Blog on mind and brain research and advice

What Are So-Called
Secondary Emotions?

December 23, 2024 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

It isn’t exactly news, but the evidence that we are all walking around, unaware, inside our personal fog of vagueness is becoming hard to ignore. We not only lack clarity, but we are also unable to pin down (be specific about) what’s important to us. We use words, we engage in verbal communication, we consider and think about things, but we are often in the dark about the meaning of our own words, let alone the words of others.

So it is not such a surprise that much like investigating the ephemeral concept of empathy, investigating what is meant by secondary emotions leads to less clarity and more confusion. Empathy, as I previously discovered, is not a thing. The same can be said about secondary emotions.

Psychologists, psychotherapists, and other wellness-minded individuals don’t agree on what constitutes secondary emotions in the first place. In other words, the meaning is vague.

“Secondary” as a Characteristic

Some of them believe “secondary” is an attribute of particular emotions, meaning that those emotions labeled as such are never “primary.” But they do not agree about which emotions are secondary and which are primary. Nor is it easy to determine what this theory is based on or how it serves us in terms of survival.

There is a commonly-held belief that secondary emotions “mask” other emotions, but that would actually defeat the purpose of emotions, which is to provide us with information. Emotions are generated by the brain to keep us apprised of our current state of affairs. We may consciously attempt to hide our feelings from others or to change our emotional experience (for which we can’t blame emotions, since they don’t have intentions). But it’s one thing for us to want to keep that information to ourselves; it’s another thing altogether to want to keep it from ourselves.

The brain is attempting to tell us what it perceives we need to know (11 million bits of information condensed into a 40-bit stream); nothing more and nothing less. It’s not playing games with us or actively attempting to mislead us. If, for example, you’re feeling guilty, your brain generated that emotional response based on the circumstances and your personal mental model of the world. The conscious you may not enjoy feeling guilty. Your brain doesn’t care. It’s giving it to you straight—and automatically. It’s telling you that you violated your own moral code in some manner or to some extent. You get to brush it off, distract yourself, examine the situation and/or underlying beliefs, or rationalize it away. That’s on you, not your brain.

The same goes for psychology’s favorite secondary emotion, anger, which I’ve also written about. In that post from two years ago, I mentioned being unsuccessful in my attempt to determine the source of this concept of secondary emotions. I also considered that people who are uncomfortable with expressions of anger might be motivated to view it as a secondary emotion:

I suspect the secondary emotion idea is an attempt to cut anger down to size, so to speak. So-and-so isn’t really angry; he or she is actually sad or anxious or depressed or afraid or hurt: wounded in some manner. They’re not threatening; they’re vulnerable.

Of course, people may also apply this reasoning to themselves.

At this point, I’m more inclined to view the reaction from a broader perspective, though: less as discomfort with expressions of anger and more as discomfort with discomfort. Discomfort with expressions of anger is situational. Discomfort with discomfort is existential.

“Secondary” as a Sequence

Others believe secondary emotions are those that immediately follow the initial, primary, emotion. In that case, “secondary” is not an attribute of the emotion: any emotion can be either primary or secondary depending on where it shows up in an apparent sequence of emotional responses. But is that 10 seconds later, 10 minutes later, 10 days later, or 10 months later?

If you don’t understand that the brain is focused on what to do right now, then it seems conceivable that an emotion you’re experiencing today is a result of an experience you had two days ago. Your brain uses past experience to determine current action, but it doesn’t live in the past. The emotions you’re experiencing now are a response to what is going on, externally and internally, in the present.

I don’t know what makes a secondary emotion, in this context, significant. Are there always secondary emotions—emotions that are a reaction to a previous emotion? (If not, why not?) If so, aren’t all emotions secondary emotions given that there was always a prior emotion? But then the term is meaningless because there are no actual primary emotions. There are just emotions, one after another. Which, as it turns out, happens to be the case.

Categorizing Emotions

There are many different ways one could classify or categorize emotions. The brain categorizes things in order to get a quick grasp of what something is and how it pertains to us so it can figure out what to do about it. Speed is of the essence if you’re pursuing rewards but even more so if you’re dodging threats. Classifying emotions as primary or secondary is completely unhelpful to this process. In my opinion, it’s nothing more than psychobabble. Classifying emotions as good or bad may be easier to justify (potential reward or potential threat). But it’s not fail safe given that context and personal neurochemistry play a bigger role in determining how we experience an emotion than these black or white categories suggest.

