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🌀⚔️💫 IPA/FLŽ 🌀⚔️💫

International Psychoanalysis Association / Freudian-Lacanian-Žižekian
IPA/FLŽ — A New Psychoanalytic Frontline

(link, Turkish, German, IPA/FLŽ: Strategy for Combating Mediatized Syndromes)

This strategy report offers psychotherapists a rich, culturally informed framework for addressing the emerging psychological challenges of our digital age. It introduces the concept of mediatized syndromes—disturbances shaped by screen culture, algorithmic influence, and cinematic imagery—and urges clinicians to consider how media environments infiltrate the unconscious. Drawing from psychoanalytic theory, it outlines how desire, identity, and symptom formation are increasingly entangled with visual spectacle and digital narratives. The report provides both deep theoretical insights and practical tools for therapeutic intervention, aiming to help practitioners restore space for symbolic reflection, vulnerability, and authentic desire amid an overstimulated culture.

Introduction: Reclaiming the Unconscious in a Mediatized Age

In today’s world, the screen has evolved far beyond a mere communication tool – it is now a dominant ideological apparatus shaping our very desires and fears. Media culture, spanning cinema, television, and social networks, has penetrated into the deepest layers of the psyche, directly reconstructing unconscious processes that Freud once mapped through dreams and slips. Where Freud described the “royal road” of the dream and Lacan the “symbolic gap” of language, we now face an algorithmic and cinematic colonization of those spaces. This report, building on the initial IPA/FLŽ strategy document, calls for a comprehensive psychoanalytic intervention against what we term mediatized syndromes – the perverse psychological formations arising from our immersion in screen-driven culture. It is an urgent manifesto for analysis-oriented psychotherapists, cultural critics, and activists to reclaim the unconscious from the clutches of media’s spectacle and algorithmic control.

Mediatized syndromes refer to the new array of psychological disturbances and personality formations cultivated by continuous exposure to media images and narratives. Under the mediatized regime, the unconscious is no longer given space to speak through symbols or absence; instead, it is bombarded and “re-programmed” by externally imposed images and ready-made fantasies. In effect, the media acts as a colonial force on the psyche, aestheticizing symptoms, normalizing constant exposure, and commodifying even our most intimate fantasies. What was once the private realm of dreams and desires has been occupied by the public stage of screens, causing profound effects on mental health at both individual and collective levels.

Crucially, this strategy report zeroes in on two intertwined cultural forces that have been weaponized in the mediatized age: cinematic culture and feminism. Cinema – the 20th century’s most influential art form – has long functioned as an ideological machine, teaching us how to desire and what to believe is normal. Feminism – a movement for women’s emancipation – has in recent decades been appropriated and repackaged by media in ways that sometimes reinforce the very oppressions it sought to eliminate. Together, the misuse of cinematic imagery and the co-opting of feminist rhetoric have given rise to what this report will describe as perverse and pathogenic formations such as the “Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Woman” (PNPW) syndrome. These formations are “perverse” in the psychoanalytic sense – structured around a disavowal of reality and a fetishistic attachment to an image – and “pathogenic” in that they actively generate emotional suffering, relational conflict, and identity disturbances.

Our approach is contextual and multidimensional. We will trace the historical evolution of cinema as an ideological apparatus, showing how the classical cinematic experience positioned the spectator’s gaze and desire in specific ways that served power structures. We will examine how the rise of aestheticism and hyperreal imagery – from Hollywood’s glamour to Instagram’s filters – tends to suppress symbolic processing, short-circuiting the psyche’s ability to work through conflicts via symbols and language. We will interrogate the dynamics of perversion and voyeurism, illustrating how the “male gaze” and the pleasures of looking have been amplified in digital culture, blurring the line between observer and participant and creating a “society of the spectacle” where life is led as performance. Within this, we tackle the false sanctity of digital feminism – how ostensible messages of empowerment can mask new forms of control and narcissism. Central to this is an in-depth analysis of the ideology of the “Religion of the Phallic Woman”, a concept drawn from recent psychoanalytic cultural critiques. This bizarre “religion” is a modern mythology in which the woman is imagined as possessing the phallus (the symbolic signifier of power and wholeness), an ideology that underpins certain cinematic tropes and social media personas. The report will show how phallic imagery and symptomatic exposure in media contribute to the making of the Phallic Woman fantasy, and how this fantasy, in turn, fosters narcissistic and pathological outcomes like PNPW that clinicians are increasingly encountering.

On the clinical and activist front, this report balances theoretical insight, cultural critique, and practical strategy. It speaks to the psychoanalytic activist who sees therapy not only as treating individual symptoms but as engaging in a broader social struggle. It also speaks to the clinician seeking concrete tools to recognize when a patient’s unconscious has been “hijacked” by cinematic narratives or algorithmic feedback loops. We will propose structural strategies – from public psychoeducation and media literacy campaigns to advocating for algorithmic transparency – aimed at disrupting the hold of these mediatized illusions. Additionally, we offer case-informed approaches for therapists: ways to diagnose the imprint of the “cinematic unconscious” in patients’ speech and behavior, and techniques to disrupt toxic media internalizations within the therapeutic process.

Above all, we insist that the defense of the unconscious is a collective project. Just as Freud and his contemporaries grappled with the repressive Victorian culture of their time, we must now grapple with a far more insidious form of repression: a culture that does not repress by silence, but by flooding every void with images and noise. The ultimate goal of this strategy is to restore a space for lack, silence, and symbolic reflection in an era that denies it – in short, to allow desire to speak in its own voice again. Psychoanalysis, with its legacy of interrogating dreams, myths, and slips of tongue, is uniquely equipped to lead this charge. By the end of this report, the reader will have a historically informed, theoretically rich, and practically applicable framework for combating mediatized syndromes, turning the tide from a pathology of spectacle to a revolution of the unconscious.

