A dear friend who is an American Sign Language interpreter recently shared with me a video of a virtual performance of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol that she helped interpret. I hadn’t read or seen a film version of A Christmas Carol in many years, and I’d forgotten what a touching and timeless story it is.
While A Christmas Carol, a novella written in 1843, was a story of its time, meant to promote understanding of and empathy for the industrial-age urban poor in England, its messages remain salient today. And, there are deeper meanings in its story.
Portrait of Charles Dickens, age 30, painted by Francis Alexander in 1842.
Layers of Meaning
In addition to its more obvious meaning as a story about compassion and charity, the story is also a powerful archetypal tale. It speaks to universal human needs for for meaning and community. What’s more, it illustrates the Jungian “hero’s journey”–Ebenezer Scrooge starts as a flawed, cold, and closed-off man who is transformed as he goes on an odyssey through his past, present, and future.
The Ghosts’ Lessons
The first of the three main motifs in the story, represented by the Spirit of the Past, is a Jungian battle between ignorance/repression (represented in the novella by fog, smog, dusk, and darkness) and awareness (represented by light from fires, candles, street lamps, and the ghost’s flaming crown). Scrooge must go through the pain of seeing his evolution from an innocent youth to a selfish and miserly adult. He begins to realize what he has lost in this process.
The Spirit of the Present brings the story’s second motif–want (represented in the novel by cold, ice, frost, and sleet) versus charity (represented by warmth, being well fed, and fine alcohol). The second spirit allows Scrooge to witness people coming together and bonding. Seeing this brings into the light his own loneliness and aloofness. As his journey continues, Scrooge must start facing his sins and their impact on others to become self-aware. The ghost also shows Scrooge two emaciated children called Ignorance and Want and warns him to avoid Ignorance at all costs.
The second spirit’s lessons help Scrooge bring his dark side further to the surface and begin to integrate his dark and light parts into a cohesive self. It is only after knowing himself that Scrooge would be able to more fully connect with others. The spirit also shows Scrooge Tiny Tim, a cheerful but ill child; this awakens some compassion in the miser. Tiny Tim represents youthful optimism and joy, love, and the promise of what life could be. Scrooge is saddened when the ghost tells him Tim will die.
When the third ghost, the Spirit of the Future, arrives, he is frightening and silent. He forces Scrooge to confront his mortality and the meaninglessness of his life–others don’t care that he dies, steal and sell his possessions, and have few kind words to say about him. The spirit also shows Scrooge that Tiny Tim has died, and people do mourn the loss of this pure little soul.
Scrooge learns that that for his life to have purpose, he must use the lessons learned through his odyssey: He must see all facets of himself and take responsibility for what he’s done to others, he must cultivate emotion and compassion for others, and he must use his wealth to help people. Scrooge has completed the hero’s journey and emerged as a new man.
Salient Lessons for Today
On the surface, we see the lessons Dickens intended for the capitalist upper classes of his time: Scrooge begins to run his business with mercy toward his debtors, give money to the needy, and treat his employees well. These are certainly messages that apply to our current world as well.
The deeper, and also timeless, lesson of Dickens’ tale is for us to live our lives seeking to really know and accept ourselves so that we can fully participate and contribute to the world around us. It is only by rejecting ignorance and denial that we can become integrated humans capable of empathy and connection.
My Wish for You
We’ve gone through a terrible journey of our own in 2020. My wish for anyone reading this post is for a peaceful holiday season and that 2021 brings good things for you, and for all of us. I also wish for you to be able to see and accept yourself as you are while striving to cultivate your higher self. Count your blessings, and share them.
I admit that I am fascinated by serial killers. I seek out TV shows, movies, documentaries, and sometimes books about them. I watch with a mix of disgust, fear, and interest. As a psychologist, I want to understand the mind of the psychopath. As someone who is empathic and spends a lot of time helping others, it’s very hard to wrap my mind around what it must be like to be a cold-blooded killer.
I’m not alone in my interest in serial killers. Psychopaths such as John Wayne Gacy, the Zodiac Killer, Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and the Boston Strangler have garnered tons of of public attention.