What I’ve learned from those who specialize in researching the origins and functions of emotions is that there are many benefits and few, if any downsides, to getting granular (specific, not vague) and to getting comfortable experiencing a wide range of them.

It’s a Schabziger Moon. Or Is It?

November 30, 2024 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

We can’t ask (or answer) true or false questions about something if it isn’t real to begin with. By that, I mean that reality and truth are not the same thing. I also mean that there’s a hierarchy in that we have to first determine the reality of something before we can entertain questions about its characteristics or the nature of it.

I may be able to imagine a moon made of green cheese (a notion deriving from a Slavic tale involving, of course, a trickster—in this case a fox), but since such a thing doesn’t exist, I can’t claim to be able to determine that the cheese in question is Swiss green cheese.

On the other hand Swiss green cheese does exist; it’s called Schabziger. So I can ask if Schabziger is a cow’s milk cheese or a goat’s milk cheese.

What Is Real?

Dictionary definitions of the word real leave much to be desired. For example, one definition says real means:

existing or occurring in the physical world; not imaginary, fictitious,
or theoretical; actual

Something that is real, we are told, must be:

tangible: concrete; perceptible by the senses; not abstract or imaginary
objective: existing independently of perception or an individual’s conceptions; non-subjective
factual: accurate; true/truthful; conforming exactly or almost exactly to fact or to a standard

That would mean, among other things, that anything that is purely or primarily conceptual is not real. Hope, for example, or commitment or justice. What are we to make of the fact that people have apparently lived and died and killed for things—ideas, ideals, concepts, radical notions—that are, based on these definitions, not real?

Let’s put aside this characterization of real because it’s not useful—and it’s not based in neural reality. Neural correlates exist for every emotion we feel, every thought we have, and every sensation we experience. So there’s a physical basis for everything we’re aware of or even imagine. The specific thing or things we imagine may not be real, but neural activity related to our imagining can be tracked by an fMRI machine.

When I imagine a moon made of green cheese, the activity in my brain is real. The image in my mind is real, even though the image does not reflect physical reality. So I can imagine this moon to be made of Schabziger cheese—or any other kind of cheese: a different kind of cheese every day. Not only is my imagination not constrained by physical reality, it is also not constrained by a requirement for consistency. How cool is that?

What we seem to be asking when we ask whether or not something is real is does it exist, or in some cases, is it capable of existing. In fact, the definition of exist is to have being or reality; to be. Something can exist with or without being tangible. When I write fiction, I do a lot of mental pre-writing before I put words on paper or on a computer page. Those stories or story fragments are no less real when they exist only in my imagination. They don’t become real upon being written or typed. And whether or not a fictional story is transcribed, its characters and events (content) are not real, but the story is real. The story exists.

There are, of course, things we don’t know or don’t know about and things we can neither confirm nor deny the existence of. However, the idea that there are things that exist objectively, independent of our perception, is impossible to validate. Everything we perceive/experience has—necessarily—neural correlates.

What Is True (or Factual)?

The definitions of factual are even less helpful than the definitions of real, given that the words are often treated as synonyms. But as we all know, experience is real, and experience is not an accurate—or factual—reflection of reality. Our sense of self, of being a single self, is also real, but the single self we sense does not exist. It’s an illusion created by multiple processes in the brain. Our experience of it is real but it is not factual.

When we perceive a threat and experience fear, both the perception and the experience are real, but there may, in fact, be no actual threat. In order to define the nature (truth) of a perceived threat—and therefore the best response to it—we must first determine whether or not the threat is real.

Here are some things that are real, along with some facts about them that are true:

Three things that are real:

Climate
Humidity
Hurricanes

Three things that are true:

Average global temperature has increased by about 2° Fahrenheit since 1880.
Both air temperature and relative humidity affect the heat index (how hot it feels).
Since 1980, hurricanes have caused more damage in the U.S. than any other type of weather-related disaster.

Three more things that are real:

The book Deviate: The Creative Power of Transforming Your Perception
Beau Lotto
Neuroscience

Three more things that are true:

Deviate was written by Beau Lotto.
Beau Lotto is a neuroscientist.
Neuroscientists have identified patterns of brain activity that reveal how our expectations influence interpretation of sensory data.

