I looked up at the board again.

Yes! I cheered silently. All of this trouble happened because Bud betrayed a feeling that he had for Nancy. But I rarely have those kinds of feelings for Laura. And the reason why is obvious—Laura is so much worse than Nancy. No one would feel they should do things for her given the way she is. My case is different. Bud got into trouble because he betrayed himself. I’m not betraying my self. I sat back, satisfied.

“Okay, I think I get this,” I said, preparing to ask my question. “I think I understand the idea of self-betrayal. Check me on it: As people, we have a sense of what other people might need and how we can help them. Right?”

“Yes,” Bud and Kate said, almost in unison.

“And if I have that sort of a sense and go against it, then I betray my own sense of what I should do for someone. That’s what we call self-betrayal. Right?”

“That’s right. Yes.”

“And if I betray myself, then I start seeing things differently—my view of others, myself, my circumstances, everything is distorted in a way that makes me feel okay about what I’m doing.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Bud said. “You begin to see the world in a way that makes you feel justified in your self-betrayal.”

“Okay,” I said, “I understand that. And that’s what you call ‘the box.’ I go into the box when I betray myself.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Then here’s my question: What if I don’t have a feeling that I betray? For example, what if when a child cries I don’t have a feeling like the one you had? What if I just elbow my wife and tell her to get the kid? What you’re saying is that it’s not self-betrayal and that I wouldn’t be in the box, right?”

Bud paused for a moment. “That’s an important question, Tom. We need to think about it with some care. As for whether you’d be in the box or not, I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to think of situations in your life and decide for yourself. But there’s something we haven’t talked about yet that may help you with your question.

“So far we’ve learned how we get in the box. At this point we’re ready to consider how we carry boxes with us.”

“How we carry them with us?” I asked.

“Yes.” Bud stood up and pointed at the diagram. “Notice that after I betrayed myself, I saw myself in certain self-justifying ways. For example, I saw myself as the sort of person who’s ‘hardworking,’ ‘important,’ ‘fair,’ ‘sensitive,’ the sort of person who’s a ‘good dad’ and a ‘good husband.’ That’s how I saw myself after I betrayed myself. But here’s an important question: Was I lying there thinking of myself in these self-justifying ways before I betrayed myself?”

I thought about the question. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“That’s right. These self-justifying ways of seeing myself arose in my self-betrayal—when I needed to be justified.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” I said.

“But think about it,” Bud continued. “The story of self-betrayal we’ve been talking about is just one simple example, and it happened many years ago. Do you think it’s the only time I’ve ever betrayed myself?”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“You can do more than doubt it,” Bud said, chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever gone a day without betraying myself in some way—and perhaps not even an hour. I’ve spent a lifetime betraying myself, as have you, Kate, and everyone else at Zagrum. And every time I’ve betrayed myself, I’ve seen myself in certain self-justifying ways—just like I did in the story we’ve been talking about. The result is that over time, certain of these self-justifying images become characteristic of me. They’re the form my boxes take as I carry them with me into new situations.”

At this, Bud added a fifth sentence to the list about self-betrayal:

I sat there trying to digest the meaning of all this, but I wasn’t quite sure I understood.

“Let me show you what I mean. Let’s take this self-justifying image right here,” Bud said, pointing on the diagram to “Good husband.” “Let’s imagine that over many self-betrayals, this self-justifying image has become characteristic of me. So as I move through my marriage and my life, I see myself as the sort of person who’s a good husband. Fair enough?”

I nodded.

“Now consider this: It’s Mother’s Day, and near the end of the day my wife says in a hurt voice, ‘I don’t think you thought about me much today.’”

Bud paused, and I thought about Mother’s Day at my own house a few months earlier. Laura had said almost the same thing.

“If I’m carrying a self-justifying image that says ‘I’m the sort of person who’s a good husband,’ how do you suppose I might start to see Nancy when she accuses me of not thinking about her? Do you suppose I might start to feel defensive and blame her?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said, thinking of Laura. “You’d blame her for failing to notice or give you credit for all the things you do do, for example.”

