Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is gaining momentum in the world of behavior therapy. The theory of language which underlies ACT posits that “there are at least three senses of self that emerge from our verbal abilities: the conceptualized self, the self as an ongoing process of self- awareness, and the observing self” (Get 89). The ability for our observing self to detach from the other two senses of self makes it possible for us to achieve a unique “psychological flexibility”(Hayes). This “psychological flexibility” comes about through recognition that detachment from one’s conceptualized self , described as “the product of normal applications of language to (a person) and (their) life” (Get 90), is not only possible but desirable. ACT’s effectiveness is widely acknowledged and speaks for itself. A large degree of psychological freedom is conceded to the static and rigid conceptualized self when a person believes this self to be his or her “true” self, often leaving him or her feeling powerless to change. But if the conceptualized self is acknowledged to be a product of the deceptiveness of language, figurative and thus inherently rhetorical, psychological freedom can be attained from the boundaries we place upon ourselves when we take our minds literally. The observing self has no boundaries because it is experiential by nature. Thus, the thoughts and feelings we have tried in vain to control and have had no choice but to take literally—that is, to believe that our truth and reality comes from these thoughts and feelings—become just another voice that we can observe and acknowledge while choosing to continue on a path which we (our observing selves) have chosen for ourselves.
It is not surprising that clinical evidence shows that ACT is effective in overcoming a wide variety of psychological issues because its theory of language is supported by years of research by rhetoricians, linguists, dialecticians, historians, psychologists, authors, and educators. The concept of the self as a metaphor is not a revolutionary idea either. On the contrary, it is discussed in great detail in many scholarly circles. What makes ACT so exciting is that it represents a revolutionary application of the various rhetorical philosophies and theories centering on language. As Karl Marx writes, “… the philosophers have only interpreted the world in different ways; the point, however, is to change it” (Metahistory qtd 284). ACT builds upon the work of great scholars and philosophers and gives us a way to change our lives based on the conclusions to which they have come regarding language’s impact on our concept of self. According to Stephen Hayes, the creator of ACT:
ACT illuminates the ways that language entangles clients into futile attempts to wage war against their own inner lives. Through metaphor, paradox, and experiential exercises clients learn how to make healthy contact with thoughts, feelings, memories, and physical sensations that have been feared and avoided. Clients gain the skills to recontextualize and accept these private events, develop greater clarity about personal values, and commit to needed behavior change (“Hello”).
Hayes explains that ACT is based on Relational Frame Theory, or RFT, in which the basic premise is that “human behavior is governed largely through networks of mutual relations called relational frames… (which) allow us to learn without requiring direct experience” ( Get 17). But then he explains how these same relational frames make us create largely arbitrary and personal relationships between objects or concepts in a metaphorical (and often metaleptical) way which can lead to extreme emotional suffering. We all make arbitrary relations between things which seem meaningful but only because of the way language works. Karl Marx conceived that (through language) “consciousness functions to endow things, processes, and events with (false) meaning” (293). Language is a useful evolutionary tool, but it can lead to unnecessary suffering which can only be reduced by recognizing the arbitrary natures of our relational frames. Verbal “fix-it” methods will not work, because we cannot control our thoughts or emotions. When we try to apply our normal problem-solving methods to our minds, we find they don’t work internally as well as they do in our environments. Telling ourselves not to think or feel something only entangles us further in those thoughts and feelings. Having strong feelings or thoughts about something unpleasant can lead us to avoid it at all costs. Experiential avoidance is the pitfall into which many of us fall—we find ourselves unable to overcome our problems, and we often put our lives on hold waiting for an intervention of some kind. The solution, Hayes suggests, is to recognize that our mind does not have to be taken literally. We can see how we feel and what we think about the facts of our lives and then acknowledge that our mind is metaphorically making arbitrary connections that we do not have to agree with. As Hayden White asserts: “Knowledge is a product of a wrestling not only with the ‘facts’ but with one’s self” (Metahistory 192). Like all great historians will admit, one can’t possibly hope to change the facts—but one can absolutely consciously embed the story into which the facts are placed, effectively shifting their importance. White writes of history and language: “…Histories are attempts to use language… in such a way as to constitute different universes of discourse in which statements about the meaning of history in general or of different segments of the whole historical process can be made” (274). The same can be said about the way we think about our world and our place in it through language and rhetorical thinking processes.
