I've been digging into this topic for a while now. Especially when it comes to things that directly affect my life, I want to know what the experts say, how much of it I actually understand, and where I stand in my own experience. That's why I decided to write this piece—I feel like I have a few things to say about defense mechanisms. Because I believe one of my fundamental traits is the set of defense mechanisms I've built up over the years, which I thought was almost impenetrable.
Whenever I decide to build a wall—around an issue, toward someone, or even toward myself, for whatever reason—I throw my whole self into figuring out how to build it best. If I've truly committed to that wall, I work hard to make sure nothing can ever get over it.
Whenever I feel like one of those walls has been breached, I turn to Beckett:
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
Most people see that quote as motivation to keep chasing success. I use it when I'm rebuilding my walls. If a crack appears, I immediately ask, "Where did it go wrong?" and start building an even stronger one. I don't hold back from doing whatever it takes. Sure, I might still be defeated; the wall might still come down. But this time I'll fail better—and that's fine by me. At least I'm trying.
So what does this habit actually do to my life? Am I really protecting myself, or am I handing the keys to an inescapable prison over to its jailer with my own hands?
Personally, I've never been the type to pretend I'm flawless. I know I'm human—I make mistakes, I learn from them, and as long as I can recognize them, I believe I can keep moving forward. That said, I've always thought defense mechanisms are necessary. We should protect ourselves as well as we can; in a world full of "lunatics," I can't let anyone steal pieces of my life. But right here lies a very thin line…
This is, in fact, where the paradox starts. What begins as a way to shield us from unnecessary drama—rationalization—eventually builds immunity not just to pain, but to joy and excitement too. The wall gets so thick that sunlight barely trickles in, or doesn't get in at all. The fortress that was supposed to protect me slowly turns into a damp, moldy cell.
Not long ago, someone told me, "You're really hard to talk to sometimes." My first reaction was neither anger nor sadness. The only thing that crossed my mind was: "Are they right or not?" I reviewed the file, closed it, moved on. But as time passed, I realized I had felt absolutely nothing in that moment. No anger, no relief. Just an analysis process. That's when I understood where rationalization had taken me—the system I'd built to keep pain out was keeping everything else out too.
These are precisely the paradoxes explained by the theories Sigmund Freud laid the groundwork for and that his daughter Anna Freud systematized in her book The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense. Anna Freud describes ten primary defense mechanisms the ego uses to escape anxiety. One of the most familiar to all of us is probably projection: instead of accepting our own flaws or mistakes, we see them in someone else and blame them. When a friend seems distant, rather than noticing that we've pulled away ourselves, we say, "They've always been cold anyway," and shift the responsibility onto them. It feels good in the moment, but over time, it damages our relationships and leaves us more isolated.
This is where we see how defense mechanisms can initially serve as a protective shield in the short term and become restraining chains in the long term. There are others too—repression, denial, displacement. In the moment, they all feel like lifesavers. The ego hides our fragile selves from shame or guilt. But when these patterns become habitual, they don't just keep external dangers out—they also block the joy and connections inside.
Yet we need to make an important distinction here: defense mechanisms aren't only "maladaptive" (harmful in the long run). There are "adaptive" ones, too. Even the maladaptive ones can be genuinely lifesaving when used in the right dose. It depends a lot on how we look at life. Sublimation, for instance, is an adaptive mechanism: instead of expressing anger or aggression destructively, we channel it into art, sport, or some productive pursuit. A friend of mine worked through a major disappointment by painting; as he poured his pain onto the canvas, he expressed himself and ended up creating beautiful work. Another friend used to say that writing healed him.
But someone else in the same situation might go maladaptive—displacing their anger by yelling at the first driver who cuts them off in traffic or snapping at whoever feels safe to target. It releases tension for an instant, but it doesn't solve anything and only further damages relationships and peace of mind.
In the end, defense mechanisms are neither purely protective knights nor cruel dungeon masters. They take shape based on how much authority we give them. If we use them with awareness—knowing why we're building that wall—they keep us standing. But if we hand over the reins and let them run on autopilot, we get lost in Freud's complex theories and watch helplessly as the many-headed monster Anna described devours us piece by piece.
So how do we build that awareness? The first step is simple: observe our defense mechanisms without judgment. When we start raising a wall, pause and ask: "Is this wall really protecting me from what's outside, or is it imprisoning my own feelings?" Trying to name the mechanism out loud—or on paper—is already a crack in the wall. Maybe not enough to walk through. But enough to remember the door exists. It's also possible to consciously shift toward adaptive mechanisms: channeling anger into sublimation instead of repression, bringing in humor, or embracing Beckett's "fail better" mindset to crack the door open a little.
While we still hold the key to our own dungeon, stepping outside occasionally—despite all the lunatics out there—to take a clean breath of air is far better than rotting behind the walls we built ourselves. And as long as the key is in our hand, it's entirely possible to relieve that inner "dungeon master" of its duties.