“Yes. So I might blame her for being ungrateful.”

“Or for even more than that,” I added. “You might feel trapped by her. I mean, there she is, accusing you of being uncaring, when she’s the one who hardly ever cares for you. It’s hard to throw yourself into making her day wonderful when she herself never does anything that would make you want to do that in the first place.” I stopped myself short as I felt the cool wind of embarrassment against my soul. Bud’s story had transported me to my own troubles, and my indiscretion had given Bud and Kate a peek at the raw emotion I felt toward Laura. I cursed myself and resolved to stay more detached.

“That’s right,” Bud said. “I know exactly what you mean. And when I’m feeling that way toward Nancy, do you suppose I might also inflate her faults? Might she seem worse to me than she really is?”

I didn’t want to answer, but Bud waited. “Yeah, I suppose so,” I said flatly.

“And notice something else,” Bud continued enthusiastically. “As long as I’m feeling that way, will I ever seriously consider Nancy’s complaint—that I hadn’t really thought of her? Or will I be more likely to brush it off?”

I thought of an endless string of altercations with Laura. “You probably wouldn’t question yourself much,” I said finally, without much enthusiasm.

“Here I am,” Bud continued, pointing to the board, “blaming Nancy, inflating her faults, and minimizing my own. So where am I?”

“I guess you’re in the box,” I answered, half-audibly, while my mind argued the point—But what about Nancy? Maybe she’s in the box too. Why don’t we consider that? I suddenly started to feel very angry with this—all of it.

“Yes,” I heard Bud say, “but notice—did I have to have a feeling that I betrayed in that moment in order to be in the box toward her?”

The question didn’t quite register. “What was that?” I asked belligerently.

The edge in my voice caught me by surprise, and I felt exposed once again. My resolution of detachment had held for all of a minute. “I’m sorry, Bud,” I said, trying to recover, “I didn’t quite catch the question.”

Bud looked at me gently. It was clear that he’d noticed my anger, but he didn’t seem put off by it. “Well, my question was this: Here I am in the box toward Nancy—I was blaming her, inflating her faults, and so on—but did I have to have a feeling that I betrayed in that moment in order to be in the box toward her?”

For some reason, this brief exchange and the focus required by Bud’s question calmed me, or at least took my mind off my troubles for a moment. I thought about his story. I couldn’t remember him mentioning a feeling that he betrayed. “I’m not sure,” I answered. “I guess not.”

“That’s right. I didn’t have to have a feeling that I betrayed in that moment in order to be in the box because I was already in the box.”

I must have looked a bit puzzled because Kate jumped in with an explanation.

“Remember what Bud was just talking about, Tom. Over time, as we betray ourselves, we come to see ourselves in certain self-justifying ways. We end up carrying these self-justifying images with us into new situations, and to the extent we do, we enter new situations already in the box. We don’t see people straightforwardly, as people. Rather, we see them in terms of the self-justifying images we’ve created. If people act in ways that challenge the claim made by a self-justifying image, we see them as threats. If they reinforce the claim made by a self-justifying image, we see them as allies. If they fail to matter to a self-justifying image, we see them as unimportant. Whichever way we see them, they’re just objects to us. We’re already in the box. That’s Bud’s point.”

“Exactly,” Bud agreed. “And if I’m already in the box toward someone, I generally won’t have feelings to do things for them. So the fact that I have few feelings to help someone isn’t necessarily evidence that I’m out of the box. It may rather be a sign that I’m deep within it.”

“So you’re saying that if I generally don’t have feelings to do things for someone in my life—say, for my wife, Laura—I’m probably in the box toward that person? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked.

“No, not exactly,” answered Bud, as he took his seat next to mine. “I’m suggesting that that’s the way it generally is for me—at least for those I’m closest to in my life. Whether it’s the same with you, toward Laura, for example, I don’t know. You’ll have to wrestle with that for yourself. But as a general rule, let me suggest this: If you seem to be in the box in a given situation but can’t identify a feeling that you betrayed in that moment, that’s a clue that you might already be in the box. And you may find it useful to wonder whether you’re carrying around some self-justifying images.”

