphemy, became remorseful and prayed
for forgiveness. A little later he crawled out of the trench and
back to where he was picked up by the medical corps and taken to
a hospital. He was examined, nothing wrong was found and he was
sent back to duty.
From that episode dates as typical an anhedonia as I have ever
seen. Gradually he became sleepless and woke each day more tired
than he went to bed. The food displeased him, and he grumbled
over what were formerly trifles. He wearied easily, and nothing
seemed to move him to enthusiasm or desire. He gave up friendship
after friendship, because the friends annoyed him by their noise
and boisterousness. He dreaded the roar of the guns and the
shriek of shells with what amounted to physical agony. He brooded
alone, and though not melancholy in the positive insane sense,
was melancholy in the disappearance of desire, joy, energy,
interest and enthusiasm.
Fortunately the armistice came at this time. S. was examined and
discharged as well because he made no complaints, for he was
anxious to get home. This was his one great desire. At home, with
a nice bed to sleep in, good food to eat and the pleasant faces
of his own people, his “nerves” would yield, he had no doubt. But
he was mistaken; this was not the case. He became no better, and
though he tried his old “job,” he found that he could not find
the energy, enthusiasm or
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