I. The Cinematic Apparatus: A Historical Ideological Perspective

Cinema has often been called a dream factory, but it is equally a belief factory – a powerful ideological state apparatus (to use Louis Althusser’s term) that from its early days was harnessed to shape societal norms and identities. From the very birth of film in the late 19th century, the cinematic experience was designed to immerse the spectator in an illusory reality, often in line with prevailing power structures. In the darkened theater, the viewer is transfixed by the beam of the projector – a scenario not unlike Plato’s cave allegory, where captive onlookers take shadows for reality. Film theorist Jean-Louis Baudry famously argued that the technical setup of cinema (the camera, the projector, the dark theatre) works to position the spectator as an all-seeing eye while simultaneously hiding the apparatus itself, thereby fostering ideological illusion. In his words, the “basic cinematographic apparatus” has ideological effects insofar as it naturalizes the viewer’s perspective – we forget the camera and identify with the “subject” position offered by the film, one aligned with certain ideological assumptions.

Historically, regimes quickly recognized cinema’s propagandistic power. During the 1920s and 1930s, totalitarian movements used film to manufacture consent and fervor. One need only recall Triumph of the Will (1935), Leni Riefenstahl’s infamous Nazi propaganda film, which through its grandiose aesthetics and choreographed masses presented an irresistible image of unity and power. Here, cinema did not just reflect an ideology – it constituted one, offering viewers the pleasure of losing themselves in a larger nationalistic or heroic narrative. The spectator’s unconscious was being inscribed with associations (authority with beauty, the leader with the sun, etc.), far more effectively than any overt argument could do. In the Western democracies, too, Hollywood’s Golden Age (1930s–1950s) produced countless films reinforcing the “American Dream” and traditional gender roles: the heroic male savior, the virtuous woman waiting to be saved or, alternately, the dangerous femme fatale who must be contained. While marketed as harmless entertainment, such films functioned as “ideological machines”, perpetuating norms around family, patriotism, and capitalism. As film scholar Guy Debord later observed, in modern society “all that was directly lived has become mere representation” – life itself was being filtered and fed back through images, with cinema at the forefront of this transformation.

A key aspect of cinema’s ideological function lies in the way it organizes the gaze – that is, who gets to look at whom, and with what power. Classic Hollywood cinema was overwhelmingly structured around a male point of view, a phenomenon later theorized as the male gaze. Film theorist Laura Mulvey’s seminal 1975 essay pointed out that mainstream cinema positions the audience to look at female characters as objects of visual pleasure – “to-be-looked-at-ness” was essentially coded into the role of women on screen. The camera often adopts the perspective of a heterosexual male protagonist (or an implicit male spectator), lingering on the female form, aligning viewers with a voyeuristic appreciation of women’s bodies. This dynamic served an ideological end: it subtly taught audiences that men are the active subjects (the ones who look, pursue, decide) and women are passive objects (the ones who are looked at and evaluated). Even when women were portrayed as love interests or heroines, they were often framed in ways that subordinated their agency to how they appeared to men. In short, cinema as an apparatus did not merely entertain; it enlisted the unconscious desires of viewers into reinforcing a patriarchal order – all without most people realizing it. The power of film is that it feels natural to the viewer (it’s just a story, just fantasy, we think) even as it is encoding deep assumptions about gender, class, race, and power.

Importantly, cinema’s ideological influence extends beyond content to form. The structure of classic film narratives – with their omniscient editing, seamless continuity, and happy or moralistic endings – inculcated a certain psychic rhythm: conflict arises but is resolved by a hero, order is restored, desires are fulfilled (at least for the good characters). This narrative structure mirrors ideological beliefs that the world is ultimately just and that individuals (usually straight white men in early Hollywood) can and should control their destinies and society. Psychoanalysts have noted that such tidy narratives can serve as fantasies that cover over the Real – i.e. the messy, unresolved nature of actual human desires and social conflicts. The classical movie gives a kind of imaginary closure that reality lacks. In doing so, it may offer comfort, but also an escape from confronting structural injustices or inner contradictions. It is telling, for instance, that during the Great Depression and post-WWII anxieties, Hollywood pumped out optimistic musicals, romances, and Westerns where the good guys always won. The implicit ideological message: trust the system, uphold the existing order, your dreams will come true if you conform to the role set out for you. In this way, the cinema functioned historically as what we can call an Ideological Apparatus of Imagery – a machine that produces visual narratives to stabilize the social symbolic order.

Yet even as cinema enthralled the masses, it also introduced a new form of collective unconscious – the cinematic unconscious. Generations have grown up with film images as some of their earliest and most potent memories. Characters, scenes, and dialogue from movies become imprinted in the psyche, sometimes more vividly than one’s own life events. A person might remember the first time they saw Dorothy step into the Technicolor world of Oz, or when Darth Vader revealed his parentage, or when Rose let Jack sink into the ocean’s depths – these moments can acquire a mythic status in the personal unconscious, akin to how ancient myths lived in the psyche of earlier civilizations. The danger, however, is that unlike personal dreams or organic cultural myths, these cinematic images are mass-produced and externally imposed. They don’t arise from the individual’s unconscious; they invade it. As we’ll explore, by the time we reach the 21st century, this invasion becomes so pervasive through digital media that it challenges the very capacity of individuals to generate their own symbols and meanings.

II. The Gaze and Perversion: Voyeurism in Cinema and Beyond

One of the most insidious ways cinema (and by extension today’s media) impacts the psyche is through what psychoanalysis calls scopophilia – the drive for pleasure in looking. Sigmund Freud identified voyeurism, the erotic pleasure of watching others while remaining unseen, as a component of infantile sexuality and perversion. Cinema elevated scopophilia to a mass phenomenon: millions of people sit in the dark, gazing at lives that are not theirs, deriving pleasure, fear, and catharsis through visual voyeurism. This structure is inherently voyeuristic – the audience has access to characters’ intimate moments while the characters (on screen) do not see the audience. Laura Mulvey noted that film satisfies the “primordial wish for pleasurable looking” in a controlled, socially sanctioned way. In the psychoanalytic sense, it even fulfills a perverse fantasy: the viewer can look without limits, without being caught, and with the world arranged to cater to their gaze.

In classic cinema, this voyeuristic pleasure often took a sadistic form (in the Freudian sense of exerting power over the viewed object): the viewer, aligned with the camera and typically a male protagonist, could investigate the female character, objectify her, even metaphorically punish or save her, all through how the film’s gaze was structured. Mulvey distinguishes between voyeuristic and fetishistic modes of looking in film. Voyeuristic looking involves a controlling gaze that finds pleasure in asserting dominance (e.g. the narrative often “disciplines” the unruly or overly sexual woman character by the end, reasserting control over her). Fetishistic looking, on the other hand, involves overvaluing a part of the image to allay castration anxiety – for instance, focusing on the glamorous beauty of the actress in such a way that she is elevated to a reassuring idol, a perfect image that denies any lack or imperfection. Both modes serve to neutralize the threat that female sexuality or independence might pose to the (male) viewer: either by mastering it (voyeurism with a narrative punishment/rescue arc) or by transforming the woman into a flawless, remote object of beauty (fetishism).

