In this case, though, form obviously trumps content. The beauty of this campaign is that it’s transformative. The literal message implies a static present, but the act of reaching out, of making these videos, itself shatters that illusion.

These videos prove that people have been moved already. They allow us to see a changing landscape in bloom. The point isn’t really that things will get better; it’s that – look! – they are getting better…

And that sharing our pain makes all the difference.

Bless you, Dan Savage.

I’m a fan of Freud. Despite a lot of funny ideas, his investment in self-awareness – and his method of attaining it, free association – makes him a crucial figure in the enlightenment of our species. Nonetheless, we live in dark times. I’m not a pessimist about nature, but I don’t believe in the progressive arc of history. As Freud himself asserts, human beings have to work to improve themselves. I take this to be true writ large. Without a vast, shared commitment to better our world, we will doom ourselves to horrors old and new. And a sentiment of shared commitment seems to be waning.

As always, though, bad news spells opportunity. In times of darkness, great minds usually arise to challenge the status quo; Freud himself is an example of this. Surprisingly, then, Freud’s philosophy is at the heart of the most scathing critique of modern society I have seen in some time: Adam Curtis’ The Century of the Self.

Curtis doesn’t take issue with Freud’s ideas directly. He attacks them for their consequences. If you have any interest in Freud whatsoever, you MUST watch this documentary. Here is Curtis in his own words:

I don’t say there was a conspiracy but that consumerism had an ideology just as much as fascism or communism did. It was another way of managing the masses in an age of mass democracy. People like [Edward] Bernays were the first architects of that. And the model they used was fundamentally the pessimistic Freudian view that we are just emotional, irrational creatures and nothing more…

Bernays [Freud's nephew] provided the ideas that were used by the US government, big business, and the CIA to develop techniques to manage and control the minds of the American people. But this was not a cynical exercise in manipulation. Those in power believed that the only way to make democracy work and create a stable society was to repress the savage barbarism that the psychoanalysts told them lurked just under the surface of normal American life…

What happened was that a group of psychoanalysts took what Bernays had begun and invented a whole range of techniques to get inside and manage the unconscious mind of the consumer. By the early 50s the ideas of psychoanalysis had penetrated deep into American life. The psychoanalysts themselves became rich and powerful and had many famous politicians, writers and show business celebrities as patients. And, as their ideas took hold, a new elite began to emerge — in politics, social planning, and the business world. What linked them was the assumption that the masses were fundamentally irrational. The way to manage a free market democracy, like America, was to use their psychological understanding to control this irrationality in the interests of everyone.

This may sound a bit marxist for your tastes, with its powerful elite controlling the minds of many. But Curtis is really the opposite of a conspiracy theorist – he’s interested in the consequences of good intentions. With an eye and ear for breathtaking historical detail, he illustrates how Freud’s followers undermine the notion of public good.

It’s safe to assume Freud would be horrified by Curtis’ picture. Freud meant to demystify the unconscious, as a way of freeing us from pain and misery. But his savviest disciples proved to be master manipulators. More shillers than healers, they used Freud’s theories to toy with the unconscious instead.

Curtis’ history is beyond shocking, if only because none of it is secret. He weaves together a grand narrative that seems utterly obvious and yet painfully fresh. Yes, it is true: Freud is the great uncle of public relations, the grandaddy of consumer culture. Watch The Century of the Self and you’ll be convinced.

Part One: Happiness Machines

Part Two: The Engineering of Consent

Part Three: There Is a Policeman Inside All Our Heads He Must Be Destroyed

Part Four: Eight People Sipping Wine in Kettering

“And yet it seems to me that the process itself, in its very commitment to interiority — its attempt to ferret out prime causes and pivotal events from the psychic rubble of the past and the unwieldy conflicts of the present — can be intriguing enough to stand in as its own reward.”

