Time to grow up, Peter Pan
Peter's shadow darted across the candlelit wall, jumping just out of reach of his Peter's grasping hands. The shadow eludes his every move. Wendy awakes to a noise in her room. She hears the sounds of crying. Rolling over in her bed, she sees a little boy sitting on the floor, backlit by a solitary candle. He is dressed in green tights and wears a green cap with a feather at the peak, and tied around his waits is a rope and a small knife. The little boy is staring past her at the wall, crying. "Why are you crying," Wendy asks? "Because I can''t catch my shadow," the boy replies.
In his essay, "Jung and the New Age: A Study in Contrasts", David Tacey presents a compelling indictment of so-called New Age spirituality and it's inherently flawed distillations from Jung's original concepts of integrating the soul into healing. Tacey believes that the New Age is non-Jungian or even anti-Jungian. But he does acknowledge that Jung has several points in common with New Age spirituality:
"Both Jung and the New Age agree that spiritual meaning is no longer synonymous with, and can no longer be contained by, the religious establishments and institutions of Western culture...the prevailing attitude in Western religious and philosophic traditions is that humanity is essentially tragic and life is synonymous with suffering...Christian spirituality achieves its goal not by increasing the stature of the self, but by displacing the self altogether in favor of humility, emptying, and a kind of negative fulfillment, whereby the divine increases it's fullness in direct proportion to the reduction of ego...[Western] wisdom and spiritual direction does not reduce our suffering, but makes it endurable and gives it higher meaning."
This practice of ego-reduction is one of the core principles of A.A. It states that the Ego is at the root of all our suffering, and only in its abatement will one find true spiritual peace, if in fact spiritual peace is something that can be found and quantified. Today there is a fundamental confusion between the Ego, or personal self, and the Soul, or Self in the larger, Jungian sense, and none of these confusions can be rectified by merely using the intellect, or jumping onto a bandwagon of "higher ideals" (Transcendental Meditation, Dianetics, etc.), or immersing oneself into a foreign spiritual ideology (anything ranging from Astrology to Zuni). These "metaphysical novelties" have a certain flair and allure at first, owing to the newness of thought, their exotic pretenses, and the favorable cultural attitudes of the day. But if any of these beliefs are not internalized in the deepest sense, they fall apart like tissue paper in water, something that perhaps was attractive, but not so strong to begin with.
According to Jung, suffering can never be escaped, but must be embraced and accepted as part of the human condition. His ideas reflect the first two noble truths of Buddhism, which state that 1) Life is Suffering; 2) The root of all Suffering is Desire. Jung understood from the onset that there was a direct correlation between spiritual thirst and spiritual depravity, as elucidated in his belief that there was a spiritual or religious component to addiction, and that only a spiritual solution would be effective. Jung acknowledged that there was a dark side to our psyche, a "Shadow" that was as much a part of us as our more redeeming sides.2 The Shadow is the negative reflection of our Ego, the place where all our least desirable personality traits reside. When a person is in the throes of addiction, he is, in effect, living his Shadow. it has passed through and permeated the Ego, and integrated with the Persona. The goal of any particular therapy involving the emergence of the Shadow is to push it back to its proper sphere of consciousness where it can live as it is meant to. This was something that Bill Wilson failed to integrate into his teachings, which would eventually lead to complications in the treatment of the addict. Jung knew that you couldn''t ignore the Shadow, that one could not achieve Wholeness until the darkness or "Shadow" of human nature has been maturely accepted and integrated. According to Jung, "...for what is inferior or even worthless belongs to me as my Shadow and gives me substance and mass. How can I be substantial if I fail to cast a shadow? I must have a dark side if I am to be whole; in as much as I become conscious of my Shadow I also remember that I am a human being like any other." In most spirituality-based recovery or enhancement programs, the role of the Shadow is almost wholly ignored. Understandably so, people are frightened by its potential; most of them just came out of periods in which the Shadow was predominate. But to ignore it completely is much like the Twelve Step idea of the disease lying in wait, growing stronger; the demons will prevail if not acknowledged. The solution, according to Jung, is to maintain the diametric struggle between "good" and "evil" and follow it through to some resolution. "Without opposition there is no flow of energy, no vitality. Lack of opposition brings life to a standstill wherever that lack reaches." Jung believed, in essence, that the conflict between these opposites arises out of "God's desire to become man" which can only be enacted within the soul of man.