Crucially, the dynamic of the gaze extends beyond gender. Cinema taught all of us – men and women alike – to derive enjoyment from watching lives as spectacle. Voyeurism became an everyday pastime: we experience emotional highs and lows through characters on a screen, while our own lives often remain constrained. This safe distance is part of the allure. However, it plants a seed of a perverse logic in the psyche: that to feel alive, one must be either watching or watched. Indeed, being watched has become an object of desire in our era, as we will discuss later (the rise of social media “influencers” and constant self-display). But first, consider how cinema normalized a kind of one-sided intimacy. For example, Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) is a literal allegory of cinematic voyeurism – a man with a camera watches the private lives of neighbors from afar, getting drawn into their dramas. Hitchcock cleverly implicates the audience: as we watch James Stewart watching others, we become aware of our own voyeurism. The thrill we get from it – and the anxiety when the gaze is about to be returned (as when a neighbor almost catches Stewart’s character watching) – reveals the double-edged nature of this pleasure. It is enjoyable, yet tinged with guilt and the fear of exposure.

Fast-forward to the 21st century, and the voyeuristic structure has exploded exponentially. Reality TV, for instance, turned ordinary people’s private moments into entertainment, and viewers lapped it up, blurring the line between reality and performance. Shows like Big Brother or Keeping Up with the Kardashians invite audiences into the bedroom, the fights, the tears of real people (or semi-scripted personas) as if everything is a spectacle. This extends the logic of cinema’s gaze: now life itself is staged for voyeuristic consumption. Psychoanalytically, one could argue this is a form of socially sanctioned perversion – a ritualized arrangement where exhibitionism and voyeurism feed into each other. The participants exhibit their lives; the viewers consume them; both sides derive a certain jouissance (enjoyment) from this exchange that bypasses more genuine intersubjective relations.

Moreover, consider the Internet and algorithmic platforms that have created a “society of the spectacle” on steroids. In 1967, Debord spoke of a world where “the spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relationship among people mediated by images”. That is truer now than ever. On social media, everyone simultaneously is a voyeur and an exhibitionist – we scroll through endless feeds of others’ carefully curated lives, while curating our own image for others to see. The gaze has become decentralized and internalized. We carry the voyeur within us (endlessly checking, comparing, desiring through the screen) and also the anxious performer within us (feeling that pressure to be seen, to get likes, to appear happy and successful in images). This is what the IPA/FLŽ strategy document identified as “Gaze Syndrome,” a pathogen of the spectacle society: “Today, the gaze is no longer merely seeing – it means desiring, comparing, evaluating, and surveilling… Being watched is not just a threat for today’s subject; it is an object of desire”. In other words, the voyeuristic logic has colonized the subject’s own sense of self. The external gaze (camera, audience) has been absorbed as an internal imperative. People begin to view themselves as if from the outside, constructing an identity that will look good on the screen of another’s phone. This is a profound psychological shift: the superego (the internalized conscience or law) in some ways is replaced by what we might call an internalized camera lens – a constant imagining of how one is being perceived, which guides behavior.

From a clinical perspective, this voyeuristic and image-saturated environment fosters perversion in the psychoanalytic sense – not necessarily in terms of sexual deviance, but as a structural stance toward reality. In classical Freudian terms, perversion involves a disavowal: “I know this is just an image, but nevertheless I believe in it”. The voyeur knows on some level that the Instagram influencer’s life, or the movie star’s persona, or the adult film’s scenario, is staged and not “real” – yet part of the psyche treats it as real enough to desire and emulate. We see a proliferation of what could be described as everyday perversions: people engaging with images or online avatars as if they were real people, or investing more libido (mental energy) in fictional narratives (binge-watching series for days, living in fan-fiction communities) than in their own lived relationships. This is not to morally judge those individuals – indeed, the media systems are designed to make this the path of least resistance for desire. But clinically, we often find a kind of split in patients influenced by these syndromes: a split between the “image-self” (the self that lives for the gaze of the other, curates its look, possibly appearing grandiose or ultra-confident) and the “real-self” (often an anxious, empty, or depressed core that feels unknown and unfulfilled).

A stark illustration of how far the voyeuristic fantasy can go is the emergence of the so-called “Truman Show Delusion.” In the 2000s, psychiatrists reported cases of individuals who became convinced their lives were a reality TV show, constantly observed by cameras and audiences, much like the protagonist of the film The Truman Show (1998). One psychiatrist, Dr. Joel Gold, recounted patients who believed “cameras [were] everywhere at all times” and that even their family and friends were actors reading from a script. Some patients initially felt excitement at this imagined fame – thinking they were secretly the most important person on Earth being watched by millions – which shows how seductive the desire to be watched can be. Invariably, though, this turned to terror and paranoia, as the delusion deepened the sense that one had no privacy and no authentic relationships (everyone was perceived as faking it as part of the show). This delusion did not exist in clinical literature before the advent of global reality TV and internet culture. It is a clear example of a cultural syndrome – a pathology that articulates the themes of its cultural context. The Truman Show delusion reveals the twin fantasies at play: on one side, the wish to be an omnipotent voyeur with total knowledge (the one who watches the show), and on the other, the wish to be the idolized center of attention (the star of the show). Our media environment offers abundant fuel for both sides, and when an individual’s reality testing breaks down, those fantasies can literally become their lived delusion.

While most people do not develop full psychosis like that, many subclinical manifestations of the same dynamics are rampant. For instance, consider the common feeling of derealization or detachment that some individuals report – as if life isn’t quite real, or they are watching themselves in a movie. Therapists now hear such descriptions often from clients who consume endless video content or live highly online lives. This “cinematic depersonalization” might be thought of as a mild form of the Truman syndrome: life is felt to lack immediacy, everything seems scripted or observed. In analytic terms, the subject has retreated to the position of the gaze, identifying with the spectator point of view, and in doing so, loses the feeling of agency in the moment.

