Fast Forward

«I⁰ (I to the zeroth power): This is life’s basic state, behavior without self-examination, self-awareness, self-consciousness, or self-reflection. It’s the closest we get to how the rest of life lives. We call it acting instinctively or intuitively, or putting behavior on autopilot. In humans, I⁰behavior can be either innate or learned. Sleeping, wound healing, breathing, and blood circulating are innate examples of operating in an I⁰state. Walking, driving, using a spoon, and watching TV are learned activities that typically become second nature. In these states, the self is simply assumed. We lose ourselves into the activity at hand. We act like input-output devices. It is in this state that we become one with all of life. (Anything to the zeroth power equals one.)

I⁰ is very efficient, though it’s dangerous when something bad for us becomes second nature. I⁰ is a state wonderfully devoid of self-consciousness, but it’s also a state troublingly bereft of self-awareness. We’re glad gentlefolk have made their habits second nature. We regret that evildoers have done so.

I¹ (I to the first power): This is basic introspection, the capacity to picture yourself behaving and to tell stories about that behavior: “I’m a plumber.” “I’m a married woman.” “I’m an up-and-coming author.” “I’m a good Christian.” “I meant to do that.” The first-person pronoun emerges with this state. All sorts of descriptions and explanations of your self arise naturally and automatically with this capacity. I¹ is, you could say, the uniquely human innate ability to construct unexamined narratives on demand about who we are, what we’re for, and what we’re against.

Why on demand? Most of the time, we just cruise along in an I⁰ state, our I¹ narratives about who we are residing in the vague background, unconscious, simply assumed. They rise to our conscious attention only when we face demands — when we are confused, challenged, doubtful, or wondering. Then the stories about who we are might arise to consciousness as reminders or guides in our decision making. Whenever we get a little disoriented, we access our I¹ descriptions to help us remember what to do and what we’re for, but also what we’re against. We are defined both by what we do and don’t do: “I don’t eat onions.” “I don’t do windows.” “I don’t fool around.” We say what we need to hear in order to keep ourselves on track.

I¹ is beneficial when it helps us persist against resistance worth overcoming. (“Darn it, I’m a good person. I can try harder!”) It’s dangerous when it makes us persist against resistance worth surrendering to. (“Darn it, I am a good Nazi soldier. I can try harder to defeat the enemy!”) I¹ stories keep us on track, either in a groove or in a rut, depending on which track we’re on. We’re glad Martin Luther King was so strongly in an I¹ state. We’re sorry Hitler was.

I² (I squared): We behave (I⁰). We can tell stories about our behavior (I¹), and we can tell stories about the storyteller (I²). Whereas in an I¹state I might say, “I’m a people person,” in an I² state I might say, “I like to think that I’m a people person,” as if talking about that storytelling guy I am that likes to think certain things. Whereas in an I¹ state I might say, “I’m going to be a success,” in an I² state I might say, “I keep telling myself I’m going to be a success.” At I¹ we tell unexamined stories. At I² we are aware that we are telling stories.

Seeing ourselves telling stories generally increases the distance between us and the stories, thereby reducing the stories’ credibility enough that we face a choice about whether the stories are useful, or should be changed for other stories. Noticing the storyteller enables us to see that we are storytellers interpreting reality, not simply reporting it. From I² I might say, “I have a tendency to be overoptimistic,” which is as if to call into question my optimistic interpretations of reality.

I² is the source of whatever flexibility we have to jump track when we decide we’re on the wrong track. However, it’s not always enough flexibility to actually succeed in jumping. There are times when we see ourselves telling counterproductive stories about ourselves but can’t stop telling those stories anyway. But I² raises the possibility of jumping. It raises doubt, which can be a great thing if you’re telling bad stories (“I’m a good Nazi soldier”) or a bad thing if you’re telling good stories (“I’m responsible for these children”). We’re glad Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t spend more time in an I² state. We wish Hitler had spent more time in one.

I^¥ (I to the infinite power, or I-ons, as in, “I on and on and on and on”): For every story that can be told, another story can be told about the storyteller. Just as you can picture yourself picturing yourself behaving (I²), you can continue picturing yourself picturing yourself picturing yourself to the limits of your ability to keep track (which are mercifully low). I-ons is the state in which you recognize that there is no true self, that for every interpretation you make of who you are, another interpretation can be made of the interpreter of that interpretation. I-ons is simply the recognition that no matter how far out I go to get more perspective on myself, there is always another vantage point further out, which means there’s no final certainty about who I am after all.

The I-ons state can bring on permanent disorientation, or it can resign you more comfortably to life’s uncertainty. It would be lovely to find a true self, an omniscient gut or god that always knows the right thing to do, but since we can’t, we can get with the program, choose our grooves, monitor them to make sure they don’t become ruts, and then just cruise in them. We don’t tend to spend much time in an I-ons state, because it’s fairly disorienting, and we have things to do. We need to stay on track. Besides, more layers are simply more than a mind can handle.»

Source: Psychology Today