How your dreams protect your authentic sense of self.
And why we need them now, more than ever.
Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering about, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know that he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuang Zhou. But he didn’t know if he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamt, he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that he was Zhuang Zhou. - The Zhuangzi
During dreams, we are less sure of who we are.
It isn’t only ancient Taoist sages that forget their sense of self in the dream world. Zhuang’s report dates from the fourth century BC. It might be the first record of this kind of night-time disorientation. But losing footing in the shifting sands of self-perception is a familiar experience for modern dreamers.
When we fall asleep, the solid character of “me” crumbles. The thick black lines we draw around our edge, get a bit fainter.
This fracturing can take different forms. For some people, they might end up completely absent from the dream. Instead of participating, they watch events unfold as if they were at the cinema.
For others, they appear in the dream but have little control over their own behavior. Frustratingly willing paralyzed legs to walk is a common nightmare.
When I’m upset, I have found my own dreams haunted by a second, other-me. I confront and challenges the interloper. Aware that she is in some way, also me. But unfamiliar and separate.
When they’re awake, most people feel like they know who they are.
In the morning daylight, we gratefully reclaim our complete selves.
Healthy awake people have some sense of unity. At least, that is the story we tell.
“I am someone, a single and whole person. I am made up of different body parts, and different aspects of a personality. Even if I act differently on occasion, there is only one me.”
We appreciate our own consistency when we make comparisons with the injured and unwell.
Damage to the anterior cingulate area of the brain breaks down the self. It causes a condition called “alien hand syndrome.” An arm or a leg seems properly connected and functioning. But it is perceived by the sufferer to belong to a second person. The patient no longer recognizes it as part of their body.
The psychological self can splinter in the same way. Dissociative Identity Disorder is sometimes called Multiple Personality Disorder. A patient, often following trauma, comes to possess to more than one distinct personality.
Our connection to ourselves in under attack.
These illnesses are, thankfully, relatively rare. But the rest of us should not be too smug about our sense of self.
Self-alienation is the feeling of being detached from who you believe you really are. It is disturbingly common.
When we are sexually objectified, we feel less human. It’s as if our anterior cingulate cortex is damaged. Our own bodies become something foreign to us.
A few years ago, a study was picked up by mainstream news outlets. It was treated as light-weight fluff. The scientists had found that women who see themselves as sex objects didn’t feel the cold.
Journalists framed this as a humorous explanation for the clothes of glamorous partygoers. Braving city streets without winter coats. Sacrificing comfort for beauty.
Beyond the headlines, the truth is more disconcerting. Objectification had cut women off from the physical perceptions of their own bodies. As well as failure to feel cold, other biological warning signs were also reduced.
They couldn’t feel their own heartbeat or notice hunger. Their coherent sense of self was fraying.
What becomes of a man who acquires a beautiful woman, with her “beauty” his sole target? She knows quite well why she has been chosen. He has succeeded in buying something: the esteem of other men who find such an acquisition impressive. - Naomi Wolf
Men might be less vulnerable to the curse of sexual objectification. But society has other ways to divorce them from themselves. In his 2006 book, The Shaman at the Disco, James Thomas describes the violence of certain visions of masculinity.
Specifically, the pressure to appear outwardly strong, productive and in control. The idea that his value is in what he can provide. Rather than who he fundamentally is. These demands sever a man from his emotionally rich internal life.
It’s been seventeen years since the publication of Thomas’ book. But today a new generation is clinging tightly to this lie. Influencers can’t agree on what exactly defines a “High Value Male.” But having material wealth usually comes at the top of their list.
He learns that his core feelings cannot be expressed if they do not conform to the acceptable behaviours' sexism defines as male. — Bell Hooks
Regardless of gender, most of us must hold down a job. Here again, we risk losing ourselves. The impact of corporate culture on employee sense of self is insidious.
Modern workplaces buzz with “values” and “behaviours.” In the past, bosses expected the delivery of work. Today they demand the performance of personality. Some employees find refuge in the creation of a backstage/frontstage split.
This can work well. They slide under the radar of the Cultural Fit Police through the adoption of a persona. Protecting themselves with cynicism from 9am–5pm. Finding true self-actualization in their personal lives.
For others, this strategy crashes and burns. Paul, a British business consultant profiled by Cambridge academics, is one of the unlucky.
Despite Paul’s determined efforts, his “real self” slips away. He loses track of the boundary between backstage and frontstage.
More than 2000 years after Zhou’s butterfly dream, Paul is asking himself a similar question. Is he an anti-establishment artist masquerading as a corporate drone? Or a sell-out pretending to be a musician?
I find the overall work here quite limiting and quite constricting, but if you push it, I would say that I find the work quite asphyxiating. That basically means ‘strangling’. The sort of feeling that it constricts you. I often find myself to be getting stupider. I describe it as being brain rotten. — Paul
When we dream, our brains rebuild our sense of self.
Our sense of self in the waking world is not as bulletproof as we would have hoped.
Fortunately, we were born with a secret defence mechanism.
Sometimes new information becomes available that radically conflicts with who we thought we were. We can’t split into two. Our perception of being a single whole person must be preserved. Without it, we couldn’t survive. To save us from collapse, our minds must do some reorganization and update our sense of self.
Neuroscientists have known for decades that dreams play a special role in learning. When we sleep, the brain does more than simply cement the experiences of the day into long term imprints. If this were the case, our dreams would be a replay of the preceding day.
Instead, the purpose of the dream is to combine what we’ve learned with what we already know. Both about the outside world, and about ourselves.
The strangeness of the self in dreams- evil twins and butterfly metamorphosis- is a by-product of this process. The method in the madness. The artist at work.
Our dreams are not a random spluttering of firing neurons. They are the loving author re-writing us, nightly, into existence.
Dreams are especially important in periods of turmoil.
Students in their first term of university undergo a pivotal identity transition. The content of their dreams reflects this change in self-image. In The Shaman at the Disco, James Thomas too describes the evolution of his dreams through a chapter of personal growth.
In times of crisis the role of dreams in rescuing the sense of self become more extreme. Dissociative Identity Disorder patients often meet their alters in their dreams. The mind’s emergency attempt to heal.
Herbert Hendin, a psychoanalyst from the 1970s, describes the nightmares of a child with an abusive homelife. One in which he was not allowed to forge his own identity. The boy dreamed he transformed into a jigsaw puzzle to escape a horrifying under-water scene. What could this be, if not a desperate adjustment of the self to fit a chaotic waking reality?
In a culture intent on tearing us apart, dreams are our shield.
Reconceptualized, the night-time is not where the self dissolves. It is where we are stitched back together.