But why would God want to become man? Despite the paradoxical nature of the question, Jung might say that it had been His goal all along. He created man in His image, but endowed him with mortal weaknesses: pain, emotion, injury, fear, confusion, limited knowledge and understanding, and the utmost, mortality. But they were His favorite creation, so much the favorite, in fact, that as a direct result a war was fought over man. Milton's Paradise Lost is about the jealousy of the Angels over God giving man a soul. It so angered Lucifer, the Archangel, that he led a revolt against God, which was eventually quelled, and Lucifer and his minions were cast into a pit of fire heretofore known as Hell. But Lucifer apparently never gave up, continuing his struggle for control of mankind's souls up to this very day, and some might say until the end of this year when, for many calendars, Armageddon is scheduled to take place. And then there was Jesus, God as Man. Is further proof needed?
This of course means little in the grand scheme if you don''t believe in God, or have trouble with theistic concepts as a matter of principle. When asked if he believed in God, Jung's reply was : "I do not believe. I know." It was this conviction that drove his work and gave him an extraordinary sense of balance within himself, so much so that he dedicated a significant portion of his life to the comparative study of religion and spirituality. He recognized that at the fundamental core we all worship the same thing. But it was also in our evolutionary process to question that very thing. The mystery of God's existence is an all-pervading motif in Western culture. One of the first prominent writers to come from an atheistic (or at the very least, substantially conflicted) stance was Henry Miller', whose Tropic of Capricorn provides us with a viewpoint that lies in the antithesis of Jung.
The following passage is the opening paragraph:
Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos...In everything I quickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal, the irony, the paradox. I was my own worst enemy...I never helped any one expecting that it would do any good; I helped because I was helpless to do otherwise. To want to change the condition of affairs seemed futile to me; nothing would be altered, I was convinced, except by a change of heart, and who could change the hearts of men? Now and then a friend was converted: it was something to make me puke. I had no more need of God than He had of me, and if there were one, I often said to myself, I would meet him calmly and spit in His face.
Tropic of Capricorn was the second of Miller's Tropic books. It's predecessor, Tropic of Cancer, took the world by storm in 1936; Capricorn was published in 1939. When these books were first published, no one had seen anything like them. They stirred up such a maelstrom of controversy that the books were banned in all English speaking countries for almost thirty years. It was the first time someone had said with conviction all the little nagging fears that pervade the human experience.
Miller had no pretensions about his beliefs. If anything, it was in his lack-of-beliefs identity where his pretensions lay. Some find him intolerable, negative and meglomaniacal. Many more experience the consciousness-shift that is a common effect of reading his Tropic books and The Rosy Crucifixion. They suddenly feel liberated and energized by finally being able to identify with someone who had little to no fear expressing his singular beliefs, much less a prominent literary figure. For most aspiring writers, Miller serves as a paradigm for the self-exploratory writer, the visceral "life experience" type, the non-conformist in the extreme, which can easily be related as a complex subset of the Trickster archetype; it speaks, in essence, to the rebel or rebellious spirit within us all. He believed that what mattered, ultimately, was the connections made between people, and our futile attempts to maintain them. He espoused a transcendentalist ideology that mandated a certain "in the moment" existence, ignoring the banalities and tragedies of human life, or at the very least, not empowering them. Seeing Miller speak his mind, so to speak, gave them the courage to expand the limits of their personal self-disclosure and to explore aspects of their personality that may have previously intimidated or even openly frightened them. It encouraged one's embracing of the Shadow, because it required the experience of pain in order to distill the ontological wisdom of the total experience, or simply put, to learn about life you had to learn about love and fear. Miller had a most profound influence on both my ideology and my writing. He allowed me to break free of conventional thought, but he also was responsible, indirectly, for much of my pain and suffering. I do not resent him for this; if anything, I am grateful. Though I see him now as more angry and bitter than I did when I was an idealistic student, I cannot take away his importance. I may have grown past his rapier's wit, this need to be crude and sardonic, but I will never outgrow the zeal for life which was his gift to his readers.