Serial killer Ed Kemper, 1973. Photo from Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office.
Diagnosis According to the diagnostic “bible” of mental health professionals, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (American Psychiatric Association, 2013), the category that fits most serial killers, those who killed multiple people on separate occasions for psychological and/or sexual reasons, is Antisocial Personality Disorder (APD). Colloquially, people use psychopath or sociopath more often than APD—technically, they mean the same thing, although in common usage, psychopath usually refers to a more violent form of APD than does sociopath.
The defining characteristics of APD boil down to a long-term pattern of disregard for, or violation of, others’ rights and feelings. While we all probably know someone like this, thankfully most of us don’t know a serial killer. Someone is said to have APD if they have three or more of the following traits that are not better explained by another mental illness (such as bipolar disorder): failure to respect and/or adhere to laws and norms; repeated lying and deceit for personal gain or pleasure; impulsivity and failure to plan ahead; reckless disregard for the safety of self and others; a pattern of irresponsibility with regard to work, finances, and other important areas; and a lack of remorse after having hurt or taken advantage of others. This diagnosis is only used in adults 18 or older—children with such traits are diagnosed with Conduct Disorder (and most adults with APD had Conduct Disorder when they were young).
Serial killers are obviously at the extreme end of the spectrum of APD: On the mild end, you might see someone who cheats on their taxes and cyber-bullies. Serial killers tend to have shown sadistic traits and wet the bed as youngsters and often are fascinated by fire-setting. Contrary to popular belief, most are not “evil geniuses” but have low to average IQ. Most are male (Hickey, 2010; Vronsky, 2007).
How Did They Become Killers? There is no one clear reason why someone becomes a serial killer. Probably, a lot of reasons add up to a seriously disturbed personality. These include “nature” (genes, high testosterone levels, low serotonin levels, head injury, developmental brain anomalies) and “nurture” (antisocial parents, family problems, severe abuse, bullying, societal factors). The fact that there is not a definitive “recipe” for homicidal behavior may be one of the most disturbing aspects to think about: If there is no one obvious reason people become serial killers, how can we prevent them from developing?
A Little History There have likely been serial killers throughout history. Some believe that werewolf and vampire legends were inspired by serial killers (Schlesinger, 2000). One of the most famous historical murderers, often called “the first modern serial killer,” was Jack the Ripper. He killed at least five women in London in the late 1800s and was never caught. The story of these killings spawned a media frenzy, countless movies and books, and one of the earliest “profiles” of a killer (Canter, 1994).
Picture from The Illustrated Police News, October 6, 1888.
In the United States, there have been approximately 2625 documented serial killers. Disturbingly, 76% of all known serial killers in the 20th century were from the U.S. What does that say about our country? I guess it should not be that surprising, given our overall violence compared with many other nations: For example, in looking at homicides in cities around the world, rates in U.S. cities are much, much higher than those in Europe and Asia (Violent Crime).
Why Do We Like Killers? OK, perhaps like is too strong a word. But, maybe we are fascinated by serial killers because they are different from the norm: We are curious about what is unusual. And, we may consciously or unconsciously admire those who don’t care about rules, follow their darkest impulses, and act as they please with no conscience. Glorification of the “outlaw” fits with the history of the United States, built on rebellion, violence, and independence (Edlund, 2017). Americans also have a very complicated psychological relationship with power, dominance, sexuality, and control, all elements of many serial killings.
Some of the characteristics that allow some serial killers to succeed with their crimes may be part of their allure: The ability to charm and manipulate is often in their makeup. Take Ted Bundy, for example. There is something both fascinating and horrifying about the idea that that charming but controlling guy you talked to at a bar or work with could secretly be hiding bodies in his basement. It also makes one think twice about online dating. Other serial killers are not particularly charming but can fly under the radar, living ordinary lives, with others not realizing who they are and what they do.
We may be drawn to stories about serial killers for the same reasons why some people love horror movies. One is that reading or watching tales of serial killers is a safer way to face our fears of violence and death and even experience some excitement and arousal around killing. Murderers’ lives may also hold a dark appeal because it seems taboo to wonder about them. Many people have a desire to seek out what is forbidden or at least have a curiosity about what is outside the realm of everyday life.