The brain has to interpret sensory data in order to figure out what, if anything, we should do about it or in response to it. To do so, the brain constantly makes best guesses that are “good enough” for us to successfully navigate the world we live in: i.e., survive. Our brain did not evolve to interpret sensory data “factually”—meaning with complete accuracy. But we take our experience for granted—at face value—without much skepticism or even curiosity. As a result, we sometimes we get caught up in trying to determine the exact nature of the cheese constituting our imaginary moon without realizing the moon is not real.

Where Are We Going, Walt Whitman?

November 4, 2024 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

A couple of weeks ago, I read an article by a philosophy professor, Karen Simecek, who said that conceiving of our lives as narratives is a bad idea. She thinks it’s a bad idea because some narratives are negative or have a negative effect, presumably on the narrator.

She didn’t mention the brain in her article, which led me to wonder how she thinks these narratives come about. Maybe she believes humans all got together at some point in the past when there weren’t very many of us and took a vote on whether or not to conceive of our lives as narratives. The ayes won. Or maybe she thinks each of us comes up with this idea on our own or we pick it up from the zeitgeist.

In any case, this narrative process is not optional. It’s what brains do. Ask a neuroscientist. Or read The Storytelling Animal by Jonathan Gottschall.

As to bad narratives or those that have a negative effect, that is content, and content can be modified. I would imagine that a philosopher who can’t make a distinction between concept and content might develop some odd perspectives. She doesn’t disappoint.

It’s true that there is no such thing as a true story, something I’ve been pointing out for the past 11, almost 12 years. But that is a fact, not an indictment of narrative. It’s also true that our narratives exert a powerful influence over us that can get in the way of our ability to create transformational (positive, intentional, significant, and sustained) change. So I laud her effort to look for a way to deal with this dilemma. But our narratives are crafted by the unconscious part of the brain and reflect who we’ve been up till now. They provide the brain with a way to determine how to process the sensory data it encounters. As such, neither can our narratives be easily dismissed nor is it even a good idea to try to dismiss them.

Existential Poetry

Our philosopher prefers poetry to narrative, so she suggests we replace our autobiographical narratives with poems.

I mentioned this in a group meeting where everyone present is wise to the already existing difficulties we have communicating with one another. A participant looked up poetic forms on the internet (one of the benefits of Zoom meetings) and found a site that said there were 28 different forms. Writer’s Digest beats that by a mile, however, listing 168 different forms. WD isn’t overly serious about describing this (I hope) exhaustive list. For example:

Chant: if it works once, run it into the ground

Some other forms are haiku, villanelle, sonnet, madrigal, roundelay, epic, and sestina. There are many forms attributed to the Welsh, the French, and the Japanese, and a surprising number are named for how many lines or stanzas they contain. We (in the group) entertained the notion of communicating in poetry and how doing so would compound our communication issues, in multiple ways, since we don’t just have a narrative about ourselves, of course; we communicate with each other via narrative.

I like poetry. I’ve read quite a lot of it. I’ve even written a fair share. I’m trying to imagine the possibility of substituting poetry for narrative—and I’m someone who isn’t particularly committed to my own narrative. My personality is such that my personal narrative is more episodic than continuous. But my unconscious doesn’t write poetry, so poetry is never going to replace my anecdotal narrativity.

A virtual acquaintance, Donald Fulmer, created an email course on learning to write haiku, which he found (I’m putting words in his mouth here aka interpreting) to be an agreeable form of self-expression. But no matter how familiar the form of haiku became to him, I doubt his brain ever got to the point of substituting haiku for narrative. (Perhaps he’ll read this and let us know.)

We Are A Work in Progress

We could develop our own poetic language. It’s not a bad idea. It’s another way—like art or music—to capture and/or express our experience. But it won’t replace our inner narrative.

In addition to the inherent difficulty of attempting to craft our experience into a poetic form, there’s another problem, which is that poems are finished things. I once wrote a poem about that. I said that writing poetry was like reconstructing myself on paper, that I was resetting the words in my sentences like the bones in my body. It can be laborious, but sometimes necessary.

Our narrative, however, is not finished until we die; and it is always changing and can always be changed.

Now if I could capture my life à la the poetry of Allen Ginsberg, I might reconsider my position. Here’s the first stanza of A Supermarket in California, free verse written in 1955 and published in Howl and Other Poems in 1956.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

Later he asks:

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour.

I ask myself.

Avoiding “Disliking” Neurochemicals
Won’t Get You Anywhere

August 25, 2024 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

Range: the extent or scope of something.