In summary, the voyeuristic structure introduced by cinema has, in the digital era, transformed into a pervasive pathology of the gaze. The pleasure of looking has been interwoven with power and identity: who controls the gaze, who is subjected to it, who craves it. This has direct bearings on mental health – fueling anxiety, body dysmorphia, narcissistic behaviors, and new delusional patterns. As we proceed, we’ll see how this ties into the theme of the phallic image – because the gaze and the phallus (symbolic of power/wholeness) are closely connected in psychoanalytic theory. In the age of Instagram and TikTok, to be visible is to wield a phallic power, and to be invisible is to feel castrated or irrelevant. Thus the simple voyeuristic enjoyment of cinema has morphed into a societal compulsion: “Exist through being watched”. This lays fertile ground for the rise of the Phallic Woman ideology and the distortions of feminism in media, which we turn to next.

III. Aesthetic Totalitarianism and the Hyperreal: The Suppression of the Symbolic

If classical cinema was an ideological apparatus, contemporary media culture represents a kind of totalitarianism of aesthetics. By this we mean that the imperative to create and consume beautiful images and seamless simulations has become all-encompassing, pushing aside the messy, imperfect realities that psychoanalysis calls the symbolic and the real. Aestheticism – the privileging of surface image and sensory pleasure – has reached a fever pitch in the era of high-definition video, CGI in film, and the algorithmically-curated visual feeds of social media. On Instagram, for example, countless users curate their lives into a glossy storyboard of idealized moments: faces smoothed by filters, bodies posed according to flattering angles, everyday settings adjusted with color grading to appear like professional photography. Similarly, mainstream cinema has leaned heavily into hyperrealism – through advanced special effects and editing techniques, films present worlds more exaggeratedly vivid and spectacular than anything in ordinary existence. Superhero blockbusters, for instance, inundate viewers with perfectly choreographed action, impossibly attractive protagonists, and dramatic resolutions that tie up narrative threads with a bow. The cumulative effect of all this visual perfection is a profound suppression of symbolic depth.

In psychoanalytic terms, symbolic processes require a certain gap or absence – they require that not everything be shown or literal, so that the mind can perform its work of interpretation, dreamwork, and metaphor-making. When a child plays with a simple doll or stick, the sparse reality of the toy allows the child’s imagination to symbolize it as a princess or a sword. When an adult faces an ambiguous situation or feeling, they might dream or create art to symbolize those inchoate experiences. But in a hyper-aesthetic culture, by contrast, one is bombarded with pre-packaged imagery that leaves little to the imagination. The screen “shows everything, but allows nothing to speak,” as the IPA/FLŽ manifesto observes. The unconscious, which speaks in symbols and gaps, is effectively shouted down by the ever-present imagery that imposes its meanings. Hyperreality – a term from Baudrillard – describes a state in which simulations (images, signs) don’t just represent reality, but replace it. We encounter the world largely through its mediatized representations, to the point that the distinction between authentic and staged blurs. Disneyland, Baudrillard noted, isn’t just a theme park; it’s a metaphor for how all of America (and by extension, modern culture) has become a Disneyland – a place where the boundary between real and fantasy is deliberately obscured. Social media is a Disneyland of the self; blockbuster cinema is a Disneyland of heroism and romance.

This hyperreal aesthetic regime can be thought of as totalitarian in the sense that it tolerates no alternative vision. It demands constant participation: scroll or be left behind, beautify yourself or become invisible, show your highlights or be irrelevant. It’s reminiscent of what some critics call the “tyranny of positivity” and smooth images. Ugly, painful, or mundane aspects of life are either excluded or re-packaged into palatable content. Even trauma and suffering, when represented, are aestheticized (think of the trend of visually stunning, melancholic films about mental illness, or the romanticizing of struggle on social media via polished storytelling). The original IPA/FLŽ strategy text describes this as the aestheticization of trauma: “traumatic experiences are beautified, dramatized, even made marketable… melancholy, bipolar disorder, borderline behavior – all are configured as visual aesthetic objects… not real pain, but the performance of pain”. For example, a Netflix series might depict a character’s depression with artfully composed scenes of the character staring in the rain to moody music – a sequence that actually makes the depression look beautiful in its sadness. Or on TikTok, one can find montages of people’s psychiatric hospital stays or panic attacks, edited with emotive music and captions, garnering sympathy and likes – thus turning the symptom into a spectacle to be consumed. The danger here is that by aestheticizing these experiences, the symbolic meaning of the symptom gets lost. The image takes over; the cry for help is muted behind the montage.

Jacques Lacan taught that “the symbol manifests the absence of the object” – that is, symbols are what we have in lieu of having the thing itself (be it the mother, the phallus, the ultimate truth). They point to a lack, which is fundamental for desire. But hyperreal aesthetics attempts to abolish lack. Think of the trend in photography and film to use CGI to fill every background with stunning landscapes, or to de-age actors so no wrinkles appear, or even the phenomenon of deepfake technology creating convincingly real images of people who never existed. All these strive to eliminate gaps and flaws – to create a seamless, complete image. The “algorithmic gaze” that curates our feeds similarly pushes us toward an endless stream of images we want to see, smoothing out any interruption with an instant next suggestion. In Lacanian terms, this is a push toward the Imaginary fullness with no Symbolic castration. In the Freudian-Lacanian-Žižekian revolt manifesto, this was described vividly: “In an era where the image dominates desire, where aesthetic perfection replaces symbolic lack… not against beauty, but against its fascist deployment… not against visibility, but against hyper-visibility that abolishes the unconscious”. The fascist deployment of beauty refers to how the regime of perfect images can be as tyrannical as a dictatorship, commanding us to conform to its standards. And hyper-visibility means everything is illuminated with no dark corners for the unconscious to hide or play.

A practical example: Instagram Face – a term coined to describe the strangely uniform look that many people (particularly influencers) end up having due to filters and cosmetic procedures influenced by social media beauty trends. High cheekbones, plump lips, smooth skin, cat-like eyes – the specifics are less important than the fact that everyone starts looking the same, like an ideal composite face. This is aesthetic totalitarianism at work: difference is sanded away. The symbolic value of one’s unique features is lost (every wrinkle could tell a story; every cultural mark could carry heritage) in favor of a homogenized image that signifies “beautiful” by algorithmic consensus. The IPA/FLŽ document phrases it thus: “Instagram aesthetics is the hegemonic face of this simulacrum regime… filtered bodies, geometric facial features, fixed poses… not merely preferences; they signify the cancellation of symbolic castration”. In other words, the unique lack that defines a person (the little imperfections, the idiosyncrasies that make you “you”) is under assault. Instead we get an endless mirror of the same – a parade of images that differ only superficially but follow the same template of hyperreal perfection.