In the same way metaphorical bases of thought can be found in every major field of knowledge, Hayes is suggesting that even our most internal thoughts, our entire self—what Freud would call our ego—is a metaphor and gives us metaphorical, arbitrary suggestions about what we think or feel because of our ingrained evolutionary linguistic capabilities. The ability to disconnect from our mind—the “mind-train,” Hayes calls it—would give us unlimited benefits, the best of which would be pain management or less mental and emotional suffering.
It is important to recognize that Hayes’s work builds upon the work of others because so many different scholars from almost every field imaginable have acknowledged the importance of human rhetorical thinking patterns to their respective fields of research, which only lends more credence to ACT’s effectiveness. In his “Four Master Tropes,” Kenneth Burke explains how these tropes (metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and irony) are the means through which we apprehend all knowledge. He opens this famous essay by clarifying that his interest in these tropes is not their “purely figurative usage, but with their role in the discovery and description of ‘the truth’” (421). If “truth” is at least somewhat subjective, as much 20th and 21st century scholarship has suggested, then it can be said that even knowledge of the subject (or self) that is apprehending his or her “truth” must be understood in terms of these four tropes. The rhetorical self (what Hayes calls the “conceptualized self”) can then be analyzed not solely through psychological, philosophical, sociological or anthropological methods, but also through literary, linguistic, and especially rhetorical methods as well. (A word of caution: a line exists, however blurry, between real people and characters in a novel. My primary purpose is to show that we all narrate for ourselves the story of our lives and furthermore, that through language we also narrate the selves we believe our selves to be.)
Beyond the four tropes that Burke has effectively shown are fundamental to our thinking patterns, there are numerous other rhetorical figures which affect the general understanding of the self as literal and limit our ability to feel that we have control over the direction our lives are taking. I will give three examples, and these are not meant to be all-inclusive: prosopopoeia, paradiastole, and metalepsis.
Prosopopoeia helps us to create the illusion that our self is a discrete and literal entity rather than a figurative, fluid, specifically metaphorical concept we narrate into existence. Gavin Alexander reminds us that rhetorical theory cautions us against thinking that we are exempt from the synecdochal self -representation of a character on a page. “Even when we speak for ourselves, we are wearing a mask, though of our own making” (Alexander 97). The idea that prosopopoeia is used by real selves as well as literary selves dates back centuries. Cicero uses the Greek term to mean both a role and a person. “To talk of speaking in one’s own person is to use a dramatic metaphor: selfhood is always a mask” (Alexander 101). But not all people who use this device are self-consciously doing so. If people are unaware that they are “making a mask” (which is the literal meaning of prosopopoeia), they may remain unaware of their own role in creating their self-concept, thus giving up control over their own personal narratives by believing that their entire selfhood is the static, partial representation they present to the outside world. The resulting psychological suffering can be overwhelming. The Moderns are often preoccupied with this synecdochal representation of self; their writing is full of lamentations over the fragmented state of the world, of Althusser’s concept of interpellation, and of the inability for someone to truly “know” someone else, or even themselves. But the freedom which comes from recognition of the rhetorical self as fluid and limitless should be incentive to celebrate rather than to suffer, for it is only with this recognition that we realize how much control we can actually assume over the direction our lives will take.
