A Literary Lesson on How to Deal with Shame
A guest post by Susan Mahler on the psychological astuteness of "Dear Evan Hansen"
Susan Mahler, MS, MD, is a writer and psychiatrist who practices in North Adams, MA. Her work has appeared in STAT, The American Scholar, and other publications. She is interested in shame and clinical ethics, and has previously written for Psychiatry at the Margins on this topic.
I first watched the movie Dear Evan Hansen on an airplane, as I was trying to entertain my then-11-year-old daughter. It is a 2021 musical film directed by Stephen Chbosky based on the 2015 stage musical by Steven Levenson. Unexpectedly, I found myself completely bowled over by the story’s psychological sophistication in terms of its treatment of shame. In fact, I think the story is quite unique in demonstrating the only authentic way out of shame-based affliction.
[Spoilers ahead]
For those few who sadly have not seen the musical, live or on-screen, I will recap: Dear Evan Hansen tells the story of a high school student, crippled by social anxiety and depression, who crosses paths with another troubled student, Connor, shortly before the latter commits suicide.
Circumstance suggests to the dead boy’s family (which includes Evan’s love interest, Zoe, Connor’s sister) that Evan was the last to see their son and was in fact his only friend. Evan finds himself unable to resist buying into and embellishing this fictional friendship, which appears to benefit all involved: the family seems hungry for positive (though fabricated) words about Connor, and Evan is meanwhile rewarded by the seductive warmth of a more traditional, more well-off family than his own. His lie also draws him closer to Zoe, the girl he’s adored from afar for years.
Eventually, people at school become aware of the fictional friendship, which brings Evan more acclaim, until, of course, it all falls apart and the lie unravels. Evan finally sputters out the truth, not only to Zoe and her parents, but in a video posted to the entire school. A video which of course goes viral.
In a previous article about shame, I discussed the idea of a “fall from a height” as critical to the shame experience. Inherent in shame is the notion of having had something and lost it; one must have tasted the pomegranate seeds to mourn their loss in Hell.
The word “shame” derives from the Old English and German “s/kam” or “s/kem,” which means, to hide, veil or cover oneself. The “s” is reflexive, because shame is about the self. We hide, veil or cover what should not be seen; the eye, and being seen, are also integral to shame.
Evan has certainly been hiding from his peers and the world; when the story begins, he is almost invisible at school, too afraid to speak to anyone, let alone Zoe, berating and second-guessing himself constantly. At the same time, he feels too exposed, seen and judged by everyone.
The story’s arc creates a textbook shame situation: Evan gets everything he’s dreamed of and more: a girlfriend, a doting secondary family, and the admiration of his entire school—and then loses it all, his failure broadcasted to the world. At this point, we see a flashback to a tree Evan had climbed the previous summer and we learn that he did not fall from the tree, as he has told people, but instead jumped. Instantly we know that this is the thought crossing Evan’s mind: whether to commit suicide.
If, at this point, anyone is questioning whether we ought to draw clinical inferences from entertainment, I will jump at the chance to convince you that literature and theater offer more insight into human psychology any professional publication ever has. Had Freud not had Oedipus Rex and Lear to draw on, would he ever have gotten anywhere? I doubt it. The best most of us can hope for is the ability to interpret greater minds, in this case, that of the playwright Steven Levenson.
Stories about young people suffering from suicidality are fairly common, and there is often a particular narrative arc: the alienated youth is brought around by a caring therapist and the power of familial or romantic love. (Good Will Hunting, Ordinary People, Girl, Interrupted, to name a few.) There is often a climactic scene when someone manages to convince the suicidal person that they are loved, and that whatever happened was not their fault.
It's very gratifying to see shame assuaged by an impassioned speech from a family member or therapist. We want this to be true, in a very profound way, because it would mean that vanquishing our deepest shame is not entirely up to us. It would also provide some justification for therapy. But it’s a fallacy—that’s not have shame works.
The arc of Dear Evan Hansen is different. Evan does not kill himself, or even resume his previous self-loathing, nor does he cast blame on others to save himself. What he does instead is to not only withstand the onslaught of hatred, but find in himself a better version of Evan. He stops indulging in insecurity and self-preoccupation, which allows him to focus on others, in particular the family who are now left to re-experience their grief. We see Evan walking down the halls of his school, enduring the cold looks of his peers. Students turn from him icily. He has a last meeting with Zoe, but he does not get the girl back.
I believe that shame cannot be assuaged by reassurance or even love. Over my career, I’ve treated many people who have been mired in self-hatred, or who, on the other hand, have been fixated on some person who seems to be the source of all their problems. In 25 years of seeing patients, and often caring deeply about them, I have never had the experience of giving an impassioned speech that resulted in an instant cure. Of course, maybe it’s because I’m not Robin Williams.
The power of Dear Evan Hansen is in the writer’s ability to authentically choose the hardest way out of his protagonist’s situation. The story does not strain credibility, partly thanks to Ben Platt‘s acting, but also because we sense that Evan has considered his other options—more self-loathing, the possibility of suicide—and found that he rejects them. They haven’t worked; he’s been there and done that. He charts a new path forward.
We also see that it is a constant battle for him. But that is the nature of shame; there are no revelations, one is not suddenly unburdened. We can only, like Evan, continually work to put shame out of the frame, so that we can hear and see the world for what it is. We can only lift the veil, because it obscures others as well as ourselves. This is Evan’s discovery, and the story’s gift to us clinicians.
"Literature and theater offer more insight into human psychology any professional publication ever has. Had Freud not had Oedipus Rex and Lear to draw on, would he ever have gotten anywhere? I doubt it. The best most of us can hope for is the ability to interpret greater minds, in this case, that of the playwright Steven Levenson."
This is actually a life changing paragraph for me. It expresses a thought that has been trying to work its way out of my psyche for some months. I celebrate the idea that the humanities, among which I include my discipline of history, can reveal more about human nature than any randomized control trial.
When I come forth with an idea based on history and my lived experience, I feel I deserve to be taken seriously. If someone wants to subject my ideas to scientific Investigation and possible confirmation or disconfirmation, that is absolutely fine with me. It is frustrating to be dismissed simply because what you said isn't “scientific.”
No one thinks giving an impassioned speech is going to work, but this idea that choosing “the hardest way” will fix us is no solution either. If it’s not true that we don’t need a therapist’s presence, support, acceptance, etc. then why hire an incredibly expensive therapist? Why not do it on your own or read a self-help book? Sure, some people can, but these are not the people who end up with a therapist. Suggestions that shame can be overcome by actions or an attitude shift—these are shaming to those of us who are embedded in shame.
I’ve heard many times that when therapy works, it works because the patient is seen/understood and accepted for who they are. That is, they react in exactly the opposite way that the patient’s family and previous therapists reacted, and it is this surprise that makes change possible. I believe this is true. Unfortunately, most therapists don’t really see and understand their patients (especially if the patient has C-PTSD and dissociation) and when they get glimpses of the worst within, they recoil, often even dumping their patients (I’ve heard about this many times) or, more often, just putting up defenses. This can be even worse because the patient doesn’t understand what is going on, and blames herself for not making progress. More shame!
Is it really true that “indulging in insecurity and self-preoccupation” is wrong? The very word “indulging” says that it is, but insecurity is what we need help with and self-preoccupation is necessary for insight. Ignoring your issues/trauma and going on with life means that your issues are still there.