Are We Ever Truly in Control of Our Own Minds?
On influence, desire, hypnosis and the curious nature of surrender.
I wonder how often we mistake the experience of making a decision for the experience of being in control.
It is a curious distinction, isn't it?
We like to imagine ourselves as autonomous creatures. Rational, independent, entirely responsible for the choices we make. We construct elaborate explanations for our behaviour, often with an impressive degree of confidence in our own reasoning.
But how much of that reasoning actually precedes the decision, and how much of it is simply the story we tell ourselves afterwards?
I have been considering this in relation to hypnosis, and more specifically, the rather peculiar relationship between influence, desire and surrender.
Although, before we get to hypnosis, I think we need to consider something much more fundamental.
How much of what we think actually belongs to us?
The Invisible Nature of Influence
I find the concept of influence rather fascinating.
We are, whether we care to acknowledge it or not, continually influenced by the world around us.
Our experiences, relationships, environments, cultural expectations and countless seemingly insignificant encounters contribute to the ways in which we understand ourselves and the world we inhabit.
Influence does not necessarily require intention.
It need not involve somebody deliberately attempting to persuade us, nor does it always announce itself in a way that we consciously recognise.
Sometimes it is something we have seen. Something we have heard. A passing interaction, an unfamiliar sensation, or an experience that stirred something within us without our ever fully understanding why.
Perhaps something captured our attention. Perhaps it fascinated us, unsettled us, or even excited us in a way we could not quite articulate.
And then we moved on.
Or at least, we believed we had.
I think we often underestimate how profoundly the accumulation of these experiences can shape us.
Consider how we develop our preferences. We might find ourselves drawn towards particular aesthetics, personalities, experiences or ideas without being able to identify precisely where that attraction originated.
We experience these preferences as our own, and rightly so.
But does that mean they developed independently?
Even our most ordinary decisions can be influenced by associations we have accumulated over time. Our purchasing habits, for example, are shaped by far more than the conscious evaluation of whether we need or want something. Familiarity, emotion, memory and the cultural meanings attached to particular objects can all contribute.
And yet, when we finally make a decision, we experience it as something entirely our own.
Which, of course, it is.
But I wonder whether being the person who makes a decision is quite the same thing as being the sole author of everything that contributed to it.
Do We Always Know What We Desire?
I think this becomes considerably more interesting when we begin to consider desire.
We tend to imagine that we know what we want.
We have preferences, attractions and interests that we consider fundamental aspects of our identities. We can usually provide reasonably convincing explanations for them, too.
But I wonder how much of what we desire exists beyond the boundaries of what we consciously recognise, or indeed, what we permit ourselves to recognise.
Attraction is a particularly interesting example.
What we find appealing is not necessarily limited to what we consciously identify as attractive.
Sometimes something captures our attention without our being able to articulate precisely why. Perhaps it contradicts our usual preferences. Perhaps it challenges something we believe about ourselves.
Perhaps it excites us.
And perhaps, rather than examining that response, we simply dismiss it.
After all, we do not develop our understanding of desire independently of the societies in which we live.
We inherit expectations about what is attractive, what is acceptable, what is desirable and, perhaps most importantly, what we ought to want.
I wonder how often those expectations become confused with our own preferences.
And how often we mistake the things we feel comfortable admitting for the entirety of what we desire.
There is a distinction, I think, between experiencing a desire, recognising that desire and allowing ourselves to explore it.
Those three things do not necessarily occur simultaneously.
Something might intrigue us for years before we consciously acknowledge its significance. We may repeatedly encounter ideas or experiences that resonate with us without ever stopping to consider why.
And sometimes, when we finally recognise what it is that has captured our attention, we experience it as a sudden discovery.
But was it really something new?
Or have we simply become aware of something that has been developing quietly within us for considerably longer than we realised?
Stripping Away the Layers
I sometimes think of self-exploration as a process of removing layers.
Throughout our lives, we accumulate beliefs, expectations, experiences and ideas about who we are supposed to be.
Some of these are consciously adopted. Others develop so gradually that we scarcely recognise their presence.
We learn which parts of ourselves are welcomed by others, which are considered acceptable, and which are perhaps better kept private.
And somewhere amongst all of this, we develop an understanding of who we are.
But how complete is that understanding?
There are approaches within psychotherapy that encourage people to examine earlier experiences, established patterns of thought and aspects of their emotional lives that they may not ordinarily engage with.
The concept of exploring one's younger self, for example, can provide a framework for understanding how earlier experiences continue to influence our present perceptions and responses.
I find an interesting parallel in hypnosis.
Not because hypnosis is necessarily a form of psychotherapy, nor because it possesses some extraordinary ability to reveal hidden truths.
Rather, because it can provide an opportunity to direct our attention inward, to examine our experiences and to explore aspects of ourselves that we might otherwise neglect.