Why is this pathogenic? Because the elimination of lack is the elimination of desire and subjectivity. Psychoanalytically, a subject only emerges through navigating lack – through realizing something is missing in the Other, and in oneself, and forming desire around that void. If a culture denies every lack (“no wrinkles or aging – we have cream and surgery; no sadness – post a happy photo; no uncertainty – here are instant answers via Google”), people may appear more content on the surface but internally they suffer a kind of desert of meaning. They come to therapy reporting numbness, meaninglessness, or an inexplicable anxiety. Often, these symptoms are a direct result of the hyperreal suppression of the symbolic. For example, a young person who has spent years curating an Instagram-perfect life may find that they have no idea who they really are or what they want; their desires have all been second-hand, based on what looked good in pictures or what garnered approval. They have a polished mirror image, but the inner voice of desire is mute. This aligns with what the IPA/FLŽ manifesto warned: “where there is no lack, there is no desire. And where there is no desire, the subject vanishes”. Clinically, we see this in phenomena like rising rates of depression and anxiety in highly interactive social media users – they are constantly stimulated, never “lacking” entertainment or social connection online, yet this very saturation leaves them empty and anxious once the screen is off. Indeed, internal Facebook research (brought to light in 2021) found that “teenagers blamed Instagram for increased levels of anxiety and depression”, with one slide noting “we make body-image issues worse for one in three teenage girls”. The pursuit of the perfect image literally made these teens feel worse about themselves. Another statistic: 32% of teen girls surveyed said that when they felt bad about their bodies, Instagram made them feel even worse. The hyperreal ideal becomes an internal tyrant that they cannot live up to, leading to self-loathing and despair.

Another facet of hyperreality is the erosion of the line between truth and fiction. In a hyperreal action movie, when a hero performs physically impossible stunts, we all know it’s fiction. But in hyperreal media reporting or propaganda, it becomes harder to tell. For instance, consider deepfakes or the highly edited political campaign videos where reality is staged as in a movie. One might argue Donald Trump’s 2016 campaign succeeded in part by weaponizing hyperreality – presenting a image-driven narrative (large rallies as spectacle, catchy memes, reality-TV style debates) where facts mattered less than the emotional image it projected. Many felt politics turned into another season of reality TV. This has psychological effects: disorientation, cynicism (if everything is a spectacle, nothing is true, which can lead to apathy or radicalization). The symbolic social contract – an agreement on shared facts or the meaning of institutions – frays under such conditions. People retreat into bubbles where their version of reality (curated by their chosen media feeds) is self-contained. We get a society fractured into multiple hyperrealities, each with their own “facts” and images, unable to even communicate with each other.

For the individual psyche, living in hyperreality can produce what we might call symbolic deprivation syndrome. This is not a formal term, but it describes a cluster of experiences: difficulty in sustaining attention (because hyperreal content is always more immediately gratifying than slow reflection), impaired imagination (because one is used to being shown everything), and an intolerance of ambiguity or uncertainty (because the hyperreal usually packages things in clear, dramatic forms). A patient might come to therapy and initially speak in what feels like “TV tropes” – describing their life as if it were a series of episodes, or expecting therapeutic change to happen in a neat character arc. Part of the clinician’s job then becomes to reintroduce symbolic space: to allow silences in sessions (initially uncomfortable for someone used to constant media consumption), to encourage the patient to play with metaphors or dreams (which they may dismiss as nonsensical because they are not “picture-perfect”), and to tolerate not knowing or not resolving something immediately (the opposite of the quick resolution in most media narratives). Essentially, therapy itself has to be a kind of counter-hyperreal space – a place where lack, imperfection, and slowness are not only allowed but valued, as they are the preconditions for genuine self-knowledge and desire.

In summary, aesthetic totalitarianism – the dictatorship of the perfect image – and hyperrealism – the loss of a tangible reality under layers of simulation – work together to suppress the symbolic functions of the psyche. This is a cultural pathogen that manifests in various syndromes: from the superficial “perfectionist” who nonetheless feels hollow, to the teenager who cannot distinguish their self-worth from their selfie, to the political fanatic who lives in an echo-chamber of memes and cannot engage in dialogue. The strategy to combat this (which we will elaborate in later sections) involves what the manifesto calls “restoring symbolic castration” – effectively reintroducing the Law of the Father in Lacanian terms, meaning reintroducing limits, gaps, and an acceptance of imperfection. The Name-of-the-Father stands for those symbolic limits that allow meaning to thrive (e.g. the acceptance that one cannot be all things, have all things, know all things). Yet in the current regime “the Name-of-the-Father…namely Law, interruption, and limit – is now absent. In its place stands an algorithmic Other that is ever-ready, all-permitting… It does not forbid; it suggests: ‘Enjoy… never stop.’”. This unbridled algorithmic maternal superego (we can call it “maternal” because it smothers with care and plenitude, not “No” but endless “Yes”) must be countered by symbolic “No” – the ability to disconnect, to say enough, to be incomplete. The following sections will particularly look at how these dynamics play out in the realm of feminist ideology and the figure of the Phallic Woman, which sits at the intersection of cinematic hyperreality and real social identity.

IV. The False Sanctity of Digital Feminism: Empowerment as Spectacle

In parallel with the rise of hypermedia culture, we have seen the evolution of feminism from a radical social movement to, in many cases, a mediated consumer phenomenon. This evolution has not been linear or uniform – feminism has multiple strands and voices – but one troubling trajectory has been the co-option and weaponization of feminist language by the very forces of spectacle and commodification. What was once a struggle for women’s liberation, collective solidarity, and systemic change has at times been reduced to slogans, images, and personal branding. The term “false sanctity” of digital feminism suggests that in online and media contexts, feminist discourse is often treated with a kind of unquestionable reverence (the sanctity) but in a way that is hollowed out or misused (false). In other words, certain ideas (like “empowerment”, “goddess energy”, “Boss Babe”, etc.) are celebrated on the surface, yet they may serve as cover for narcissism, capitalism, or new forms of oppression.