To add another dimension to our spiritual conundrum we can turn to the work of William S. Burroughs, who presents us with a brutally honest paradigm of the Addict. Burroughs took Miller one level deeper within. Whereas it was apparent that Miller had a difficult time managing his ego, you would be hard-pressed to find one flattering protagonistic incarnation of the Burroughs character (William Lee, Will Dennison, Dr. Benway, etc.). Burroughs made his addictions and afflictions, his shortcomings, insecurities and inadequacies the lifeblood of his work, and he examined them with such a clinical fervor that books like Junky have widespread empirical and professional merit; It was his obsession with psychology and analysis. Burroughs'' intellect was such that he could either actively or passively assimilate information on how to behave and communicate in almost any social setting. Unlike Miller, he was not a "common" man, nor did he ever portray himself as the voice of the "common" man. He spent most of his life in analysis. He was raised in upper-middle class comfort and well educated, and his experimentation (if it can legitimately be called that) with heroin, marijuana, alcohol and amphetamines seemed to arise out of some anthropological motivation. This is not to belittle the anxiety that he suffered as a result of this and his burgeoning homosexuality, which undoubtedly contributed to his escapism. He was fascinated by the dark, seamy underbelly of society, personified by the junkies and dealers, two-bit con men and homosexual prostitutes, and he embraced the madness inherent in the lifestyle. Being both an addict and a homosexual, Burroughs found himself in a classic vicious cycle, but it was the growing integration with the criminal world that began to unravel him. He was jailed repeatedly, but could neither leave nor maintain his lifestyle. Soon, with an overloaded psyche and a body on the verge of collapse, the logical side of Burroughs began to give way. In the famous pinnacle moment of his life Burroughs, in a chemical haze, accidentally shot and killed his wife, Joan Vollmer, in Mexico City during what was described as a game of "William Tell" (he tried to shoot a glass off her head, but missed). Burroughs literally and figuratively ran to the edges of the earth to get away from having to deal with Joan's death. For many years he would not ever speak of it, much less write of it. But there was method to the madness. He knew he inevitably would have to confront Joan's memory, that even if he fought it, it would pop up someplace else in some compulsive form or other. He knew from many years of analysis that it was slowly percolating through the folds of his consciousness and would invariably become something significant. He had managed to, in his own words, "place myself in such a position that my only option was to write my way out." Personally, I do not find it strange at all that Burroughs was thinking in terms of his work. I don''t think he believed Joan would be there in the distant future. I believe he knew unconsciously that she would be the sacrifice for his work because it effectively left him with no diversion from his troubles; he had no choice but to, so to speak, work it out. The result is his writing, a series of brilliant and intuitive cultural studies expounding on his two major themes of addiction (Junky) and homosexuality (Queer), and the stream-of-consciousness effect of free-association.
Here, in Junky, Burroughs laments the plight of a addict trying to score a fix In New Orleans:
There is a type of person occasionally seen in these neighborhoods who has connections with junk, though he is neither a user nor a seller. but when you see him the dowser wand twitches. Junk is close. His place of origin is the Near East, probably Egypt. He has a large straight nose. His lips are thin and purple-blue like the lips of a penis. The skin is tight and smooth over his face. He is basically obscene beyond any possible vile act or practice. He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were gone from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighborhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness.
In another passage from Junky, Burroughs gives frank insight into the futile nature of addiction:
Junk takes everything and gives nothing but insurance against junk sickness. Every now and then I take a good look at the deal I was giving myself and decided to take the cure. When you are getting plenty of junk, kicking looks easy. You say, "I'm not getting any kick from the shots any more. I might as well quit." But when you cut down into junk sickness, the picture looks different...I knew I did not want to go on taking junk. If I could have made a single decision, I would have decided no more junk ever. But when it came to the process of quitting, I did not have the drive. It gave me a terrible feeling of hopelessness to watch myself break every schedule I set up as though I did not have control over my actions.
