A profound moment in the shower

In which I explore a psychodynamic mystery

This morning I was surprised that we were running out of shampoo. I had to shake the bottle to get any shampoo out.

How did that happen?

This first mystery was easily solved: Oh yeah. My husband uses the shampoo.

Even though my husband is bald.

Immediately, I felt a rush of annoyance. Why does my husband insist on using shampoo? It makes no sense. He has no hair!

Upon considering, I realized there are many good reasons why my husband might use shampoo on his head.

• It feels good.

• It’s a lifelong ritual that brings him comfort.

• It keeps his head clean.

• It’s a response to, I don’t know, Phantom Hair Syndrome.

After I cleared up this mystery, another mystery, a much more important one, the psychodynamic mystery, revealed itself:

Why do I care?

More pointedly, why did the realization that my husband uses shampoo irritate me so thoroughly? And lead to such strong, reflexive negative judgment?

The conclusion I drew was this: fusion.

I don’t remember studying fusion in social work school many years ago. But it’s a really powerful psychological force. According to my all-knowing, AI-enhanced computer, fusion comes in at least these four forms:

• emotional fusion

This is when you merge with another person emotionally, as in experiences of empathy or falling in love.

• cognitive fusion

This is when you confuse your thoughts and beliefs with reality. If you believe it, it’s true. If you think it, it’s real.

• identity fusion

This is when you identify with a group or collective, when your identity is their identity. “I’m an innie,” for example.

• thought-action fusion

This is when you believe your thoughts determine outcomes.

I don’t know. None of these fusion types seem to explain my experience in the shower this morning. It seems to me that whatever category merging falls into, it boils down to one thing:

“How dare you exist?”

You might really love being an empath, or you might be actively in love right now with a person or a thought or idea or cause. You might never want to disentangle yourself from your beloved object. But, even when fusing feels good, I suggest it’s problematic. Because fusion depends on erasure, either of yourself or of another.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think that’s a good thing.

So my work this morning, as I finally got out of the shower and began toweling off (don’t worry — I didn’t waste an inordinate amount of water while I pondered these mysteries), was wondering about the fear underlying fusion. Why would I want to deny anyone’s right to exist, to take up their own space and have their own needs? What am I afraid of?

I’m not squirming out of this answer when I say, “Nothing.” I’m not afraid of acknowledging my husband’s or anyone else’s separation from me — consciously. I consider myself to be a well-bounded person who might actually be a little too accepting of others’ realities.

But unconsciously? Ah! Unconsciously! Why would I want to deny anyone’s right to exist, to take up their own space and have their own needs?

Human Fusion

In discussing this question with my husband this morning, we wondered if an answer might be the opposite of Phantom Limb (or Hair) Syndrome. Could fusion be a kind of phantom limb acquisition? You fuse with someone and suddenly find yourself inhabiting a new object that can be quite useful?

For my husband, fusion is a form of taking for granted, of receiving an extra limb that he gets to occupy for free. Hot damn! What a deal! But then, when that limb flexes on its own, it’s like “Oh wait. You’re not me?”

“You can’t read my mind? You don’t know what I know? You don’t feel what I feel?”

This is a beautifully straightforward version of fusion. “You’re me; I’m you; we’re one. Right?” Well, wrong. Obviously. But that’s a topic for another day.

For me, fusion is a little more complicated. It feels like projection, like body snatching, where I infuse my phantom limb with the contempt I feel for myself as I take up space, have needs, and use resources. Rather than ask “How dare I exist?” — a painful question I have asked myself (barely consciously) for much of my life — I take offense at my husband’s apparent assumption that he just gets to exist. Without earning it. Without considering how his existence affects anyone else. Without self-annihilating in the service of others.

Kinda related to resentment. (No surprise, as I am a Resentment Queen.) Why do I have to work so hard to justify my existence when you (seemingly) don’t have to work at all?

Kinda like envy. If I can’t have it, then I’ll make sure you don’t either!

But this isn’t about good looks or intelligence or popularity or nice clothes, the kinds of things that attract envy. This feeling I had in the shower was about shampoo.

Resentment and envy are just too rational. There’s something more primitive going on here. At the existential level. Like existence is a zero-sum game. If I get to exist, then your existence is an unwelcome impingement. If you get to exist, then I have to disappear.

In other words, How dare you exist? How dare you exist separately from me? How dare you not be me?

Fusion. Much less rational.

Huzzah!

So this morning, in the shower, despite decades of therapy, which I thought had taken care of my negative self-beliefs, I discovered I’m not out of the woods yet. Having a phantom limb in the form of my husband allows me to swing from one side of my psychic pendulum — I don’t have the right to exist — to the other side — He doesn’t have the right to exist. Same problem. Different object. Both being, basically, me.

I know. This is really sad. And terrible. And, as my husband has pointed out, super common. Right? How many of us cannot stand how our spouses chew gum or look in sweatpants or squeeze the toothpaste tube? How many of us think this is just the way it is in families? OK, so you hate stuff about each other. Live with it.

But I don’t want to live with it. That is, I don’t like these reactions. I don’t like being mysteriously suffused with anger and contempt for my husband. I don’t like denying his right to exist in whatever way feels right to him (as long as he’s doing no harm). I don’t like giving a shit about shampoo!

I want to change these responses. And the only way to change them is to become aware of them.

So huzzah for me! For today, I wrestled my irritation at my husband’s use of shampoo to the ground.

And I came up with a formulation that, even if it reveals my persistent negative self-beliefs, nevertheless brings me joy. Because, next time I feel dismissive and irritated, I can reformulate it. From “How dare you exist?” to “Just as I get to exist, I can celebrate your right to exist.”

Which feels so much better! All around.