Projection is (Not) Good Company
Projection— as a psychological term— have you heard of it? Maybe someone has accused you of projecting during an argument, or perhaps you’ve read that your judgments of others are actually “projected” from your own issues?
The official definition of projection is “the transfer of one’s own desires and emotions onto another person.” Even as I studied psychology in university, it didn’t make sense to me. Why invent qualities that were not there? Why see what was not actually present?
Meanwhile, I was a fangirl all my life. Power Rangers were my first obsession— in grade 6 I had wall-to-wall posters, a stack of plays, stories, and other fiction I’d written using the characters. Then in junior high and high school my fascination shifted to pop singer Darren Hayes. The love I felt for him was deep and intense. I knew every song and wrote hundreds of pages of stories involving him, me, and a whole lot of romance. The stories kept me busy, kept me company.
I wondered, was this whole fangirl thing an exercise in projection? If so, did it mean I didn’t actually love the objects of my fascination? The love I felt for Darren seemed every bit as authentic as the love I felt for my romantic partners, friends, and pets. How could that be a “projection”? Projection of what? To what end?
Well, guys, it’s been a long road unraveling this mystery and eventually I’ll publish the 200+ page memoir I wrote about it. I cannot claim to have mastered this corner of my psyche yet either. But here are some things I have learned about the hows and whys of projection— through the lens of my own healing journey.
Ever since I can remember, I had an intense desire to connect and be close. I was constantly looking for my parents’ attention, frequently frustrated that I had to share it with their other priorities, such as my three siblings. My parents were present and loving— there was no actual neglect. Developmental psychology teaches that every child, not just me, experiences frustration about the inevitable mismatch between her needs and what is available to her, and every child comes up with a strategy to manage it.
My strategy was this: I began crafting stories. I imagined a very best friend, someone who wanted nothing more than to lavish me with attention and appreciate the intense devotion I offered in return. We would be inseparable, becoming emotionally intertwined at ever-deeper levels, forever!
Since this was, uh, kind of a lot to ask of elementary school relationships, I never managed to find my perfect friend. Yet the need for emotional closeness remained, and my ability to tolerate, understand, and process this was still approximately 25 years out.
Enter projection.
Darren Hayes, with his handsome looks and passionately loving songs, was an ideal canvas upon which I could paint the emotional exchanges of my adolescent dreams. I listened to his crooning voice as I imagined what it would be like to know him, bask in his attention, and devote myself to him romantically. In my fantasies, he was the perfect partner— forever listening, understanding, holding and caring. I other words, I “projected” qualities onto him from my own interests, needs, and desires. Then, having created a safe and worthy place to do so, I freely expressed my devotion, care and intensity for Darren. It wasn’t the real-life relationship I’d been seeking all my life, but it seemed as close as I could get.
This is the essence of projection — it’s a story that feels better than reality, a story to keep one away from the grievous pain of needs going forever unmet. Projection is not a choice; it happens automatically and involuntarily, to all of us, and always signifies underlying pain.
When I was 18, I saw Darren Hayes in concert. To watch him strut about on the stage had me screaming with ecstasy — when he looked me right in the eyes I felt a crackling sizzle through my whole body. The experience was that of a frenzied high, and no wonder! It was the closest possible thing to the fantasies I’d been building in my head since babydom.
So. In all of this, what was real? What was made up? Here is where I have landed:
Was the love I felt for Darren Hayes real? Yes, it was real. Bona fide, true blue, good as gold.
Did I love Darren Hayes, the human? Well, no, because how could I? I didn’t even know him.
So, then what did I have these very real feelings of love for?
I loved my ability to feel deep, intense, devotional love.
That’s what I was in relationship with, that’s what I was experiencing, learning, playing out in the hopelessly one-sided relationship that is the fangirl’s plight.
In another post, I’ll talk more about the slow process of separating from projection, how little by little I developed a taste for reality as it is, rather than a version injected with intensity. I’ll tell you how my interest in celebrities, including Darren, softened from obsession to passing curiosity. I’ll tell you that the way through was to notice how painful it was to feel my needs were unmet as a child— and to learn that my current needs could and would be met through my own actions and self-care. I’ll tell you how I became empowered to find ways to interact that were balanced, involved real actual people, and were mutually satisfying to all involved— relationships where I didn’t have to write the whole story myself.
But for now, I’ll finish with: I went to see Darren in concert last month, and the experience was vastly different from when I was screaming and clamoring to see him at 18. I was 40 years old now, sitting about 20 rows back sporting a delighted smile as Darren danced and sang 90s favorites. The experience was that of watching an old friend. There was nothing frenzied about it, just a relaxed calm.
I believe that I was just now able to experience Darren and his music without projection. Rather than imbibing the situation with stories, I simply saw what was there - a man singing songs I loved. I felt a new kind of alone — no more stories, no more “relationship” to interact with, just me, alone, watching.
Please don’t mistake alone with lonely. Projection, while needed at one time, was not great company: it took a lot of my energy and never gave back anything of substance; it was a one-sided relationship with no end.
Smiling by myself, 20 rows back at that concert, I felt filled with my own substance, my own capacity for enjoyment, love, even projection.
The experience was full and complete, with nothing at all missing.