To unpack this, let’s consider a historical context. Second-wave feminism (1960s-70s) fought to critique and transform deeply ingrained patriarchal structures – from workplace inequality to the objectification of women in media. Feminist film theorists like Mulvey (as discussed) critiqued the male gaze and pushed for new ways of representing women. By the 1990s, third-wave feminism and the rise of “Girl Power” imagery (e.g. the Spice Girls, pop culture feminism) sought to reclaim femininity and sexual agency in a playful way, but also often did so within a consumerist framework. Now, in the 21st century, we have what some call fourth-wave feminism, which is heavily influenced by social media, focusing on intersectionality, #MeToo activism, body positivity, etc. While there have been genuine gains (e.g. raising awareness of harassment, inclusivity of diverse voices), there’s also a visible trend of neoliberal or corporate feminism. This form of feminism emphasizes individual success and empowerment through market participation, often sidelining the deeper critiques of power structures. As feminist scholar Nancy Fraser observed, “ideals pioneered by feminists are serving quite different ends… our critique of sexism now supplies justification for new forms of inequality and exploitation”. She notes it is a “cruel twist of fate” that feminism’s call for women’s independence and ambition was co-opted to fuel a neoliberal narrative: where once feminists criticized careerism and consumerism, now women are told to “lean in” and play the corporate game harder. What was a collective movement becomes repackaged as an individual project of self-improvement.

Digital media has amplified this. On Instagram and other platforms, there’s a flood of content around women’s empowerment that often takes on a distinct visual and rhetorical style: upbeat infographics about confidence, glamour shots of female entrepreneurs with motivational quotes, hashtags like #girlboss, #slayqueen, #selflove. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with positivity, the issue is that these messages can become a veneer that masks underlying problems. For example, a company might celebrate #WomenInLeadership on social media while quietly paying its female employees less or providing no maternity support. The public performance of feminist values becomes a “brand” – something to enhance image and profits (so-called “femvertising”), rather than a genuine commitment to change. This is one aspect of the weaponization: feminism is used as a shield against criticism (“look, we have female faces in our campaign, so we’re progressive”), or even as a weapon to advance profit (tapping into female consumers’ aspirations with products marketed as empowering).

Another aspect is how individuals can use feminist rhetoric in personal contexts to justify or mask harmful behavior. Consider social media call-out culture, where the language of feminism (and social justice generally) can sometimes be wielded to conduct personal vendettas or to gain moral high ground in an argument, irrespective of whether it genuinely addresses a systemic issue. We occasionally see this in the phenomenon of someone being attacked or “canceled” in ostensibly feminist terms for minor slights, which can dilute focus from larger issues and create an atmosphere of fear rather than dialogue. The sanctity of the cause (ending sexism) is beyond question, but its means can become distorted – in some online spaces, there is a notion that anger and retribution are inherently feminist if directed at a perceived oppressor, even if due process or nuance is lacking. This can have a chilling effect on discourse and even be weaponized to shut down valid dissent: disagree with a particular stance and one risks being labeled anti-feminist or a traitor.

Now, central to our psychoanalytic focus is the ideology of the “Phallic Woman”, which ties directly into this discussion. The Religion of the Phallic Woman, as articulated by scholar Işık Barış Fidaner, begins from a male fantasy: the exceptional woman who has the phallus (symbolically, who is complete, lacks nothing). Lacan famously said “La femme n’existe pas” (The Woman does not exist) – meaning Woman as a complete, definable category is a male fantasy, especially the fantasy of a woman who can be the answer to the man’s lack. In courtly love tradition, the Lady was revered as almost an abstract ideal, placed on a pedestal – a sort of proto-Phallic Woman because the knight imagines her as pure and complete, able to bestow ultimate meaning. Fidaner points out that when a man “believes he creates woman” – i.e., through his fantasies he constructs this ideal woman – he is engaging in a kind of perversion. Specifically, the perversion is disavowal of the fact that Woman (like anyone) is lacking – disavowal that the woman has “no penis,” to use Freud’s somewhat blunt terms for acknowledging sexual difference. Instead of accepting that the Other (woman) is also incomplete and barred, the man persists in imagining a woman who is the phallus – who has that supreme object that would satisfy. This persistent (often unconscious) belief system is called the Religion of the Phallic Woman because it’s like a faith that one day, “the Phallic Woman is going to come to life on Earth”. It starts in childhood – for instance, Little Hans, Freud’s famous case, saw that his baby sister had no “widdler” (penis) and confidently declared “when she grows up it’ll get bigger”. That innocent but telling remark is effectively the founding credo of this religion: She may not have it now, but she will get it eventually. It’s a refusal to accept lack in the Other.

How does this tie to feminism and cinematic culture? Think of modern media’s obsession with the “strong female character” as a sort of phallic woman archetype. Hollywood, especially in the action and superhero genres, increasingly features women who are hyper-competent, physically formidable, and emotionally unfazed – ostensibly a win for representation. But as some critics argue, “more often than not, these characters are the antithesis of feminism – one-dimensional, an extension of the male gaze… male viewers might get a kick out of watching a woman be dominant and powerful… these characters possess no weakness, no flaws, and no emotion”. They are unrealistic caricatures of womanhood, essentially “masculine ideas of strength projected onto women”. This is exactly a Phallic Woman: a woman who seems to lack nothing (no vulnerability, no doubt, no need for help). Hollywood “empowers” her by giving her a gun, a high IQ, and a sassy attitude – but in doing so, it sometimes strips away her depth and humanity (which include the capacity to lack, to desire, to err). The trope of the invincible female warrior or the flawless female CEO in media can thus paradoxically uphold the same old fantasy: “the only way to be an empowered woman is to be more like a man”, as one commentary notes critically. In essence, the media says it’s celebrating women, but often it’s celebrating women who have effectively become phallic – taking on traditionally masculine-coded attributes while being usually conventionally attractive (to satisfy the gaze). Such characters, while superficially admirable, can alienate real women: “these women become caricatures of a type of womanhood that doesn’t exist… it only serves to alienate female viewers”.