The desire the addict feels to quit using comes long before he actually quits. It arises initially through entirely instinctual processes, namely survival and the cessation of pain. But as has been shown, the power of the addiction is almost incalculable, and it continuously beats down the survival instinct and replaces it with a violent craving that spurs on a very real panic attack; the feeling is actual physical pain. The addict is presented with two options. Looming magnanimously in the forefront of his mind is the immediate solution: to take more of the substance or behavior. Far away in the distance squeaks the voice of reason, who tells him he''ll only be starting the process all over again. For some addicts, this is all they hear. They move as if their bodies were not their own, all the while cursing their every move over and over and over in their heads. Most of the recovering community will agree that it is only when the addict has "hit bottom" that he first becomes capable of recovery. Exactly what that bottom is differs for each person. For some, it is only basic social humiliation, compromising one's morals or ethics, the loss of a job, a blackout, or a DUI. For others it may be that one more prison stint will be for life. Other's overdose, or begin to prostitute themselves. It really doesn''t matter when viewing recovery empirically. The point is that something motivated them.
Coming in to recovery is only the very first small step in an unfathomable taxing process. Common statistics banded about treatment centers and A.A. meetings put 90% of any given newly sober recovering community back into active addiction within a year; there is a less than 3% five-year success rate. Whether or not these figures are accurate is irrelevant because they end up having a significant impact on the psyche of the addict. It's as if they feel they are immediately set at odds. Some this motivates, and makes their successes that much sweeter. Many more are paralyzed by anxiety and fear. Many addicts find that they have traded in one vicious cycle for another. They begin a horrifying period of recovery and relapse. They repeatedly alienate themselves from their primary social support (family, friends), manipulating them in and out of trust and compassion and forgiveness. But, as I mentioned before, now they must contend with an added component of returning to their recovering community.
It is natural and understandable that relapse causes fear in the addict. For many it is the proverbial Boogieman come to life. But there is nothing more fragile and volatile than a relapsed addict. They are overloaded with shame, guilt, fear and anxiety, so much so that the very thought of returning to their support groups terrifies them. There is much talk in the program about welcoming back relapsers, but this is one of the relatively few areas where the democratic process breaks down in the face of human emotional frailty. Most often, the relapsed addict is treated like a pariah. The fear is primal, and the reaction to it is quite instinctual: flight, as opposed to fight. Once the addict feels alienated from those in his support group, he will more than likely detach himself from the group. Without any type of recovering structure to implement in it's place, he becomes at the highest risk yet for turning back to his addiction. The demons come back seven fold. This situation is quite complicated because we are contending with two very powerful sets of defense mechanisms fueled by an explosive fear. The addict is full of self-pity, anger and resentment, but a significant portion of his emotional state is self-induced, a masochistic indulgence, if you will, because he has been conditioned to condemn himself. On the other side, we have a roomful of fragile psyches who have in effect been triggered into acting out their hostilities and fears, mostly because they have not been taught proper ways of managing the strong emotions. The logical focus of their energies becomes the relapsed addict. Neither side will budge. But within this absurdity there is always the same occurrence: invariably a rare member with an expansive, working understanding of the A.A. program will step in and try to facilitate the relapsed addict's re-integration. Espousing the traditions of the program and the "Principles over Personalities" dictum, he attempts to explain to the relapsed addict that the others don''t matter, only his desire to remain sober, that he can''t let anything get in the way. The relapsed addict will believe it once, but if the relapses become problematic, much less chronic, he will be less inclined to "give it another shot." And proportionately, the members of his group will be less inclined to "give him another chance." I cannot stress the importance of this: this very circumstance has kept many addicts from returning to recovery. We will see this struggle personified in West and his experiences. It serves two functions: first, it is what finally allows him to break from A.A. and the established and accepted modes of thought surrounding recovery; it leads him to Jung, as he goes back and tries to understand what the program was built upon in the hopes of unearthing some original, but now occluded intent.
The Gods have all been turned into symptoms
Although the discussion has thus far dissected the addiction model, the dilemmas presented are in no way limited to the problem of substance abuse. What we are addressing here is a psycho-spiritual conflict that exists in epic proportions in today's society, a very real and unimaginably horrifying impasse that modern man has reached. It is best described using Jungian analyst Robert Johnson's Theory of Ecstasy. Johnson believes that all people have, or need to feed, an ecstatic dimension to their personalities. Webster's defines ecstasy as:
ec·sta·sy: 1 a: a state of being beyond reason and self-control b archaic:
SWOON 2: a state of overwhelming emotion esp: rapturous delight
This ecstatic dimension exists on the most primal, archetypal level of our consciousness. It is our inherent need to commune with a God or Higher Power or Spirit of the Universe. It represents our struggle and quest for Wholeness, inner peace, spiritual, universal or metaphysical harmony, and the resolution of conflict. Jung called this the Process of Individuation, or simply put, one's full Self-realization. Following the secondary definition of Ecstasy, a state of overwhelming emotion (+) esp. rapturous delight, it is apparent that man, as a matter of course, needs to feel "high." The methods employed in reaching this emotional state have progressed exponentially over the ages from wholly imaginative or organic means to highly synthetic.
