Initiation and Addiction: An Introduction

By Bob Bongiovanni, MA

In the next few weeks, we will be exploring the topic of initiation, from a Jungian perspective. Dr. Jung himself did not write extensively on this subject, but he laid the foundation for a growing interest in the subject by neo-Jungians like Luigi Zoja, Joseph Henderson, Linda Leonard, Robert Moore, and Sylvia Brinton Perera. Drawing on these authors, we will identify the key archetypal patterns associated with initiation. To further illustrate the concept of initiation, we will focus on the addictive process – arguably the defining psychological challenge of our modern era. This will lead us into rich mythological territory, particularly involving the Greek god Dionysius and Celtic tales of Maeve.

To set this stage, let’s begin with a general discussion of initiation. As described by Zoja, initiation involves three distinct phases:

First, there is a situation that must be transcended in order to find meaning. The need for this transcendence feels less and less voluntary over time. The meaninglessness becomes unbearable. Any other way of being, or even death, seems preferable.

That leads to the second phase in initiation, known as initiatory death. One abandons the familiar ways of the past, rejects the previous identity, and withdraws libido from its habitual direction. This is a symbolic death.

Then comes the third phase of initiation, the initiatory rebirth. A new identity is born, built on the past, but distinctly different, more closely aligned with the Self and with destiny. This experience is often eased with group support and ritual.

Let’s discuss each of these three phases in more depth. First, the growing compulsion to transcend one’s current situation. At the beginning of life, this phase is associated with the demands of puberty and young adulthood. The child’s body grows and matures, and the days of childhood draw to a close. It’s no longer sufficient to rest and play in the sheltering presence of the mother; the child feels compelled to be self-defining and self-directed, to take exhilarating risks and test limits. Who am I, beyond the child of my parents? That’s the question that demands to be answered. According to the developmental Jungian theorists, that usually leads to a period of immature, individualistic heroism. The child strikes out in his or her own way, puts the emerging ego at the center of the universe, and establishes as much distance as possible from the expectations of parents, history, and authority.

In healthy development, this is followed by a desire for something more, sometime around mid-life, if not sooner. The ego begins to wonder – isn’t there something more than this? Is there something greater than myself that is worthy of my energy and my allegiance? In traditional cultures, members of the clan knew exactly what to do – there was a ritual “rite of passage” that made a distinct break between childhood and adulthood. For boys, this often involved a formidable task, with the distinct possibility of failure, injury, even death. For girls, it was rituals around the mysterious coming of menses and the ability to bring forth new life.

Unfortunately, in our modern, youth-worshipping culture, there is too-often a prolonging of this youthful phase. The initiations, if they come at all, are tinged with shadow: gangs, violence, sexual experimentation, climbing the corporate ladder, and, as we will discuss at length, drug use. If it’s not bodily maturation that triggers the end of this phase, what is it, for the older adult? It could be physical– the challenge of a serious illness, a close brush with catastrophic injury or death, a vivid wake-up call that death will come someday soon. It could be psychological or spiritual – a prolonged or cyclical depression, cynicism, ennui. In healthy development, one faces these challenges with courage and openness to change. In unhealthy development, one attempts to use other means to escape the pain, often in materialistic ways – a new car, a move to a new city, a more youthful partner, a face lift, a new drug. But, inevitably, these prove to be temporary appeasements, at best. And, when drug use is involved, the escape sets up the very real choice to grow or to die.

That’s the distinguishing characteristic of the second phase of initiation: facing death. Symbolically, something needs to die, and it has to be something once held dear. Otherwise, it’s not a real initiation. For most of us, what must die are the dominant influences of the parental complexes. Just moving away is not enough. Even the physical death of the flesh-and-blood parents is not enough. One must sort out what’s you and what’s complex. Do I live in this house because I like it, or because my mother would approve of it? Am I married to this person because he reminds me of my father, and I can win his love and respect, at last? Who chose this career – me, or my father complex? Am I raising my children this way because it will produce confident, loving adults, or am I following those familiar, painful patterns of my own upbringing? Like excising cancers that entwine the psyche, removal of deep-rooted parental complexes can be death-defying. It is simply too painful for some – better to stay depressed and enslaved. The choices are too difficult – divorce, career upheaval, and constant self-recrimination. Couldn’t I just get a nice prescription to make the bad feelings go away? Or, maybe a third martini will do the job. Or a hit of acid. Or some nice cocaine. Or some crystal meth and a wild weekend of partying and sex.

Jung teaches us that the psyche does not distinguish between symbolic death and literal death. A death is required, but it does not need to be a physical death. If we really understood that, we could ritually encounter death in a vivid way, and move on. But, in our materialistic age, only the risk of physical death feels real and vivid.