This is the weaponization of feminist imagery: the industry can claim progress (“look, female hero!”) while actually reinforcing the idea that only a woman who can do everything and need nothing is of value – which is a cruel message. It implicitly demeans qualities culturally coded as feminine like empathy, collaboration, or vulnerability, unless those too can be spun as cool and powerful. Moreover, it sets an impossible standard: real women (and men) have flaws and needs; by depicting “empowerment” as being utterly self-sufficient and unbreakable, media potentially fuels feelings of inadequacy (for those who cannot live up to that) or fosters narcissistic over-identification (for those who decide they are that flawless hero and become blind to their own limitations – a pathway to PNPW syndrome in some cases).

Consider also how certain real-life figures have been mythologized in media as phallic women. For instance, in the early 2000s and 2010s, tech and corporate culture celebrated the rise of female CEOs and entrepreneurs – but often only those who displayed a “hard-charging” almost stereotypically male style (e.g. aggressive, work-obsessed, competitive). The term “#Girlboss” emerged, encapsulating this image of a woman who is glamorous, uncompromising, and all-powerful in her domain. Initially a term of praise, it has since been critiqued as the exemplar of neoliberal co-optation of feminism – focusing on individual success and branding over collective uplift. Indeed, many so-called girlbosses (from the founders of certain women-led startups to fashion brand CEOs) ended up facing scandals, burnout, or backlash, revealing that behind the facade of having-it-all were toxic work environments, unsustainable pressure, or simply the reality that being a boss – male or female – under late capitalism is not particularly liberatory. But the image of the girlboss was monetized and weaponized to sell an illusion: buy these products, follow these 10 steps, emulate this lifestyle, and you too can “have it all.” It’s essentially the old advertising strategy (sell a fantasy) but now the fantasy is feminist empowerment. As Nancy Fraser put it, “neoliberalism turns a sow’s ear into a silk purse by elaborating a narrative of female empowerment… harnesses the dream of women’s emancipation to the engine of capital accumulation”. In plain terms, the genuine aspirations of feminism were hitched to the profit motive, such that feminism became a feel-good backdrop to get women to participate more in exploitative systems by believing it’s their personal empowerment.

On social media, digital feminism also shows a pattern of performative sanctity. For example, every International Women’s Day, there’s a flood of celebratory posts. Brands change their logos to pink or temporarily showcase women. Yet often these gestures ring hollow – a phenomenon critics label “woke washing” or virtue signaling. The sanctity of the day and the cause is invoked, but nothing concrete is done. Another example: the #MeToo movement was profoundly important in exposing sexual abuse and empowering survivors to speak. However, as it became mediatized, some instances occurred where accusations were tried in the court of public opinion without due process, or where the movement was used to settle unrelated scores. There’s a delicate balance here – the movement did real good, but the spectacle around it also sometimes undermined itself, providing ammunition to opponents who said it had become a “witch hunt.” In psychoanalytic terms, one might say some of the righteous anger, if not channeled symbolically or through law, risked turning into a form of acting out – expressing trauma by reenacting punitive dynamics in public. The result can be more polarization and trauma, rather than resolution.

A particularly perverse misuse of feminist tropes appears in what can be called pseudo-feminist narcissism. This is where individuals (often on platforms like Instagram or TikTok) cloak what is essentially self-promotion or even objectification in the language of empowerment. For instance, some influencers might post highly sexualized images or content and caption it with messages about self-love or breaking stereotypes. On one hand, yes, reclaiming sexuality can be empowering. On the other, if the underlying dynamic is still deriving one’s self-esteem from external validation of one’s looks, then calling it feminist doesn’t change the psychological reality. It might actually make it harder to critique or even notice the issue, because who wants to sound like they’re against empowerment? Thus, the term “false sanctity” – once something is labeled as feminist empowerment, it’s treated as sacrosanct, above analysis, even if it might be reinforcing the very focus on appearance and performance that feminism originally challenged.

We see a striking example in the analysis of the Phallic Mother command and attempts to “give it to her” described by Fidaner in the essay on Whedon and Rowling. An indecent joke is recounted: a mother scolds a little boy for having fun with his penis and tells him to “give it to [his sister] so she can have the same enjoyment”, which leaves the boy puzzled and perversely excited. The phallic mother here issues an impossible command – a demand for “fairness” that actually violates the real difference (the girl has no penis). Fidaner suggests that postmodernity is like mankind puzzling how to ‘properly give it to her’ under this phallic mother’s command. Translated: society is obsessed with the idea of giving woman what she “lacks” – be it power, pleasure, recognition – but often in a misguided, impossible way. The paradox he outlines is that if the boy tries to obey (i.e., if men or society try to “give” women empowerment as if it’s a gift they control), he actually reinforces the mother’s power and the fantasy of the phallic woman. The Phallic Woman in that context “exists only on behalf of the ‘deprived’ other woman” and “her interference can only weaken the case of the other woman”. In simpler terms, these spectacular empowered women (in media or public life) often are showcased in contrast to other “less empowered” women, which can inadvertently make other women feel worse (the “why am I not like her?” effect). The phallic woman’s fulfillment (say, a female celebrity who “has it all”) is constantly juxtaposed with the ordinary woman’s lack, thereby reifying that someone still lacks – so nothing systemically changes. It “brings up the ‘deprived’ other woman” as a specter, but doesn’t help her. The promise that “we will empower all women by showing these few superwomen” rings false, because structural inequities remain and are even glossed over by the spectacle of those few.

In fact, receiving the label of “needing help” or being the beneficiary of paternalistic empowerment can be patronizing and disempowering in itself. As Fidaner notes, “receiving the mark of ‘needing help’ does not actually help the other woman. It instead feeds intrusive fantasies about ‘giving it to her’ disguised under the imaginary nobility of ‘empowerment’”. This is a powerful critique: a lot of what is trumpeted as empowerment might be more about the giver than the receiver – it feeds a fantasy (perhaps by men, corporations, or even empowered women themselves) that they can “uplift” others, while avoiding real systemic shifts that would equalize power. For example, a tech company might sponsor a one-day “women in STEM” workshop (feeding the fantasy of giving girls what they lack) rather than address its own hiring biases or pay gaps. The former yields good PR and a feel-good story; the latter requires giving up some power or profit. Similarly, in media, creators like Joss Whedon were hailed as “feminist allies” for writing strong female leads (Buffy etc.), indulging the fantasy of a man bestowing empowerment onto fictional women (and by extension to female audiences). But as noted in the article, “his religion got ahead of him and eventually deposed him because he didn’t conform to its latest codes of conduct” – meaning that Whedon himself was revealed to have treated women poorly in real life, and the feminist media narrative he built ultimately judged him harshly. He “obeyed the phallic mother and attempted to ‘give it to her’… after achieving great success he inevitably failed, because it was an impossible endeavor”. The moral here is that trying to fulfill the fantasy of the Phallic Woman (empowering women in a way that pretends they can be made “whole” without lack) is doomed, and often hypocritical.

