Inhibiting our Monsters: Lessons from a Superhero Movie

I recently watched the new Spider-Man movie with my kids, and naturally, I could not just watch a superhero movie.

My therapist brain had to get involved.

Because apparently even movie night is an opportunity for psychological reflection.

The movie got me thinking about our relationship with the parts of ourselves we don't particularly like—the angry parts, impulsive parts, wounded parts, jealous parts, defensive parts, terrified parts.

Our inner monsters.

The characters are trying to control—or even eliminate—the monster inside them. They have mutant inhibitors designed to suppress that side of themselves, raising a larger question about whether changing our biology could change who we are.

And I thought:

Oh. I know these people.

They're my clients.

Not literally, of course.

But many people come to therapy because they are exhausted by some part of themselves they don't know how to control.

"I don't want to be so angry."

"I don't want to sabotage my relationships."

"I don't want to drink when I'm overwhelmed."

"I don't want to shut down."

"I don't want to keep choosing people who hurt me."

"I don't want to think this way about myself."

Therapy often begins with the understandable desire to decrease symptoms, change behaviors, challenge negative self-beliefs, regulate emotions, and stop doing the things that hurt ourselves or the people we love.

In other words:

"Can we please put a mutant inhibitor on this thing?"

And sometimes, absolutely.

We need skills. We need boundaries. We need regulation. We need accountability. We need to learn how to pause between the feeling and the behavior.

But here's where it gets interesting.

What if the mutant isn't actually a mutant at all?

What if it's information?

What if the anger is telling us something?

What if the jealousy, anxiety, avoidance, defensiveness, perfectionism, or need for control is carrying information about something that happened long before we understood how to put it into words?

Maybe underneath the monster there is a wound.

And underneath the wound, there may be a need.

Anger may be protecting hurt.

Jealousy may be protecting attachment.

Control may be protecting fear.

Avoidance may be protecting us from rejection.

Perfectionism may be protecting us from shame.

The behavior may be problematic.

But the information underneath it is worth listening to.

That doesn't mean we excuse harmful behavior.

It means we get curious about it.

Because if we simply slap a mutant inhibitor on every uncomfortable emotion, we may successfully stop the behavior without ever understanding why it was there in the first place.

And then there are the people who seem to know exactly how to rip the inhibitor right off the back of our neck.

You know the ones.

You can be regulated.

You can have done your therapy.

You can have breathed through it.

You can have used your coping skills.

You can be wearing your metaphorical cardigan, carrying your metaphorical notepad, speaking in your calm therapeutic voice...

…and then somebody does something that hits the exact wound.

Suddenly:

HULK SMASH.

Okay.

Maybe not literally.

But let's just say this reserved, cardigan-wearing therapist has occasionally discovered that there is, in fact, a very large green woman living somewhere inside her.

Especially when someone does something that puts my life—or someone else's life—in danger on the road.

And for the record: move over when we lane split, you cagers. My nervous system has entered the chat.

Apparently my nervous system has opinions.

And that's part of being human.

There are people, experiences, wounds, and circumstances that can find the loose thread in our regulation and pull.

The work isn't pretending the monster doesn't exist.

It's learning to recognize when someone—or something—is reaching for the inhibitor.

But here's the other part that stayed with me.

Spider-Man's story also made me think about connection.

In Spider-Man: No Way Home, Peter makes the enormous decision to erase himself from the memories of the people he loves. The intention is protection. But the consequence is profound disconnection.

And Brand New Day picks up in the aftermath of that loneliness.

That got me thinking about something we see over and over again in the research on human well-being.

The Harvard Study of Adult Development—one of the longest-running longitudinal studies of adult life—has repeatedly pointed toward the importance of deep, meaningful relationships in our health and happiness.

Connection matters.

Which makes the superhero dilemma surprisingly human.

Sometimes we believe that becoming "better" means becoming less vulnerable.

Less emotional.

Less needy.

Less messy.

Less angry.

Less attached.

Less capable of being hurt.

We imagine that if we could just eliminate enough of our difficult parts, we would finally become perfectly safe.

But what if the inhibitor doesn't just suppress the monster?

What if it also suppresses some of our humanity?

What if becoming completely protected also means becoming completely disconnected?

And then there is agency.

I found myself wondering:

What if I could put a mutant inhibitor on the back of every client's neck?

One little button.

No more impulsivity.

No more self-sabotage.

No more anger.

No more negative self-talk.

No more unhealthy relationships.

No more addiction.

No more saying the thing we immediately regret.

No more hurting ourselves.

No more hurting anyone else.

No more bad decisions.

Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Or would it be terrifying?

Because if we could engineer everyone into making the perfect decision every single time, would we still be fully human?

Would we lose some of the agency that makes growth meaningful?

Would we understand courage if we never felt afraid?

Would we recognize love if we'd never experienced heartbreak?

Maybe the goal isn't to live without monsters.

Maybe the goal is to understand them.

Maybe the mutant isn't a mutant at all.

Maybe it's information.

Maybe the anger is information.

Maybe the fear is information.

Maybe the jealousy is information.

Maybe the part of us we are most desperate to silence is actually trying desperately to tell us something.

And perhaps therapy is learning to listen to that information without allowing it to run the show.

That's agency.

Not:

"I never feel angry."

But:

"I feel angry, and I get to choose what I do with it."

Not:

"I never get hurt."

But:

"I am hurt, and I don't have to become harmful because I am hurting."

Not:

"I never lose control."

But:

"I can learn to notice the moment before I do."

Our monsters may carry our wounds.

They may also carry our information.

And sometimes, they even carry our superpowers.

The anger that once protected us may become fierce advocacy.

The sensitivity that once felt like a liability may become profound empathy.

The intensity that once created chaos may become passion.

The instinct to protect ourselves may eventually become the ability to protect others without destroying ourselves in the process.

So maybe therapy isn't about becoming a person who never has a monster.

Maybe it's about becoming a person who knows their monster well enough to sit across from it and say:

"I see you. I understand why you're here. I want to know what you're trying to tell me. But you don't get to drive."

And maybe that is a much more interesting kind of superpower.

My monster in me,

Mandy