- 04
- June
- 2025
In a society fixated on performance and self-control, psychoanalysis approaches screen addiction not as something to eliminate, but as a symptom of deeper personal distress.
The underlying logic of “mindset therapy” is the reinforcement of the self. It urges individuals to push their limits, reinvent themselves, “raise their vibration” – as if the essence of psychic life were a relentless pursuit of performance. But for Freud and Lacan, desire is never aligned or resolved. It remains blocked, unstable, fraught with tension. Desire cannot be summoned at will; it reveals itself through symptoms, dreams, slips and failures – sometimes even through drifting.
By glorifying self-control, this form of therapy – like other approaches derived from CBT – promotes a kind of self-violence. Individuals are pressured to stay positive, succeed, and suppress “negative thoughts.” Suffering is recast as a personal failure, a flaw in one’s mindset. While psychoanalysis creates space for the expression of pain, “mindset therapy” shifts the burden of guilt onto those who feel it.
“Mindset therapy” is not merely psychological; it veers into a kind of neoliberal spirituality, blending New Age tropes, esotericism, enlightenment, “ultimate awakening,” and similar beliefs. It promises abundance and inner peace – but only if one adheres to a strict, ritualized protocol. It markets ready-made meaning, packaged for Instagram and TikTok, through inspirational quotes and viral videos. Yet this meaning doesn’t arise from the individual; it’s imposed as a model to follow. It’s not a personal journey of reflection, but a demand to conform to a commercial ideal.
How does psychoanalysis understand the subtle shift from use to abuse, from impulse to compulsion, from pleasure to dependence? It offers no ready-made answers, no quick fixes. Rather than proposing solutions, it opens a space for the subject to emerge. It imposes neither repression nor moral judgment. It doesn’t promise success, but invites us to confront the inescapable experience of lack – and to craft a narrative that makes room for its fractures. Psychoanalysis doesn’t “cure” the symptom; it interrogates it, and transforms it into speech.
From a psychoanalytic perspective, symptoms – like screen addiction – are seen as expressions of deeper, unresolved psychic conflicts, often rooted in childhood. Addressing only surface behaviors without exploring the underlying drives risks symptom substitution: one issue simply replaces another through a partial, superficial fix. This is why psychoanalysis may offer a more enduring resolution – by engaging with the unconscious drives and inner tensions that give rise to compulsive behavior.
What we’re dealing with is compulsion: a behavior the individual feels driven to perform, often while recognizing it as excessive. “I can’t help it,” people say, or “It’s out of my hands.” This sense of being compelled to act, without real control, is the hallmark of compulsion. It’s what we observe in obsessive neurosis, where ritualized behaviors are repeated to soothe underlying anxiety. Freud described this phenomenon as “repetition compulsion” – an unconscious drive to relive traumatic events or their equivalents, whether literally or symbolically. Repetition can take many forms: reenacting past dynamics in present relationships, recurring dreams, or the repeated pursuit of familiar scenarios. Though initially linked to trauma, repetition compulsion reveals a broader psychic mechanism – the pull toward familiar patterns, even when they bring suffering. At its core, this repetition reflects an unconscious effort to master the anxiety bound up with those earlier experiences.
Jacques Lacan described “repetition automatism” as linked to the concept of jouissance – a kind of excessive, often disruptive pleasure. He explained that compulsion arises from a fundamental absence in how the subject symbolically structures reality, leading to repeated attempts to fill an unbridgeable void. This process is closely connected to how we use language and symbols to make sense of the world. Ultimately, repetition compulsion is tied to the death drive and often shows up as self-destructive behavior. However, when viewed as a defense against anxiety or trauma, it can also be seen as the subject’s way of managing psychic distress. From this perspective, the focus is on the ego’s protective role – shielding the subject from overwhelming emotions or thoughts.
Excessive screen use can be seen as a modern form of repetition compulsion – an unconscious way to escape painful realities, anxiety, or deeper emotional distress. The methods promoted by so-called “mindset therapy” often ignore the role of the unconscious mind, which resists attempts to cut back on screen time as a way to protect the ego. By focusing only on mindset, this approach risks upsetting the individual’s fragile mental balance.
In response to popular positive-thinking slogans like “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” “You’re your own biggest obstacle,” and “Change your thoughts, change your life,” psychoanalysis offers a tougher, clearer, and more human approach. It doesn’t promise instant well-being but shows that well-being is something you build by making sense of your experience. Instead of seeing symptoms as problems to fix, psychoanalysis treats them as signals to understand. Rather than trying to fix themselves, people learn to explore and make sense of what they’re going through.
In a world that constantly pushes us to improve, speed up, and keep measuring ourselves, psychoanalysis stands as one of the few places that resist this pressure. It reminds us that a person isn’t defined by success, but by their ability to live with their own sense of lack. It teaches that life isn’t about overcoming pain, but about recognizing and naming it. True healing – unlike today’s constant demands – starts when we accept that total control is impossible.
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