Serial Killer Favorites I want to share some of my favorite depictions of serial killers, in case you, like me, have a curiosity about them. My favorite by far has been The Fall,a dark and disturbing three-season Netflix series (2013–2016) set in the U.K. and starring Gillian Anderson and Jamie Dornan. Anderson does a stellar job as the troubled detective tasked with finding serial killer Dornan. The acting and story are what kept me riveted, but I have to admit that the fact that the killer was a mental health counselor added to the draw.
The Silence of the Lambs (1991) is a classic serial killer movie. Anthony Hopkins as the homicidal and cannibalistic Dr. Lecter epitomized the Hollywood image of a psychopath, and Jodie Foster was a compelling and vulnerable hero. The only thing I didn’t like was the movie’s implication that killer Buffalo Bill’s penchant for cross-dressing had anything to do with his murderous instincts. A little-known fact is that one of the inspirations for Buffalo Bill was Philadelphia psychopath Gary Heidnik (who was not a cross-dresser or transgender, by the way). Another inspo was Ed Gein, who was believed to have been trying to make a “woman suit” out of the skin of victims so he could pretend to be his dead mother. (Gein was also an inspiration for Norman Bates in Psycho.)
Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) is certainly another classic of the genre, unfortunately also featuring a cross-dressing killer. Of course, Norman Bates was not necessarily dressing in women’s clothing for sexual or identity reasons but because he was embodying his (deceased) abusive mother. Sorry for the spoiler if you never saw the movie, but come on—if you have any interest in serial killers, you must have watched it!
I really enjoyed the cultural satire of American Psycho (2000), starring Christian Bale. I mean, it’s quite a feat if you can make serial killing humorous. And that business card scene is such a biting send-up of 1980s business culture.
You can bet he’s playing Huey Lewis and the News.
Cormac McCarthy’s novel No Country for Old Men (2005) and the Coen brothers’ 2007 movie adaptation starring Tommy Lee Jones and Javier Bardem are terrifying. McCathy’s novel does a better job of fleshing out the psychological torment of good guy Bell, while the film version better depicts the horror that is Bardem’s Chigurh.
A few runners-up for me have been the Netflix series Mindhunter (which follows FBI agent Ford Holden through his groundbreaking research in the 1970s), the 2007 film Zodiac (about the San Francisco killer), and the Netflix series Manhunt, which humanizes the infamous Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski (and which I mentioned in an earlier post). There are lots more, and some I have not even checked out yet.
For some reason, I am able to “shut it off” pretty easily after reading or watching serial killer tales. However, if you’re more likely to lie awake and afraid afterwards, do yourself a favor and save these stories for daytime consumption!
References American Psychiatric Association (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition. Arlington, VA: American Psychiatric Association.
Canter, David (1994). Criminal Shadows: Inside the Mind of the Serial Killer. HarperCollins.
There has been too much untimely death in my periphery the past couple of years. This past week has been difficult, and my mind has been turning over ruminations on death, life, mortality, and age. That’s all I wish to say about it, but I will share this beautiful poem by Sylvia Plath.
Who
The month of flowering’s finished. The fruit’s in, Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth. October’s the month for storage.
The shed’s fusty as a mummy’s stomach: Old tools, handles and rusty tusks. I am at home here among the dead heads.
Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won’t notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
If only the wind would leave my lungs alone. Dogsbody noses the petals. They bloom upside down. They rattle like hydrangea bushes.
Mouldering heads console me, Nailed to the rafters yesterday: Inmates who don’t hibernate.
Cabbageheads: wormy purple, silver-glaze, A dressing of mule ears, mothy pelts, but green-hearted, Their veins white as porkfat.
O the beauty of usage! The orange pumpkins have no eyes. These halls are full of women who think they are birds.
This is a dull school. I am a root, a stone, an owl pellet, Without dreams of any sort.
Mother, you are the one mouth I would be a tongue to. Mother of otherness Eat me. Wastebasket gaper, shadow of doorways.