Imagine a pendulum swinging between two states: feeling good and feeling bad. When we experience liking (or “here and now”) neurochemicals, the pendulum swings in one direction. When we experience disliking neurochemicals, the pendulum swings in the other direction. The range of motion between the two states represents the extent of our emotional range.

Everything everywhere is in motion all the time, so the pendulum is never completely still. But the closer to equilibrium it is, the milder the emotional response.

Liking neurochemicals, if you recall, include serotonin, oxytocin, endorphins and other endogenous opioids, and endocannabinoids. These are the sources of pleasure (but not desire). The brain experiences them as rewarding, so anything—whether a substance, an activity, a situation, or a person—that elicits these neurochemicals will cause the brain to approach.

Disliking neurochemicals, also known as stress neurochemicals, include adrenaline, norepinephrine, and cortisol. These are sources of displeasure, pain, or stress that drive us to avoid or move away from whatever appears to be causing their release.

The brain is always trying to determine whether something is a potential threat, which we want to avoid or move away from, or a potential reward, which we want to approach or move toward.

The purpose of liking neurochemicals is to encourage us to want to do or consume or participate in activities that will enhance our chances of survival—at least in terms of how the brain has been trained to perceive them. Likewise, the purpose of disliking neurochemicals is to keep us away from situations or substances or actions that might decrease our chances of survival. Neurochemicals—and the emotional responses they evoke—are an important part of this process. It’s highly desirable, to put it mildly, for us to get agitated enough to get ourselves out of harm’s way. Being sedate about potential threats is not a good survival strategy.

But most of us tend not to face life-threatening situations on a regular basis. Keeping that in mind, there are two aspects, equally important, about the way we respond to liking and disliking neurochemicals that affect our ability to create transformational change and even our enjoyment of being alive.

Assess the Brain’s Interpretations

The emotions we experience are a result of our brain’s interpretation of things (“things” in this case being situations, events, etc.). We react emotionally to our interpretations, not to the events or situations. We can’t react to an event or situation before the brain has interpreted it because it is the brain that supplies the meaning. In order to do that, it uses the mental model of the world it has constructed over the course of our life. Our mental models are not always accurate, so the interpretations we’re responding to are also not always accurate.

As a result, we may need to assess some of our interpretations rather than taking them at face value. This requires practice because by the time we’re consciously aware of how our brain has interpreted something the interpretation is experienced as fact and an action is either already in progress or has been taken.

Our experience is not an accurate reflection of reality. Being able to distinguish interpretations from events and situations—and recognizing that our emotional responses are based on interpretations not on facts—is an essential part of the process of creating change. We can’t affect the choices our brain makes moment-to-moment. We can affect future choices, but only if we do more than just go along for the ride our liking and disliking neurochemicals take us on.

Expand the Range of the Emotional Pendulum

The narrower the range of our emotional pendulum, the quicker our brain will be to respond to disliking, and the quicker it will be to come up with an action to move us away from those feelings right now. I’m referring to the impulses that lead to short-term pleasure but long-term dissatisfaction. Have a glass of wine, says the brain. You’ll feel better. Or buy something. Better yet buy several somethings. Binge watch that show you like on HBO. Have some ice cream. In fact, have all the ice cream!

The more sensitive one is to disliking neurochemicals, the harder it will be to resist the reflexive urge to squash them. Eating all the ice cream may seem like just the thing, at least in the moment. Never mind the many contraindications for eating all the ice cream, including the fact that doing so will probably lead to feeling even worse afterward. And feeling worse will lead to wondering why we engage in these counterproductive behaviors when we know better.

You do it, I do it, we all do it because that’s what the brain learned to do in the Pleistocene when we didn’t have refined sugar and HBO and shopping malls or the internet, so we wouldn’t have had access to the many different sources of immediate gratification that are available to us now. That’s one issue.

Another issue is that we tend to find it much easier to eat all the ice cream than to allow ourselves to experience the discontent or dissatisfaction. That keeps us from assessing whether or not there’s a response, a behavior, or a situation we might want to change. Eating all the ice cream maintains the vicious, unreflective cycle and keeps us stuck, at the effect of those liking and disliking neurochemicals.

If we can’t muster the energy to identify and pursue what we want, and if we haven’t built the muscle that allows us to tolerate disliking long enough to figure out what we want to change, all that’s left is swinging back and forth, back and forth, never really going anywhere.

