Feng Shui and Freud

Have you ever had sleepless nights asking yourself, Who am I? Why am I here? What’s the meaning of life? Am I feng le? If you are one of those people who has faced the prospect of being disowned if not married by age 30; instructed to turn over half of your gongzi to your laoba and laoma or have a wife who talks your ears off and makes you wish you could drown in your xiaolongtang noodles, you’re not nuts—you’re just Shanghainese. If you told an American mental health, or “shenghuo jiaolian”, of the trials you’ve traversed, he would likely have you committed for life.

There you lie on the therapist’s couch lamenting about your mother. A tale as old as the Longhua Pagoda. Americans like me get it—we’ve got nagging mothers too—but have you been on ten blind dates before lunch, each one with voices like erhu strings at full voice interrigating you about your yuexin? And all the while, you are expected to soldier on grinning like an automaton through your 996 job. The beloved parents, that couple who bestowed upon you the breath of life, steadily pick your pockets for 50% of your earnings like they’re running a hutong heist. If you told such tales to an American shrink, he would likely hurl himself—and his couch—out the nearest window. These Shanghai life coaches don’t need medical degrees, they need a black belt in hostage negotiation.

Actually, the Chinese life coaches are hardly comparable to their western counterparts. Many times they seem to feel the need to provide extra services to the unique challenges of a young professional. Western psychological remedies cannot help the extremely serious conditions found here. The Shanghainese “life coach” must provide a service further! Out comes the face-reading, the astrology and the feng shui. He’ll diagnose your Oedipus complex and your Rooster sign at the same time.

Then there’s the patient who wants a happiness fangzi. He approaches his mental health treatment much like he would an order of soup dumplings. They want the recipe to shut up their huanglianpo woman. “Write it down, Doctor! How many grams of listening? How many minutes of apology?” And let’s not even start with the corporations who hire these “coaches” to see which of their employees is about to crack from the pressure. It’s not therapy, it’s zhihui of the human soul.

And so dear reader, here’s the zhendao: If you’re lying awake at night in Pudong wondering if you’ve got bianfu in your brain, let me put your mind at ease—you do. Congratulations! It’s the only sane response to this glorious city. But, of course, the real fengzi, the truly deranged reprobates are those who never question their existence, sleepwalking from the womb to office to grave without a moment's self-reflection. They’re the real lunatics, and they should be forced to wear a warning sign. A large hat, perhaps.

Spend less time having a stranger read the bumps on your head and more time reading your own mind. Especially if your childhood nanny was a tiger momma or your current babe is a tiger ... of the laohu variety.