I said: I must remember this, being small. There were such enormous flowers, Purple and red mouths, utterly lovely.
The hoops of blackberry stems made me cry. Now they light me up like an electric bulb. For weeks I can remember nothing at all.
It’s spring, and I’ve been thinking about the myth of Persephone and Demeter. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the myth, I’ll tell it here.
“Throning Goddess,” a marble statue assumed to be Persephone, queen of the underworld, 480-460 BC, found in Taranto, Italy.
According to Greek mythology, Persephone (also called Kore, “the maiden”) was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, the goddess of harvest and fertility. Persephone was a beautiful young girl with many suitors, including Hades, the god of the underworld (and Zeus’ brother–her own uncle!). Demeter was very protective of Persephone and refused to consider Hades’ desire to have her for his bride. Demeter didn’t want her lovely young daughter married off to a middle-aged man surrounded by death. Hades was determined to get his way, so one day while the maiden was playing and picking flowers with her friends, he caused the earth to suddenly open up under Persephone’s feet when she stopped to admire a beautiful narcissus flower. Hades grabbed the maiden before she could call for help and took her with him into his underworld kingdom. Although Zeus and Helios, the sun god, saw the abduction happen, they decided not to tell Demeter, as Zeus didn’t want to cause problems with his brother, Hades.
“The Fate of Persephone,” by Walter Crane, 1877.
Demeter was overcome with grief when her daughter went missing and asked her friend Hecate, goddess of the wilderness and childbirth, for help; Hecate advised Demeter to ask Helios if he’d seen anything, and Demeter convinced Helios to tell her what he’d witnessed. Helios revealed that Hades has abducted Persephone, causing Demeter to become enraged with Hades and with Zeus for not telling her he knew what had happened to their daughter. To punish the gods and express her grief, Demeter refused to continue with her duties as the goddess of harvest and fertility, causing great devastation to the earth: The ground dried up, crops withered, animals starved, and famine and death spread across the world.
Zeus heard the cries of the suffering people and decided to do something to appease Demeter and save humanity. He told Demeter that he would ask Persephone if she preferred to stay in the underworld with her “husband,” Hades, or return to Olympus with her mother: If Persephone said she wanted to remain with Hades, Demeter would have to accept this and go back to her duties as the harvest and fertility goddess. Demeter agreed. However, Hades tricked Persephone, who was distraught at having been kidnapped and forced to remain with him. Persephone was lured into eating a pomegranate seed–anyone who ate any food of the underworld would be cursed to miss the underworld if they ever left it. When Persephone was brought to Olympus to tell her father what her wishes were, she said that she wanted to return to be with Hades. Demeter was infuriated by this response, assuming that Hades had somehow deceived Persephone into answering this way. Demeter declared she would never bring life back to the earth. Zeus proposed a compromise in which Persephone would spend 6 months a year with Hades and 6 months with Demeter, a plan that pleased no one; however, all had to adhere to Zeus’ will.
“The Return of Persephone,” by Frederic Leighton, 1891.
The Greeks used this myth to explain the seasons: In the fall and winter when Persephone is with her husband, Hades, ruling as queen of the underworld, Demeter mourns and allows life on earth to die and decay. In the spring and summer, Demeter rejoices at having her daughter return to her and makes the world fertile, then fruitful again.
There are other version of this myth in older and later cultures, as well as similar stories of death and rebirth. One could surmise that such stories are related to celebrations of spring (such as Easter, in which Christians honor Jesus’ resurrection after death and secular people celebrate new life in spring through symbols like eggs, baby chicks, and rabbits; and Ostara, a pagan celebration of the season’s change from dark winter to brightening spring).