Paradiastole is another rhetorical figure which people often use to characterize themselves. Quentin Skinner mentions two rhetorical definitions, both of which are equally potentially damaging to a person’s well-being. Paradiastole can be defined (like Rutilius) as “unmask (ing) someone for deceitfully laying claim to a virtue” (151) and I would add to this definition that that includes trying to “unmask” our own selves; and it can also be defined (like Quintilian) as “seeking to defend someone against an accusation of vice…the ultimate aim is to excuse, and normally to excuse ourselves.” Either use of paradiastole in relation to the rhetorical self can be harmful because when we give ourselves a label, we undermine the concept of self as fluid and figurative. Nietzsche discusses paradiastole as “a transvaluation of values” performed by a “linguistic sleight of hand”(Metahistory 359). Labels are hard to remove once we have told ourselves (or someone else tells us) we “are” a characteristic. We can end up basing our actions and our feelings upon that characteristic and that can become severely limiting on our future endeavors. As a parent of a young child, I’m often reading parenting books. My favorite is Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood. One of the basic premises of Love and Logic is that “self-concept equals behavior… we act according to how we see ourselves” (62). This is often the case, for better or worse. For instance, if someone believes they are cowardly, they are less likely to act courageously because it conflicts with their self-image. It is easy to see how this label could cause harm to one’s self-esteem and self-concept, and then cause negative outcomes in one’s life.
But even positive labels can often work to someone’s detriment. If someone believes they are courageous, they can act in foolhardy ways which can put themselves or someone else in danger. They could also label themselves as courageous in every circumstance without taking the time to analyze whether they truly deserve the characterization, which could limit self-awareness and even fairness to others. One clear example (though admittedly silly, but I’ve already proclaimed my parenthood) of paradiastole causing harmful reactions is in an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine: Misty Island Rescue. Thomas saves his friend Diesel from falling off a cliff. Mr. Topham Hat, the conductor, tells Thomas he makes good decisions because he does in that moment. Thomas internalizes this praise and labels himself as “someone who always makes good decisions.” For the next thirty minutes, he makes terrible decisions (like floating off on a life raft without being strapped in, being mean to the inhabitants of Misty Island, a foreboding place which makes his likelihood of being rescued slim because it’s covered in mist, and getting himself trapped in a collapsed tunnel despite numerous warnings that it isn’t safe for travel), all the while telling himself “I must be right because I make good decisions.” Thomas not only finds that his friends don’t like him and he isn’t thinking too highly of himself anymore, but he has also placed himself and others in terrible danger based on the paradigm that he is “someone who always makes good decisions.” If he had only recognized that he is someone who is capable of making both good and bad decisions (as we all are), he might have been able to avoid the recklessness and overconfidence which placed him in danger. We should all take our cue from Thomas and recognize that static, rigid conceptions of ourselves can be severely limiting at best and possibly at times even outright dangerous.
Metalepsis is the most problematic rhetorical figure which affects not only our concept of selfhood but also our thinking patterns in general. Perhaps its reliance upon metaphors to function makes it more complex than the other master tropes, but our reliance upon this trope in our apprehension of the world could arguably categorize it as a fifth master trope. Lanham writes of metalepsis that the main element “would thus seem to be an omission of a central term in an extended metaphor or series of them, a kind of compressed metaphorical reasoning…” (100). Also of interest is Perelman’s quote, who writes that metalepsis “can facilitate the transposition of values into facts. ‘He forgets’ for ‘he is ungrateful’’(qtd 100). Not only do we often commit logical fallacies using metaleptical thinking (what the Greek rhetoricians termed metaleptikos) ,but I would argue that we use metalepsis to lead us to the (wrong) assumption that though we use rhetorical figures to apprehend language, what we think of the mind itself (our thoughts and feelings and what we call our “self”) is not affected by language. But the research of many scholars in many different fields will show that this simply isn’t the case.
For example, in the literary field, Ochs and Capps discuss the importance of narrative to the concept of self and to the socializing of the self. Interaction with narrative, a “fundamental genre” (19) that is “universal” occurs early in life and continues to shape one’s perspective about one’s experiences. Narrative and self are inseparable because “personal narrative simultaneously is born out of experience and gives shape to experience” (20). Self is a fluid and subjective concept. “Lives are the pasts we tell ourselves… As narratives are apprehended, they give rise to the selves that apprehend them…We actualize ourselves through the activity of our narrating” (21-29). ACT patients understand that their narrations are within their own control rather than in the control of the conceptualized self.