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[This is a doozy of an article: long-winded, self-involved, not entirely pleasant to read. The obligatory horror stories of pathologically insensitive therapists make me cringe; I believe them but feel they're sensationalized and unbalanced. With the utmost sympathy, Daphne Merkin does seem like a person destined for therapy. I don't mean this as an insult – I wouldn't be featuring this article if I did. (I wouldn't be here if I did!) Merkin's struggles are real, and she's honest about them. As a result, she doesn't offer up the most likable self-portrait. I don't know if that's her objective, but in any case she bravely illustrates a core tenant of therapy: we evade the truth of ourselves at extremely high cost. If you read this article, read it with an open mind. Daphne Merkin may not be "your kind of person," but the sympathy that she feels for herself in the face of obviously frustrating emotions is, I'm sure, a consequence of her life in therapy – a consequence and a great accomplishment. -Ed.]

I love this cartoon. The joke works because we want to pay for inner strength; it should feel difficult, like a triumph – something deeply reached for.

But I don’t read it as an outright critique. As much as this cartoon questions the legitimacy of drugs, it also pokes fun at modernity. The joke works, too, because reaching for the medicine cabinet is so utterly unromantic. Where once there were shaman, vision quests or holy insight, now there’s Rite Aid, $10 and a ’scrip for Paxil.

Nonetheless, is it so far-fetched to find strength in the act of helping oneself? How much humility does it take to crack open that white bottle cap for the first time? It’s easy to conceive of “pill-popping” as a shortcut, an easy way out – until we’re the ones faced with the choice. We may have a hard time admitting it, but inner strength isn’t always there. Sometimes, we need to reach out.

And that’s an act of courage in itself.

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[I have a friend in medical school – a psychiatrist in training – who tells me that AA gets tremendous credit for being the most effective addiction recovery program in existence. This surprised me, because a) I didn't know that AA's success rate is the gold standard, and b) I thought that many of AA's strategies were at odds with certain classic, psycho-therapuetic mores. The latter appears to be true, although this article suggests a welcome shift in attitude. If AA offers the best chance for recovery, than psychotherapy should follow its lead. Therapists, say the authors, should break out of their comfort zones when the failure of addiction looms; the successful treatment of alcoholism may require more communion with patients than is commonly advised.

This makes a lot of sense to me. In my own treatment (not for addiction, admittedly), my therapist never shared her own stories. I knew next to nothing about her life, and I assumed it would stay that way. But in one instance, she shattered this well-established practice – it was shocking to both of us – by sharing an incredibly intimate story about a death in her family. I could see this made her nervous. Clearly she was going out on a limb, defying her own notion of "best practices." Yet her intuition paid off. Her story changed my life, not because it made me feel any closer to her, but because it made me feel closer to others (certain others at first, and then more generally). I went from feeling confused and frustrated to feeling sympathetic and forgiving.

She told me her story, she said later, in an attempt to give me facts that she never thought I'd get, i.e. I wanted explanations from people who couldn't give them to me. The revelation of her family's secret became a stand-in for the experience I'd been missing, both literally – she told me something I never thought I'd hear – and figuratively – her story gave shape to the actions of people in my own life. She drew a parallel, but she also broke a boundary. Both helped my treatment; I can't say which helped more. This is the art of psychotherapy: the acknowledgment that, despite an appropriately clinical approach, any rules-based system is bound to fall short in the face of us. -Ed.]

This pending law in Nebraska correlates abortion with mental weakness; it suggests that women who are pressured to have an abortion should be handled with kid gloves. First of all, women face all kinds of pressure from all sides at this juncture: lovers, friends, family, and even circumstances themselves. Making a choice under pressure doesn’t mean that it’s a bad choice. Most important choices in life are made this way. Second of all, if we’re honest about these pressures, then we can see this law for what it is: an attempt to use the stigma of mental illness against women considering abortion.

As you probably know from reading this blog, I’m all about de-stigmatizing mental illness. This stigma leads to suicide all the time – every day. It killed my sister, who took her own life before she was willing to take an anti-depressant (even after she filled a prescription). So the thought of using this stigma, reinforcing it, for political victory makes my blood boil. Whatever your position on abortion, we must do better than this law.

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[A wonderful follow-up to this post. Props to Cathy Horyn, who really hits all the bases in writing responsibly about a suicide.]

The movie Greenberg stars Ben Stiller as an introverted, volatile, self-obsessed jerk. Its ad campaign promotes Greenberg as a kind of “lovable loser,” a 40 year-old ne’er-do-well with the affected charm of a teenage cynic – i.e., someone we can relate to. Yet it’s not a fair portrait, exactly. Greenberg is far less likable than you’d expect.