With my view rooted in the contemporary world, it’s hard to remember to consider the Persephone story from within the context of antiquity and how people in that time viewed family, marriage, the rights of women, and freedom. From a modern perspective, the story evokes thoughts of rape, trauma, pedophilia, and incest. It’s hard to see it as anything but a terrible tragedy and difficult not to focus on the story being about a young girl whose freedom and innocence were taken by her uncle. From a more psychological view, one can also interpret the myth as exploring the struggle of a mother to allow her daughter to grow up and leave home, or a mother’s jealousy of her daughter’s youth and budding sexuality (thus, Demeter’s hiding Persephone away from her suitors and not allowing Hades to marry her). Along the same lines, one could interpret the story as depicting the struggle of the old (embodied by Demeter) to pass on the torch to the young (Persephone)–the nostalgia and pain of growing older, seeing the world change, and coming to terms with one’s own mortality.
I choose to focus on the hopeful and affirming part of the story–the fact that growth and rebirth are a natural part of the cycle. Acknowledging that death and decay are also a part of life, we can use the reminder of spring and the myth of Persephone to spur us on to appreciate the life we have and to take advantage of renewed energy, new beginnings, and second chances during this time of the year.
“Parting Spring” (left panel), by Kawai Gyokudo, National Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo, Japan, 1916.
A lot of people believe that it’s just a given that artists are “crazy,” that being mentally ill makes you more creative and able to “think outside of the box.” Is this true? It’s something I have wondered about many times. The short answer is probably not, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.
There have certainly been a lot of high-profile artists with mental health issues (including substance use issues): comedian Margaret Cho (who had an eating disorder, depression, and drug and alcohol addiction), painter Edvard Munch (who had depression and agoraphobia, as well as hallucinations), painter Georgia O’Keeffe (who dealt with anxiety and depression), poet Sylvia Plath (who had depression and ultimately killed herself), Vincent van Gogh (who probably had depression or bipolar disorder and, like Plath, killed himself), novelist David Foster Wallace (who dealt with depression and also killed himself), street and neo-expressionist artist Jean-Michel Basquiat (who suffered from heroin addiction and paranoia), actress and writer Carrie Fisher (who had bipolar disorder and also was addicted to drugs and alcohol) … The list could go on and on. But, does having a mental illness or addiction play a direct role in being creative?
In a 2013 study, Kyaga and colleagues looked at a huge sample of Swedes–more than 1 million–and found that people with a mental health issue (including psychosis, bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety disorders, substance abuse, autism, ADHD, anorexia nervosa, and completed suicide) were no more likely to work in a creative profession (defined as artistic or scientific careers) than those without a mental disorder. However, in this and previous studies, these authors did find that people with psychotic disorders or bipolar disorder were more likely to work creatively and that authors were more likely to have certain mental health problems. Interestingly, Kyaga and associates also found that the siblings of patients with autism and the first-degree relatives of patients with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and anorexia nervosa were significantly overrepresented in creative professions. Scott Barry Kaufman, in a blog post for Scientific American, postulates: “Could it be that the relatives inherited a watered-down version of the mental illness conducive to creativity while avoiding the aspects that are debilitating?” This makes some sense, since a number of traits associated with some mental health conditions may be more conducive to creativity, whereas full-blown mental illness typically would make a person too dysfunctional to succeed in their profession or creative pursuit.
Some researchers have found that a few of the traits associated with schizotypal personality (specifically, unusual perceptual experiences, such as “magical thinking,” visual or physical illusions, and superstitions, and impulsive nonconformity–a tendency toward unstable mood and behavior, especially around rules and social norms), often found in first-degree relatives of people with schizophrenia, fit with a creative personality. Similarly, people with an “overinclusive” way of thinking (trouble thinking precisely and selectively), who thus allow many thoughts and stimuli to enter their consciousness–a trait associated with schizotypy but also with psychosis–but who are also intelligent, with good executive functioning skills (e.g., organization, memory, and direction–traits typically absent or impaired in those with psychosis) tend to think more creatively and also have the ability to succeed in their work.
It’s a fascinating and complicated topic. I leave you with some examples of work by artists who had a mental illness. Given some of the research, one might consider these artists to be the exceptions–whether their mental illness contributed to their creative thought process or not, they were able to overcome the struggles and challenges that come with mental illness to produce amazing work.
