When I was a young child, one of my favorite bedtime stories was The Monster at the End of This Book.  It opens with Sesame Street muppet Grover who, having read the title on the front of the book, explains that he is afraid of the alleged monster at the end.

“Listen, I have an idea,” he tells us conspiratorially.  “If you do not turn any pages, we will never get to the end of this book.  And that is good, because there is a Monster at the end of this book.”  Then, in case we missed it, he appeals to our good nature.  “So please do not turn the page.”

But defiantly, you do turn the page.  Because after all, it’s a book with cartoon pictures, and what could possibly be scary about that?  But Grover doesn’t agree.  “YOU TURNED THE PAGE!” he accuses.  And then you turn another.

As you progress through the book, Grover pulls out all the stops to try to prevent you from reaching the terrifying monster he’s been told is at the end of the book.  He ties the pages together, but you defeat the ropes with ease, turning another page.  He nails two-by-fours together to create a barrier, but still you turn on.  Finally, in a desperate “Three Little Pigs” style move, he builds a brick wall, but you shatter it as you turn to see what happens next.  “Do you know that you are very strong?” he asks you, feeling defeated.  And then you turn the final page.

“Well, look at that!” says Grover on the final page, relieved and a bit embarrassed.  “This is the end of the book, and the only one here is… ME!  I, lovable, furry old Grover am the monster at the end of this book!”

 

Book Monster and Shadow Self

As a child, I thought this was a silly story without much depth.  I found humor in Grover’s desperation and joy in the happy ending, but didn’t really contemplate it at length.  But a few weeks ago, I stumbled across an old copy of it, and the deeper meaning of it blew my mind.

I once sat in on a philosophy class at University of Redlands where they discussed fear of heights.  Most of the students in the class could confidently say they would be able to sit in a 5’x5’ square on the floor for an hour without falling off.  But when the professor asked how many people would be comfortable in that same 5’x5’ square if it were 50 stories off the ground, even controlling for things like the possibility of wind, a lot fewer people were willing to sit in the square.  So… why is this?

Through a fascinating and complicated discussion, the professor concluded that people are afraid of their own potential for throwing themselves off the building.  The fear isn’t that they might accidentally fall.  It’s that a voice in their head – or the monster at the end of the book – might say to them, “what if you jumped?  Or just taunted death a bit by putting a toe over the edge?”

The writings of Carl Jung teach us that we each possess a “shadow self” – a dark underbelly that we don’t really like to look directly at.  This is responsible for all of our darker thoughts and impulses.  It’s the part of us that triggers automatic thoughts of “I could just push him off the edge if I wanted” or “what if I were to hurt my child?”  For some people, it’s easily accessible, feeding us scary ideas all the time, and for others it lurks deeper below.  But according to Jung, we all have one.

To clarify, that doesn’t mean we would ever act on these impulses.  It just means we have the thoughts.  At its most benign, it means that when something is forbidden, our brain rebels against that a little and says, “well, what if I did it anyway?”  These thoughts aren’t immediate causes for concern – unless they become obsessive, ruminating, or difficult to dissuade ourselves of – but they are certainly unsettling.  And much like Grover, they may lead us to ask, “what am I capable of?”

And so this simple and silly children’s book is about that fear – the fear of our own shadow self.  But it’s also about more than that.

 

Fear of change

A few years ago, my colleague, Christina Lee, put together a therapy group curriculum for ex-convicts called “Fear of Success”.  Most people know what it means to fear failure.  It means stagnation.  It means not taking risks because, perhaps, you might not be enough.  And to find out you’re not enough… that would be devastating.

But success can be equally daunting for a lot of people.  Lee says of her group, “Our ‘what ifs’ overpower our inherent desire for something better. And so we stay where we are. Because even if we’re unhappy, at least we’re not worse off than when we first started.”

Change – which involves tapping into your own potential – can mean having to redefine your whole identity.  Brene Brown talks about how until her viral TED talk about vulnerability, she had “manufactured smallness”.  Because success means being seen by more people.  It means changing how you see yourself.  And, somewhat ironically, it means being more vulnerable.

Beyond fearing what we might do if we’re our “worst selves,” being afraid of the monster at the end of your book is also about what we might do if we’re our “best selves” or just a “different self.”  If you try something new, if you change careers, if you change your relationship status, if you alter your eating habits or your exercise habits or your stress level, if you take up a new hobby that becomes a new passion… well that impacts your identity.  It could have a ripple effect, and who knows who you would be after that?

And that’s what makes us risk averse – not fear of judgment.  (Perceived judgment is usually self-judgment anyway!)  And it’s often not fear of external consequences either.  It’s fear of what lurks within you.

So take a deep breath.  The monster at the end of your book, as long as you follow the  rule of well-being, is probably “loveable, furry old” you!