In the beginning we were overwhelmed by the forces of nature, which were completely mysterious and terrifying. Soon after that we turned those forces into Gods, and we worshipped those Gods for our security and our prosperity. At around the same time our self-awareness developed to the point where we began to question or ponder our place in this universe, the nature of our being. As we delved deeper into ourselves we unearthed more complex fears, and at the root of these was the greatest human fear imaginable: that our existence is coincidental and meaningless, that we are alone in the universe, that there is nothing beyond our mortality. God (the creation and worship of) effectively removed that fear by eliminating the cosmic loneliness and isolation, replacing it with an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent companion. Without that construct to edify our psyches we would most assuredly go completely insane and effectively self-destruct as a species. The question is: Have we outgrown it? From these Gods we created our mythologies, and from these mythologies we created our morality. Each of these served our higher functions, but each was inextricably linked to our most primal functions: our need for food, rest, sex and love, and invariably, our need for altered states of being, by whatever means, as a method for enhanced communing. We also developed wealth, status, power and influence. As we progressed, we developed science, and science began to answer all the mysteries of the world around us. For a long while science was in collusion with religion, as religion had evolved into a governing way of life, but slowly the mythos of religion was deconstructed into empirical fact. We had conquered the mountains only to realize the emptiness of their peaks. The end result was the predicament I have outlined here.
Today's society moves faster than the human ability to react to it. We are inundated with too many choices, too much information, to feel any ostensible sense of security. We are led to believe that our progress is natural, but all around us are examples of the figurative toxic shock our spirits are experiencing. Science has become the new religion, and as a result, in Jung's words, we have "turned the God's into symptoms." With the proliferation of information technology, access to all the world's mysteries lie at a even a child's fingertips. What mankind forgot about was that ecstatic dimension of our personalities. Johnson says that if we do not get our "ecstasies" in a legitimate manner (through religion, spirituality, or mythology), it will pop up in its symptomatic (that is to say it's compulsive) form. Man will continually search for emotional highs, and if he cannot get them through some altruistic method, he will indulge in artificial means of pleasure, such as wealth and status, drugs and alcohol, food, and sex. Jung believed that the increase in artificial stimulation and the concurrent breakdown in basic morality contributed to a loss of meaning in Western culture. He believed that people were essentially wandering aimlessly without purpose or direction, and that this sense of ungrounding or dislocation was at the root of spiritual unrest. This was why he studied other cultures and religions, to try and find what we had missed. It is inherent in man's nature to search for meaning in his existence. Without it, he is unable to perform, because he is unable to justify what is demanded of him. Without justification or rationale, motivation itself becomes tenuous. But these energies within us do not just shut down. When they are not allowed to follow their normal course, they begin to infiltrate other aspects of our personalities. Some of the common behaviors include dissent and rebellion against accepted or established social norms, artistic works or interpretations with an existential or ontological theme, and increased religious fervor or hysteria. The common denominator in all these behaviors is a lack of fulfillment in people's lives.
In the film Floundering (1994, A-Pix Entertainment, Dir. Peter McCarthy), a typical white, mid-twenties American youth played by James LeGros is "floundering" in his own existential crises. Set in Los Angeles during the Rodney King riots, he sees the world all around him self-destructing through violence, moral decay, racial and religious unrest, environmental abuse, and rampant capitalism. He feels completely ineffectual, as if his existence has no meaning. At one point in the film, out his window he hears a commotion on the front steps of his apartment building. When he looks out he sees three black males sitting on his stoop smoking crack. He asks them what they are doing there, and one of the men holds up the crack pipe, and with smoke pouring out of his mouth says, "You wanna kiss the lips of God?" LeGros' character contemplates the situation for a moment, then decides to join the men on the steps. The three men crowd around him, and one begins to speak of the impending revolution. He says that the establishment thinks they are weak because they indulge in moral aberrations like drugs, violence, sex and crime, but in fact they are growing in strength, hardening their emotions in order to detach from society more easily. They are full of rage and injustice, and these cannot be kept imprisoned for long. They will permeate anywhere they can and wreak havoc along the way. He tells Le Gros that in the final analysis, his survival depends on whether he is with them or against them. One of the other men hands him the pipe. They ask him, "are you with us, or against us?" Le Gros' character realizes nothing can stop the impending revolution. He feels it all the way to his innermost being; it is what has kept him up at night.