“Like being the sort of person who’s a good spouse, for example?” I asked.

“Yes. Or the sort of person who’s important or competent or hardworking or the smartest. Or being the sort of person who knows everything or does everything, or doesn’t make mistakes or thinks of others, and so on. Almost anything can be perverted into a self-justifying image.”

“Perverted? What do you mean?”

“I mean that most self-justifying images are the in-the-box perversions of what would be great out of the box. For example, it’s great to be a good spouse. That’s exactly what we should be for our spouses. And it’s great to think of others and to try to be as knowledgeable as we can be in whatever areas we work in. And so on. But these are the very things we’re not being when we have self-justifying images about them.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“Well,” Bud said, standing again, “let’s think about self-justifying images for a minute.” He resumed his pacing. “For example, certainly it’s good to think of others, but who am I thinking of when I’m thinking of myself as the sort of person who thinks of others?”

“Yourself, I guess.”

“Exactly. So my self-justifying image lies to me. It tells me I’m focused on one thing—in this case, others—but in having that image I’m actually focused on myself.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I said, looking for holes in his logic. “But what about the one you mentioned about being smart or knowing everything? What’s the problem with that?”

“Let’s think about it. Let’s say you have a self-justifying image that says you know everything. How do you suppose you’d feel toward someone who suggested something new to you?”

“I guess I’d resent him. I might find something wrong with his suggestion.”

“Right. So would he keep coming to you with new ideas?”

“Probably not.”

“And would you end up learning new things?”

“No, I guess not. Oh, I see your point,” I said suddenly. “My self-justifying image about being learned can be the very thing that sometimes keeps me from learning.”

“Yes. So if I have that self-justifying image, is knowing everything really what I’m most concerned about?”

“Not really. I guess your major concern is yourself—how you look.”

“Exactly,” Bud said. “That’s the nature of most self-justifying images.”

Bud continued, but I was no longer paying attention. I became lost in my own thoughts. Okay, so I can carry my boxes with me. Maybe I have some of these self-justifying images that Bud is talking about. Maybe I’m in the box toward Laura. Maybe Laura is just an object to me generally. Okay. But what about Laura? All of this seems to be saying that I’m the one with the problem. But what about her problem? What about her self-justifying images? Let’s talk about that!

My anger was building again, when all of a sudden I became aware of my anger. “Aware” is perhaps the wrong word. For I’m always aware, when I’m angry, that I’m angry. But this time I was aware of something more: I was aware of the hypocrisy in my anger. For here I was, angry that Laura was in the box, but in my anger at her being in the box, I was in the box. I was angry at her for being like I was being! The thought caught me short, and Laura seemed different to me in an instant—not different in the sense that she no longer had problems but different in the sense that I saw myself as having problems too. Her problems no longer seemed to excuse mine.

Kate’s voice intruded on my thoughts. “Tom.”

“Yeah?”

“Is this all making sense, Tom?”

“Yes. I understand it,” I said slowly. “I don’t necessarily like it, but I understand it.” I paused, still thinking of Laura. “I think I have some work to do.”

It was an interesting moment. For the first time that afternoon, I was fully open to what Bud and Kate were sharing with me—open to the possibility that I had a problem. More than open, actually. I knew I had a problem, and in some ways a big one. Until that moment, I’d felt giving in to the possibility that I had a problem would mean that I was the loser, that I’d been wrestled to the ground, that Laura had won. But now it didn’t seem that way at all. I felt in a strange way free and unencumbered. Laura didn’t win, and I didn’t lose. The world seemed much different than it had the moment before. I felt hope. Imagine it! I felt hope in the moment I discovered I had a problem.

“I know what you mean,” said Kate. “I have a lot of work to do myself.”

“Me too,” nodded Bud.

A moment or two passed in silence.

“We have one more thing to talk about,” Bud said, “and then I want to turn our discussion back to business and see what all this means for Zagrum.”