Displacement

The spring semester in nursing school has introduced my class to Mental Health which is a subject I have been eagerly anticipating for obvious reasons. From the very first day, I knew I’d gain insight into myself and begin enlightening everyone around me with their undiagnosed mental illnesses.

We already explored the ideas of Sigmund Freud, who really should be respected for his work in pioneering psychoanalysis, even if he did go a bit overboard with dream interpretation; at least, I hope he did, otherwise I’m in big trouble on the nocturnal wanderings front.

Freud’s daughter, Anna, discovered ego defense mechanisms. These are things we do to protect our minds from stress and anxiety. For instance, if something traumatic occurs, like a major accident, our brain will block it from our memory. This is called repression.

A defense mechanism I use frequently is displacement. This happens when a person or situation upsets you emotionally, but instead of releasing your true feelings at that point in time, you put a temporary cap on it and let the geyser explode later on some innocent victim.

I’m sure you can all think of a situation in your own lives when this has occurred. Maybe you had an argument with your spouse and then you pulled through a drive-thru and unleashed on the person who forgot to give you napkins. It happens to all of us, but I prefer to take my anger out on inanimate objects.

One of these incidents transpired on a day that I was running late, was stressed out, and Chris and I were at a tense point in our relationship. My hair dryer’s “on” button had been malfunctioning for a couple of weeks, but I could always force it to do my bidding. Not this day.

I jammed my thumb deep into the button for the 1000^th time and the dryer finally gave up. I knew the components were in good working order on the inside, it was just the button wire part not making the connection. Not for the last time, I thought to myself, “My dad repaired televisions, I’m sure I can figure this out.”

With time ticking away and my hair dripping wet, realization dawned on me that the dryer had won. I took the time to unplug it and securely wrap the cord around my right hand before I repeatedly slung the body of the dryer into the bathroom counter about a dozen times.

I smiled maniacally as little bits of plastic and wire guts flew around the bathroom, some landing in the toilet, some landing in my hair. In the end, it looked like an electronics equipment murder scene. All that was missing was a white chalk outline of a mangled hair dryer.

I walked into the hall and there stood Chris with a look on his face that was obviously asking the question “What happened in there?”

I calmly said, “My hair dryer broke.”

Years later, I witnessed my mom murder a phone. It was a land-line phone with a faulty cord and I watched her methodically stab the handset into its cradle until the phone was good and dead. I realized then that there must be a genetic predisposition to killing inanimate objects.

I’ve broken scores of other things in my life: glasses, lamps, pictures, an umbrella, a chair, but I’ve never physically hurt another person. Trust me, if you feel like you’re going to let loose on someone, go find a hair dryer and a concrete block. You’d be surprised how therapeutic it can be.