Here, the revolution represents the inevitable transformation the protagonist is himself unwittingly immersed in. What was at first a moral debate quickly transforms itself into an ideological struggle where morality has little to no impact. To survive, he must embrace his most base nature and learn to understand it, to use it to teach and motivate him. He must first embrace his Shadow, bottom out, before he can evolve. Symbolic of his submission to his Shadow and the commencement of his spiritual journey, he reaches out and takes the pipe; it is an initiation to the beginning of the end. He, like his co-conspirators on the stairs, must relent to his need to commune with a God. It is an act of methodical futility, as well as an acknowledgment of the chaos inherent in change.
There is so much of the modern spiritual dilemma contained within that scene: the feeling of non-existence, the relentless nature of social tides and the apparent futility in resisting; the inability to hear, commune with or much less believe in a God; and the artificial means in which we try to surmount this emptiness. Despite the fact that this film is highly contextualized, it does present a compelling paradigm. We witness firsthand, in an encapsulated form, the loss of meaning in our culture, or at the very least, a significant shift in meaning. In the end, the protagonist finds a way out of the misery and into substantive meaning, in his case through romantic love with a woman he falls in love with at first sight and admires from afar, then eventually kidnaps. Suspending disbelief, we watch as the women understands and then demures. One could argue that this ending is problematic in a narrative sense when addressing the Anima/Animus concept, but for our purposes, we will accept it as some fulfilling end in that he was actually able to find deliverance.
One idea this essay has not examined is that of Shame. I do acknowledge this as a pivotal issue, so much so that I chose not to gloss it over. The most plausible reason is that the novel itself is about one man's battle with his Shame, so why try to conquer it now. And to be completely honest, I did not understand enough about the nature of my own shame to include it here. I hope, at the novels conclusion, that I will have reached a fair amount of conclusions, and shared them with all of you.
We are all searching for some meaning in our lives. It is not so important anymore what "the Meaning of Life" is because we now seem to understand that it is as individualistic as our DNA, and is ever-changing, moment to moment. But this path to our Individuation or fulfillment or enlightenment travels through some of the darkest regions of our psyche, and it is in these passings where we discover our potential for pain, strength, hope, faith, love and transcendence.
Jung said in On the Nature of the Psyche:
Change of consciousness begins at home; it is a secular matter that depends entirely on how far the psyche's capacity for development extends. All we know at present is that there are single individuals who are capable of developing. How great their total number is we do not know, just as we do not know what the suggestive power of an extended consciousness may be, or what influence it may have upon the world at large. Effects of this kind never depend on the reasonableness of an idea, but far more on the question (which can only be answered ex effectu): Is the time ripe for change, or not?
There are no applicable laws in the spiritual arena; if anything, the possibilities are endless. The Sinner's Treadmill is the story of one man's quest for wholeness in a powerfully significant age and time, and the lengths he would go to conquer his demons both internal and external, real and imagined. As West Townsend, the novel's protagonist, seeks wholeness, he must first pass through weakness and fragmentation. Although I have invoked Jung in the creation of this book, I do not claim to follow the precepts of Jungian psychology to the letter. It is my interpretation. And it is a work of fiction, in as much as it can be. Not surprisingly, it's identity lie within a paradox: all the fictions combine in an attempt to create a working truth. Perhaps you may find yourself inside.
©Charles Shaw. Chicago, 1999.
1. There is a version of the Twelve Steps called the "Biblical Twelve Steps" which cites each passage of the Bible from which each step was formed. You can find this in places like the Salvation Army, Evangelical churches like The Moody Institute, and many church-based recovery programs.
2 The five spheres of the Psyche, according to Jungian psychology, are: Persona, Ego, Shadow, Anima/Animus, Unconscious (then Collective Unconscious).
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