How might we have such a vivid, ritualistic encounter with symbolic death? Traditional cultures relied on the support of groups for this. A group of elders created ritual space where magic took place. Death felt palpable throughout the ritual. In modern days, this is almost entirely unavailable. Now, there’s more of a tendency to seek out an enlightened teacher – a master, an analyst, perhaps – for help in accomplishing this. Zoja describes the situation this way:

There exists a real demand for esoteric, initiatory experiences, yet those who cater to that demand are often unconscious of what they are doing. Even among those who profess themselves to be "masters" able to provide initiatory experiences we find a certain lack of awareness. Depth psychology itself often falls into the same trap, with offshoot groups straying into fields that are extraneous but tinted with esoterism. This is not to say that these "masters" are motivated by purely utilitarian concerns, but it should not be forgotten that becoming a "master" is often a self-serving compensation for personal problems.

In general, groups rather than individuals tend to assume initiatory functions, since not many individuals have the necessary experience to become masters. Such groups—cults ideological, religious, etc. ...—tend to institutionalize the initiatory process, the various groups splintering into specialized sub-groups, a process of bureaucratization developing, all of which ensures the survival of the groups themselves, if not the satisfaction of their adherents' psychic needs. Unfortunately, the "rites" involved are often inventions of the intellect rather than attempts at consolidating truly meaningful experiences. Rites in any case are not invented, but arise over time and with the participation of many individuals, indeed of many generations.

The person who seeks instruction, the potential "adept," may be an individual with a complex personality who is unsatisfied by the traditional rules and truths of society. More often than not, he is a lonely person in search of fellowship, and his search is not for ordinary persons, but for "masters." His needs will only be partially satisfied, since what he will encounter above all are institutions which cannot respond to his deeper individual needs.

These institutions are generally able to provide information and even a genuine type of instruction, but not initiation. Mircea Eliade asserts that the only form of genuine initiatory structures today is in artistic-literary creation. All things considered, modern society is practically unable to provide institutional initiation. Such initiation calls for masters and structures formed over a long period of time and in context of a whole participating culture. Initiation presupposes that biological birth brings man into the world only partially, in an absolutely vegetative condition lacking values and transcendence.

So, the way for the modern person is perilous when it comes to the phase of initiatory death. A few of us benefit from the assistance of a true master or a humane and wise group. More of us muddle our way through it, compelled by the unavoidable challenges of physical illness, depression, or addiction.

If this process goes well – in whole, or in part – we experience the third phase of initiation, the initiatory rebirth. What might we expect from this phase? It’s not some sort of blissful release from care and worry. It is more like an expansion. To give you more of a sense of it, I would like to share a passage from a curriculum written by Steven Foster. The curriculum is entitled Vision Quest, and it is used with young people. This passage occurs at the end, after the youth have experienced the vision quest, survived it, and are now re-entering the bigger world. Foster offers the following insights and advice:

Wisdom tells us that we experience life in rhythms of high and low, that the ascent of every mountaintop is followed by a descent, that highs and lows are interdependent and absolutely necessary for the growth of the self. Every spiritual tradition reminds us of the inevitability, even the necessity, of the darkness that follows illumination. The yogi teaches his disciples to expect depression when he says: "After Samadhi, we sweep the floor." One can go around with his head in the clouds, but that does not keep the dust from seeping in through the cracks. Dreams and visions will not sweep your floor

The true measure of the vision of a man or a woman is time. "Flash in pans" come and go. They expend their energy in one great burst and then they burn out. Many of these burnouts inhabit the bars and drug stores of our time. Likewise, others burn themselves up in remorse or self-disgust because they keep falling short of an impossible goal they have set for themselves. The trail ahead can be taken at your own speed. You don't have to have everything figured out. Your ability to pursue your vision for your life does not depend how fast you are or how resolved your picture of the universe is. What does matter is your ability to persevere. The threshold time was a test of your ability to persevere.

Another measure of the vision of a man or woman is balance. This balance can be expressed in several ways. One way is to accept, and learn from, highs and lows of your life and to see them as the necessary rhythms of living. Another way is to live in harmony with the natural world, your Mother Earth. Another way is to live in balance with the "smorgasbord" of modern living. Another is to survive, not as a victim, but as a learner.

If you are certain, deep inside, that you have a vision "to demonstrate on earth for the people to see," then you will not reject the trail that lies ahead. Indeed, it is your trail. You have chosen it. You have also learned that you walk this trail alone. Though others may accompany you, in the end, they must be left behind. Therefore, in the deepest sense, you seek clarification, not self-validation . . .

Consider what you must give away – before you reach the shining, sacred mountains. The crucial question of your life is: Am I ready to begin this, the most perilous of vision quests? Ask your heart.