People bring many questions to psychotherapy. The process itself involves the Socratic method of Q&A. It is the therapist's job to formulate additional questions, not in the expectation of receiving definitive answers, but in the hope that the person seeking help, in trying to respond, will think about his life in ways that will enable him to change it for the better.
Unfortunately, in the public mind, therapists are expected to provide advice. It's easy to see where this misconception comes from. Those who appear on television and write self-help books generally put themselves forward as possessed of special wisdom and experience that qualifies them to tell others how to live their lives, raise their children, and manage their relationships. So it's not unusual for patients in the early stages of therapy to tell their story and ask, "What should I do?" Sometimes the request is even more specific: "Do you think I should divorce this guy?" In general, patients don't want this question thrown back at them, as in, "What do you think you should do?" They assume that I know, but for some obscure reason want them to come to the conclusion for themselves. The fact is, of course, I don't know.
To assume that each person has within herself the capacity to decide what is best for her is a vote of confidence. This is my problem with television therapists. Though their advice usually sounds sensible, it presupposes both that they know the person in front of them, whom they have usually just met, well enough to decide what is in their best interests and that this person could not come up with a better solution on their own. The difficulty, of course, is that real therapy takes time and doesn't make for good television, while advice can be given immediately. If what the therapist says makes sense to the audience, they applaud; the person seeking help nods in agreement and the problem is wrapped up in minutes. There is seldom much follow-up to see what actually happened.
There is a hierarchy to the questions we ask ourselves. The trivial involve day-to- day decisions: What errands shall I run? What color should I paint my bedroom? Paper or plastic? The questions at the next level involve more consequential issues: Where shall I live? Whom shall I marry? What work suits me? Finally, the large questions hang in the background: How can I derive meaning from my life? What happens to us when we die? Why do bad things happen to good people?
It is the second-level questions that constitute most of the grist for the therapeutic mill, though the focus is generally on symptoms: Why am I sad most of the time? Why do certain situations make me anxious? Why am I angry with the person I'm married to? Why are my children misbehaving? It is in the course of trying to find answers to these questions that we often find ourselves discussing the meaning of life, even though these greater questions are traditionally the province of philosophy and religion and do not directly address the more practical concerns that people think about when they come for relief of emotional discomfort.
And yet our lives and our happiness turn out to be inextricably entwined with the large questions of meaning. The fact that they can't be answered in any definitive way applicable to all is what makes the search for answers so important. The awareness of our mortality, for example, is what gives time its import and urgency. We know that "living happily ever after" is only for people in fairy tales. The rest of us are on a more restricted schedule and our challenge is to use our limited time as well as we can.
We want for ourselves whatever we imagine will make us happy. Accumulation of money turns out to be a frequent objective, though it is not clear that people who have lots of it are measurably happier than those with less. We also carry around fantasies of endless excitement and are displeased when that too proves elusive. When people wonder why some among us choose to use drugs that ultimately destroy their lives, I always think the answer is obvious: these substances make people feel good in a way that is hard to replicate elsewhere. (I used to carry post-it notes with me and, when I came across a car in a parking lot with the bumper sticker "HUGS ARE BETTER THAN DRUGS," I left a note on the windshield asking, "But have you tried them together?")
The most persistent fantasy is the search for perfect love. Hollywood has done its part in fueling this chimera, and people engage in what turns out in most cases to be a disappointing quest for the person who will save them with the unqualified approval and support that is our deepest wish. Seldom does this search take the form of asking the really important question: what can I make of myself that would make me worthy to give and receive such love? We want to bask in the warmth of devotion that overlooks, even indulges, our failings. Apart from our mothers, this pleasure can be a little hard to find--or to maintain over time.
What I am suggesting is that to focus our lives around the small or medium-sized questions and ignore the large ones is not a likely path to getting what we want. It is like looking at (or painting) a picture and concentrating exclusively on the foreground. It is spirituality that serves as the background and frame for our existence. We can hew to a religious dogma (any one will do) and hang around with those who believe similarly, or we can try to find elsewhere tentative answers that will enable us to make sense of our lives and live them in accord with our deepest values. Whether or not we will be rewarded in heaven, we will at least have something to guide us through the confusing maze we must daily navigate. It is only when we are too obtuse, frightened, or distracted to ask the important questions that we are truly lost.