It’s important to recognize that moving away from disliking is purely reactive and not the same as actively or intentionally moving toward liking. Many people not only don’t know what they want, they also don’t know what they like. When that’s the case, the disliking or stress neurochemicals become the dominant set of neurochemicals. The brain focuses on detecting and avoiding threats rather than on identifying and seeking rewards. This doesn’t lead to the minimization of threats or discomfort, however, but to the amplification of them.

Furthermore, stress in and of itself isn’t necessarily negative or bad. Some stress is good for us. If we want to create a satisfying and meaningful life, we must be willing and able to tolerate both ferocious dissatisfaction on one end of the pendulum and intense joy on the other end. That’s what allows us to play full out in enthusiastic pursuit of our aspirations and our desired outcomes.

This post is part of a series on neurotransmitters that both affect our behavior and are affected by our behavior.

Good Stress vs. Bad Stress

Pleasure Is Transient
but Wanting Persists

July 16, 2024 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

Liking is the pleasure you experience from something. The source of that pleasure is the liking—or Here and Now—neurochemicals released in your brain: serotonin, oxytocin, endorphins and other endogenous opioids, and endocannabinoids. The same pleasure-generating areas in the brain are activated for all pleasures, from gustatory and sensual to musical, artistic, and altruistic.

Life’s intense pleasures are less frequent and less sustained than intense desires. —Dr. Kent Berridge, University of Michigan

Because the pleasure circuit is considerably smaller and far more fragile than the “wanting system,” it can be elusive; more importantly, it is always transient. Liking something doesn’t always motivate you to go after it. Dopamine is what generates motivation, so you also need to want what you like.

We often think of desire and the objects of our desire as inseparable. We think it is the indulgence itself—the luscious ice cream, the rush of nicotine, or the flood of coins from a slot machine—that motivates us. To a greater extent, however, it is the expectation of these rewards, the luxurious anticipation of them, that fires up our brains and compels us to dig in, take a drag, or place another bet. —Chris Berdik, Mind over Mind

While liking (pleasure) and wanting (desire) are separate systems, wanting actually enhances and, in a sense, prolongs liking. It’s said that the brain likes to want because it releases liking neurochemicals along with dopamine. On the other hand, instant gratification quickly dissipates pleasure. That’s how you end up on the hedonic treadmill where you are continually in pursuit of more and more of the things or experiences that initially brought you pleasure in an attempt to maintain a steady state of pleasant feelings.

When you work toward a reward and earn it, rather than simply treating yourself to it because you can, you actually enhance your enjoyment of it. But you have to be intentional about it. You have to make a connection between your actions and the reward so your brain gets the message.

Dopamine is a powerful motivator. It carries signals for both rewards and for the muscle movements needed to go out and get them. So when dopamine levels are diminished, you will still like what you like, but you will be less inclined to take action to get it. And when dopamine levels are elevated, you will be more inclined to take action to get something, whether or not you actually like it.

Liking and wanting usually do work together in your brain, but when they become uncoupled, you can want something without liking it. And according to Stanford University researchers, if you don’t get something you want, you desire it more while liking it less.

If you don’t clearly identify what you want—and determine how you’re going to get it—you’re liable to end up going along for the ride of getting what your brain wants. What you want needs to be compelling enough to you to activate the amygdala, thus creating a sense of urgency. Amygdala activation is critical in getting you to act on your desires. It settles down when you receive or achieve them.

In the case of long-term goals, once you’ve identified a reward and begin taking steps toward it, your brain gradually and steadily releases increasing bursts of dopamine the closer you get to the reward. And the bigger the reward (the more your brain craves it), the more dopamine will be released.

Reward systems integrate liking, wanting, and learning. Our pleasures help us learn and change our behavior, and what we learn alters the pleasure we experience. Our reward system has a built-in flexibility in which cognitive and pleasure systems interact and modulate each other. Anything can be a source of pleasure as long as it taps into reward systems embedded in our brains. –Anjan Chaterjee, author of The Aesthetic Brain

Wanting has a purpose. It is critical to any focused effort. It motivates you to pursue both long-term and short-term goals. But, as Chris Berdick says, once that goal’s been achieved, wanting moves along.

Unsurprisingly, liking neurochemicals have a close relationship with stress neurochemicals—adrenaline, norepinephrine, cortisol, etc.—which I also call disliking neurochemicals. I’ll talk about how that relationship can hamper our ability to create change next time.