At the start of the movie, we learn that Greenberg’s troubles run deep: he’s just been discharged from a hospital, but “not that kind of hospital,” his sister-in-law warns; “he had a nervous breakdown.” She’s warning Florence Marr, the family’s nanny (played by Greta Gerwig). With the household in Thailand, Florence doesn’t have much to do. But she’s asked to check in on Greenberg, who’s crashing at his brother’s house, just to make sure he doesn’t need anything. Greenberg exhibits the classic symptom of co-dependency in LA: he doesn’t drive.

Florence approaches Greenberg with a forced nonchalance, fluttering around him and avoiding eye contact. She’s quintessentially West Coast. Terrified of confrontation, eager to appear cool, she waits for Greenberg to make a move. And despite his palpable anxiety, he does.

Stiller plays Greenberg brilliantly. (The script, by director Noah Baumbach, gives him plenty to work with.) Greenberg looks so uncomfortable in his own skin that half the time he could be wondering where to put his hands. And his awful, mangy hairstyle suggests a person entirely at odds with the material world. A neurotic character like Greenberg is prone to be overacted, yet Stiller and Baumbach give us something real: a man not defined by his neuroses but genuinely beset by them. In an early sequence, Stiller approaches a swimming pool with a haunted, brazen look. ‘Oh no,’ I thought – ‘is he gonna hurt himself?’ But Greenberg attacks the pool instead, desperate to overcome his inner wuss. In seconds we realize that Greenberg can’t swim. The pool wins.

Rather too quickly, Florence falls for Greenberg. She seems to want an easy life, but what she really wants is to make a complicated life easier. She finds a foil in Greenberg. With her eagerness to smooth everything over, she drifts through the ugly circumstances of their relationship like a college intern. She sighs a lot. (Her brief character setup is a passive one night stand, suggesting that Greenberg is an unfortunate love interest in a long line of many.)

Am I making this sound like a horrible movie? Because it’s not. Florence and Greenberg are not admirable people. I shudder at the thought of being either’s parent. Greenberg, when he’s not grouching about trivial wrongs, can be shockingly nasty. And Florence laps it up like a hungry, lazy dog. So why should anyone go see this movie? It’s a tough question. The film, like the relationship, is not a pleasant experience. But to answer this question – Why watch this? – is to answer something else as well. Why put up with anyone?

I am not at all a masochistic moviegoer. More than most, I loathe directors who take advantage of an audience. But in Greenberg, Baumbach expertly toes the line. He fashions a character that is just shy of insufferable. Any more annoying, and we’d wind up hating the experience. Any more sweet, and Greenberg would become a stock character: the down-on-his-luck dude who finds redemption in love (yawn). In testing my limits as a moviegoer, Baumbach had me thinking about my limits as a friend. How much patience did I have for Greenberg? Would I have had more or less if he were a real person? Would I have considered someone like him at all?

This is the fundamental conundrum of mental illness. Often, if not all the time, mental illness is defined by how much it aggravates us. The more frustrating a condition for us, the more severe we judge it to be. So if we’re committed to helping the mentally anguished, what limits can we rightfully have? If a family member or friend has become intolerable, isn’t that more evidence of need? How do we balance our own lives and those of more turbulence? The answer to “Why put up with anyone?” brings us back to the Golden Rule. We put up with exasperating people because we know how easily we can become exasperating ourselves.

So is Greenberg mentally ill? Absolutely. Some may disagree, likely because Greenberg seems too “normal.” But that’s exactly the point. Psychiatric disorder in cinema tends toward the extreme: One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, A Beautiful Mind, The Aviator. Yet Greenberg presents the most vivid, honest portrait of illness I’ve ever seen on the big screen. Here’s a guy desperately trying to cope with the smallest niceties in life – and failing. When his best friend surprises him with a birthday cake in a restaurant, he storms out before yelling, “Sit on my dick!” The outbursts are painful to watch; they’re far from endearing. But you feel for the guy. Greenberg is a reminder of just how tough life can be.

Watch ‘Masters of Style: Alexander McQueen’