In the field of linguistics, Lakoff and Johnson’s Metaphors We Live By effectively prove that metaphors are part of our thinking patterns (and they go much more in depth than Burke does on this matter regarding metaphor specifically) just as much as our language. Not only do they discuss specific metaphorical concepts which pervade our society, but they discuss how they function in our conception of “truth” and “reality.” They also expound a new theory of truth, one which I believe ACT accepts more fully than the “myths of objectivity and subjectivity” (Lakoff and Johnson 185) they refute in their book. The theory of experiential synthesis takes into account the physical reality which all people apprehend in personal ways. In other words, their concept of self will impact their understanding of truth. There is no absolute truth, but there is also no way to bend reality to one’s own fancy. Furthermore, when it comes to self-understanding, Lakoff and Johnson recognize that it “requires unending negotiation and renegotiation of the meaning of your experiences to yourself… the process of self-understanding is the continual development of new life stories for yourself” (Lakoff and Johnson 233). We are both the authors of our stories and the main characters in them, metaphorically speaking, of course.
In the field of psychology, language is often acknowledged to color everything, echoing Burke’s assertion that rhetoric is epistemological:
Language is not merely a part of man’s equipment for dealing with the world, but indeed is—to a significant extent—what permits us to have a world, because it provides the principal source of our interpretations and understanding of both the world and oneself. Thus, the function of language in relation to experience would be not expressive but, rather, constitutive (Perez-Alvarez et al).
As Brian Cummings suggests in his chapter on metalepsis, “As the figures double up on themselves, they provide for us at least an illusion that in the act of making up our own language we can (at least fleetingly) anticipate the shape of our existence and ‘jump the life to come’” (232-33). As understandable as this urge is to predict our future, we cannot. We may not be able to “jump the life to come,” but if we are willing to accept the deception of language upon our conceptions of our own selves and upon how the self should be treated, then we have opened ourselves up to a world where we can absolutely “shape… our existence” (or at least the direction in which we will go) no matter what “traditional tragic canopy of fate” (Cummings 232) or “complex motivational psychology of moral behavior” our minds try to convince us is and must be our reality. There are definitely strong philosophical implications to practicing ACT.
For ACT has a strong philosophical framework as well. It accepts certain linguistic premises of great philosophers and dialecticians while simultaneously self-consciously applying the implications of these combined premises to the rhetorical self. ACT seems to have found a way to restore optimism to thoroughly Tragic or Ironic historical modes of thought about mankind. Nietzsche’s primary aim, according to Hayden White, was to “expose the illusions produced by what was, in the end, only a linguistic habit, to free consciousness from its own powers of illusion-making, so that the imagination could once more ‘frolic in images’ without hardening those images into life-destroying ‘concepts’” (Metahistory 335). This is, of course, similar to ACT’s insistence on retaining a fluid self and detaching as often as possible from the “hardened” conceptualized self that our “linguistic habit” has deluded us into believing is all we can be. Furthermore, Nietsche’s belief that language makes possible the ability to remember (and with it, knowledge of the past and future, and thus, suffering) is expounded upon by ACT therapists as the reason language can be so problematic to our mental health. But ACT’s emphasis on mindfulness- being completely present mentally and emotionally—is an antidote to Nietzsche’s insistence that as soon as a child learns language, it is “exposed to… the knowledge that human existence is really only ‘an imperfect tense that never becomes a present’” (347). The observing self (what is left of us once we detach from our rhetorical self) is the “place from which it is fully possible to be accepting, defused, present in the moment, and valuing” (Get 95). To the ACT therapist, Nietzsche’s observation only holds true for the conceptualized self.
Schopenhauer’s “double pain” concept—the idea that man suffers doubly because he not only feels the pain itself but also knows he might not be feeling that pain—is described to patients as the “pain of presence,” experiencing real physical or psychological pain, and the “pain of absence,” experiencing emotional or psychological pain because of the knowledge that one is missing out on “life” because of that pain. But whereas Schopenhauer’s ultimate aim is to help individuals escape through “fictive capabilities” (Metahistory 240) or “image-making capacities,” ACT’s ultimate aim is to help people better deal with their actual realities, however painful, by not suffering the double pain. ACT does not advocate trying to create a completely subjective reality; it is about reducing suffering through willingness to experience pain in order to continue living in a personally meaningful way. Though one’s values may be subjective, the goal is to choose a path and forge ahead—to be willing to go through a few swamps and deserts in the process (painful experiences)—but to always stay on the path (the direction) one chooses for one’s self.