“The Nile,” by Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1983
“Untitled (Abstraction/Portrait of Paul Strand),” by Georgia O’Keeffe, 1917
This past summer, I read a book that touched me deeply: Home by Marilynne Robinson. I was surprised how emotional I felt reading it and especially finishing it. I completed the book on a flight home from a summer vacation, and I literally cried for a half an hour. It’s a little hard to explain why this story hit me so hard, since I can’t say I strongly related to any of the main characters. For those who haven’t read the book (and I highly recommend it!), it’s the story of a family in a small Iowa town in the 1950s that is shaken by several events. First, the patriarch of the family, a retired minister, is failing in his health. Because of this and a broken relationship, his youngest daughter, Glory, returns home to help care for him. Soon after, the “prodigal son” of the family, Jack, a son who, despite his checkered past and estrangement from the family, is the most beloved by the father, also returns home and stays with his sister and father. The tale of his life gradually unfolds as his sister (the narrator of the story) observes his attempts to come to terms with himself, his past, and his shaky relationships with his family and close family friends (including another minister, his father’s best friend). Jack also attempts to see if his past would preclude him from returning home to live a new life and whether his home has evolved into a place that would be safe for him and his loved ones. While Jack does receive grace and sometimes forgiveness from others, he remains a profoundly lonely and estranged man stuck between a past that he is unsure he can overcome and a present that may not allow Jack to live the sort of life he feels is right. Themes of family duty, religion, spirituality, race relations, and morality permeate the stories, with forgiveness and people’s ability to change and transform being central.
Home is a retelling of some of the same story told in Robinson’s Gilead (another amazing novel) from a different perspective. One of the reasons both novels, and especially Home, are so poignant to me is Robinson’s mastery of writing. I’ve read few authors who have such a quiet and subtle power. I think that the themes Robinson tackles are the other reason these stories struck a chord: At midlife, the idea of change is more fraught than it was in my younger days. There are seemingly fewer doors open because of the choices I have made; habits I have formed; and the limits of time, money, and energy. Yet, as a therapist, the possibility that people can change is central to my work and my ability to hold hope for my clients and for myself as I live through my own ups and downs. While the doubts and regrets of my life are not the same as those of the prodigal son, Jack, in Home and by most standards are not as troubling, they still cross (and at times haunt) my mind. I found Jack’s question in Home “Do you think some people are intentionally and irretrievably consigned to perdition?” rather heartbreaking. It brought to mind all the times I’ve struggled with things about myself that I wish were different and times I’ve tried to help and counsel others who were up against some very difficult circumstances, including their own entrenched patterns that make it hard for them to move forward. Without spoiling the end of Home for those of you who might read it, I’ll just say that for me, it was unclear at the end of the book to what degree individuals and their world were able to change, and some of the characters certainly suffered for the uncertainties of their own transformation, the transformation of others, and that of society.
Surprisingly, some of the same feelings stirred in me by Home and Gilead (which I just read in December) came up when I was recently watching Manhunt: Unabomber, an eight-episode series on the FBI’s search for the Unabomber. Manhunt is entertaining and fairly well done, but it’s no masterpiece of writing or (with the exception of Paul Bettany, who played Kaczynski) acting. Still, I felt a stab of emotion when the series took the point of view of Ted Kaczynski in his tortured struggle to live both in and apart from a world he saw as destroying people’s basic freedom and humanity. Tragically, Kaczynski chose to act on these struggles by killing innocent people. However, in the TV show when Kaczynski plaintively speculated about whether he could stop killing if he wanted to but ultimately could not, it triggered some of the same emotion I felt pondering the souls of the characters in Gilead and Home. Granted, it was hard to feel much empathy for Kaczynski given the terror and destruction he caused, but the writers of the series slyly made it easy for the viewer to identify at least to some degree with Kaczynski’s alienation and used this theme to critique our confusing and dehumanizing world.
So, where does all this pondering and emotion leave me today? It leaves me with a great deal of admiration for Marilynne Robinson’s talent and gratitude that I have the chance to be touched by these and other stories. It also leaves me continuing to ponder the ideas of morality and change. Really, these are themes that will take a lifetime to explore. Some days, I feel OK with where I’m at in my pondering. Other days, not so much. In the end, it’s the journey and the questions that make us human.