And I think there is something rather beautiful about that.
The possibility that we might discover something about ourselves simply by allowing ourselves the opportunity to look.
Of course, self-exploration does not always reveal something that was already there. Sometimes our preferences change. Sometimes experiences introduce possibilities we had never previously considered.
But perhaps the distinction between discovering and developing a desire is not always as obvious as we imagine.
At What Point Did You Decide to Surrender?
This brings me to something I often consider in my professional life.
When a client first sits opposite me, at what point did they truly decide to be there?
Naturally, they made the appointment.
They contacted me, arranged a consultation and consciously chose to explore the possibility of hypnosis.
But was that really where the decision began?
What compelled them to seek me out in the first place?
Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps an attraction to the idea of surrender, or a fascination with the possibility of experiencing their own mind in a way they had never previously considered.
But where did that curiosity originate?
Was it something they encountered years earlier? An experience they barely remember? A thought that briefly excited them before disappearing into the background of their everyday existence?
Perhaps it was not one experience at all, but hundreds of seemingly inconsequential moments, gradually contributing to a desire they would eventually come to recognise as their own.
And then, one day, they find themselves sitting opposite me.
A perfectly conscious decision, they might insist.
And I wouldn't disagree.
But I might ask them whether being conscious of a decision is quite the same thing as understanding its origins.
After all, by the time someone arrives for a consultation, they may already have spent weeks, months or even years entertaining the possibility of hypnosis.
They may have listened to recordings, encountered ideas about submission, imagined how they might respond, or developed expectations about what surrender might feel like.
They have already begun constructing a narrative.
And perhaps the most intriguing part of that narrative is that they may not recognise how much of it was written before they consciously decided to participate.
So, when my client finally sits opposite me, believing themselves to be the author of the circumstances that brought them there, I find myself considering a rather different question.
Did they truly write that narrative themselves, or have they simply become conscious of the story at the point where they believe they began writing it?
The Paradox of Voluntary Surrender
I think there is a rather persistent misunderstanding surrounding hypnosis, particularly within the context of dominance and submission.
People often imagine surrender as the opposite of autonomy.
As though relinquishing control must necessarily mean losing the ability to make independent decisions.
But I find that interpretation rather simplistic.
When someone chooses to explore hypnosis with me, their willingness to participate is not an incidental part of the experience.
It is fundamental.
They must want to engage with the process. They must be willing to explore the suggestions being offered, and they must retain the freedom to decide what they are comfortable experiencing.
Hypnosis is not an extraordinary mechanism through which another person's will can simply be overridden.
Nor does the desire to surrender mean that someone has forfeited their autonomy.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
There is something rather paradoxical about consciously choosing to explore the experience of relinquishing control.
A person may spend much of their life exercising authority, maintaining independence and carefully managing the way they present themselves to the world.
And yet, somewhere within that same person, there may exist a fascination with the possibility of surrender.
Perhaps they have never allowed themselves to explore it.
Perhaps they have never even considered that such a desire could coexist with their understanding of themselves.
And then, eventually, they decide to investigate it.
Not because somebody has taken their autonomy away, but because they have chosen to exercise it in a way that allows them to explore something different.
I think that is a rather important distinction.
Choosing to surrender is still a choice.
And recognising the influences that contributed to that choice does not make it any less meaningful.
Who Is Really Controlling the Narrative?
Which brings me back to the question that began this entire train of thought.
Are we ever truly in control of our own minds?
I am not entirely convinced that the question can be answered with a simple yes or no.
We are influenced by experiences we cannot always remember, expectations we may never have consciously adopted and desires whose origins we may struggle to identify.
And yet, we are not simply passive recipients of those influences.
We can examine them. Question them. Challenge them.
We can choose which desires we wish to explore and which we would prefer to leave unfulfilled.
Perhaps autonomy has never required us to exist independently of influence.
Perhaps it is better understood as our capacity to engage with the influences that shape us, and to make meaningful decisions about what we wish to do with them.
And perhaps that is one of the most interesting things about hypnosis.
Not the fantasy of somebody reaching into another person's mind and taking control, but the possibility of exploring a mind whose complexities are not always entirely apparent to its owner.
I do not imagine that every client who sits opposite me has spent years secretly longing for surrender.
Nor do I presume to understand their desires better than they understand themselves.
But I do find myself wondering about the experiences that brought them there.
The curiosities they entertained. The thoughts they dismissed. The moments that captured their attention without their ever quite understanding why.
And I wonder how many of those moments contributed to the decision they eventually made.
Because perhaps the most fascinating part of the experience is not the moment someone closes their eyes and allows themselves to be hypnotised.
Perhaps it is everything that happened before.
Before the consultation.
Before the first message.
Before they even knew my name.
And if they cannot identify the moment the thought first became theirs, how can they be so certain that it began with them?
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