In a sense, this direction we choose for ourselves echoes Marx’s thought on the specifically human nature present in human exertion: “What distinguishes the worst architect from the best of bees is this, that the architect raises his structure in imagination before he erects it in reality… the workman’s will (should) be steadily in consonance with his purpose” (Metahistory 298). Though Marx was talking about physical work, it seems that our specifically human ability to choose our own path (if we detach from our conceptualized or rhetorical self) gives us the ability to move forward in any direction we choose in spite of the work it might take, the pain we might suffer, the troubles we might encounter, as long as we are willing to accept these possibilities as sacrifices for having chosen that path based on our personal values.
Perhaps the most interesting influence on ACT is a transcendental or spiritual one. Many of the “experiential exercises” ACT therapists use to help patients become aware of their observing self (and there are literally hundreds of these exercises) could be seen as meditation exercises in another context. For instance, one exercise which is common in ACT practice is to have the patient close their eyes and visualize a stream. Every thought or image which comes into the mind of the patient should not be taken literally, but stamped onto a leaf which flows down into the stream. The stream is the observing self; the conceptualized self, or “word machine,” as Hayes often refers to it, creates the verbal thoughts which are imprinted on each leaf. The patient is instructed not to speed up or slow down the stream but to let it flow at its own pace. Rather than getting caught up in an emotion or another verbal thought, the patient is to just acknowledge the thoughts and feelings which occur—to read the leaves as they float by and try to remain detached. It is easy to see how difficult it might be to remain disengaged from our own thoughts mentally and emotionally, but with practice, it could become easier. Hayes admits that there is an Eastern influence upon ACT when it comes to mindfulness, but I believe the distinctly Eastern flavor of the spiritual aspect of ACT is easily recognized (though it is entirely implicit and rightfully downplayed as ACT is a serious clinical therapy).
Croce’s “Philosophy of the Spirit” emphasizes the duality of physical nature and consciousness. Croce writes that “consciousness is identical with self-consciousness—that is to say, distinct and one with it at the same time, as life and thought” (Metahistory 396). The basic premise of ACT is exactly this paradox (and one of the most famous sayings of Zen is that nothing is true unless it is paradoxical): that true consciousness of the self (or the three senses of self that Hayes believes we all have) leads one to an alternate consciousness—one which unites the conceptual self with all the other selves as nothing more than a dialectic chorus of varying opinions and conclusions. “Truth” and “reality” are no longer dictated by the conceptualized self any more than they are by the person next door or a character in a novel. The observing self that remains is one’s consciousness, but one which is fluid and malleable, without boundaries or labels, and which allows the “life and thought” upon which it is so dependent to be whatever it will be, as long as the path continues to lead a person in a direction in which they are proud to be traveling.
Works Cited and Consulted
Alexander, Gavin. “Prosopopoeia: the speaking figure.” Renaissance Figures of Speech. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge: 2007. 97-112. Print.
Burke, Kenneth. “Four Master Tropes.” The Kenyon Review 3.4 : (1941).421-438. Web. JSTOR. 20 June 2013.
Cummings, Brian. “Metalepsis: the boundaries of metaphor.” .” Renaissance Figures of Speech. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge: 2007. 217-233. Print.
Fay, Jim and Charles Fay. Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood. Golden: Love and Logic Institute, 2000. Print.
Hayes, Stephen C. “Chapter Two: Why Language Leads to Suffering.”Get Out Your Mind and Into Your Life. New Harbinger Publications: Oakland, 2005. Print.
Hayes, Stephen C. “Hello Darkness.” Therapy Today. 18.8 (2007): n.p. Psychology and Behavioral Science Collection. Web. 20 June 2013.
Lakoff, George and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. University of Chicago Press: Chicago, 1980. Print.
Lanham, Richard. A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms. University of California Press: Los Angeles, 1991. Print.
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