J.K. Rowling’s case is another cited: she thought she was empowering youth (girls and boys) through giving them magic wands in her stories – a metaphor for giving them agency/power. Yet the next generation turned against her over her controversial stances (around transgender issues), showing again that the attempt to be the benevolent giver of empowerment can backfire if one doesn’t keep up with evolving values. In both Whedon and Rowling, we see figures who were on pedestals of progressive empowerment narratives get knocked off when reality revealed complexities not addressed in their “religion.”

From a clinical viewpoint, the saturation of this pseudo-empowerment rhetoric can create confusion and distress for individuals, especially women navigating identity. A woman patient might come to therapy feeling guilty or inadequate for not feeling “empowered” – she has internalized the message that she should be confident, successful, assertive, sexual, nurturing, everything all at once (a truly phallic completeness!), and if she doesn’t feel that way, she believes she’s failing not just herself but the cause. For instance, a new mother might feel she’s supposed to both bond naturally with her baby (old maternal ideal) and also bounce back to career and fitness (new empowerment ideal) – trying to be superwoman and feeling miserable. Or a young professional might think that because there are prominent women in media who “do it all,” if she is struggling at work due to subtle sexism or work-life balance, the fault lies in her lack of resilience. The media rarely depicts the support systems, compromises, or pains behind those superwomen (it’s all glossy). Therapy can help by debunking the phallic woman myth: empathizing that to be human is to lack and to need others, and that the internalized pressure to be perfect and invulnerable is a reflection of ideological fantasy, not realistic or healthy self-concept. In essence, de-sanctifying the false empowerment narrative can free the patient to explore what she genuinely wants, even if that diverges from social expectations.

Another group affected are men, particularly young men, who in this environment might swing between guilt and resentment. Some well-meaning men become overly cautious or performatively feminist in ways that aren’t authentic, while others (seeing only the spectacle) develop a backlash attitude, thinking they’re under attack by “feminism” or that women now have all the power (a perspective some incel communities harbor). Both groups are responding to the mediatized version of feminism rather than engaging with real women as fellow humans with lacks. A male patient might express confusion: “I support equality, but I feel like whatever I do is wrong these days, and I’m angry about being blamed.” This opens a therapeutic conversation about differentiating genuine equity (which involves empathy and change) from the media-fueled gender war perception. Often, helping such patients see the nuance – that neither men nor women exist as the simplistic categories media debates paint – can reduce their defensiveness and pain.

In sum, the false sanctity of digital feminism can be seen as one more mediatized syndrome: it creates icons and demons, but often leaves the actual unconscious issues of gender relations unaddressed. The Phallic Woman ideology is a lynchpin in this – a fantasy that haunts both men and women, in which “woman” is either elevated to an impossible ideal or demonized for wielding phallic power, rather than seen in her (or his, or their) particular human complexity. Combating this requires, as we will later outline, a kind of post-feminist psychoanalysis – using analysis to uncover the unconscious fantasies (in both sexes) that get entangled with feminist rhetoric and to re-ground feminism in an acceptance of human limits and interdependence. Feminism, to truly liberate, must also liberate us from the demand to be phallic (all-powerful, never vulnerable) – a demand that patriarchy originally placed on men, and now a distorted media-feminism is placing on women.

Having explored this context, we can now delve into the pathological outcomes, like the Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Woman (PNPW), that clinicians are starting to see emerge from these dynamics. We will examine how cinematic culture and algorithmic reinforcement can shape individuals (of any gender, but perhaps especially some women) who embody a kind of narcissism tied to these phallic, hyper-empowered identities – and how that manifests in psychological symptoms and interpersonal difficulties.

V. Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Woman (PNPW) Syndrome: Cinema, Algorithms, and Identity

One of the most striking perverse pathogenic formations arising at the crossroads of cinematic culture and distorted feminist ideology is what we term the Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Woman (PNPW). This concept synthesizes much of what we have discussed: it is the figure of a person (typically identifying as a woman, though not exclusively by biological sex) who has over-identified with the fantasy of the Phallic Woman to a degree that it becomes a core of her pathology. In simpler terms, PNPW describes a syndrome where an individual strives to appear (both to herself and others) as a perfect, self-sufficient, empowered being – to need nothing, to be admired by all – as a defense against a deeper narcissistic wound and lack of stable identity. The cinematic unconscious provides the imagery and narratives for this persona, while algorithmic social media culture provides constant reinforcement in the form of likes, comments, and curated comparisons.

Let’s break down the components. Pathological narcissism in clinical psychology refers to an enduring pattern where self-centeredness and a fragile self-esteem lead to grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy. The narcissist oscillates between feelings of superiority and secret inferiority. Now, when we add “Phallic Woman” to that, we specify the content of the narcissistic grandiosity: this person’s self-image is that of the ultimate empowered female (or, symbolically, the one possessing the phallus that others lack). She may consciously champion feminist ideals or see herself as evidence of women’s superiority or independence. Unconsciously, however, this can be a way to bypass feelings of powerlessness or unworthiness by identifying with an ideal. It’s a defensive armor, much like the “strong female character” trope but lived in real life. Importantly, PNPW is not saying “a strong woman = mentally ill”. It’s saying that when someone’s psyche is rigidly organized around having to be that strong, complete image, to the point of denying vulnerability and exploiting others’ gaze for self-esteem, it becomes pathological (just as male narcissism organized around being the all-powerful macho man is pathological).

We can consider how media contributes to forming a PNPW. Think of a girl who grows up in the 2000s-2010s watching Hollywood heroines and consuming social media. She sees Wonder Woman saving the world, Black Widow expertly dispatching enemies without a crack in her composure, or the cool confidence of pop stars and influencers who preach being a “queen” who bows to no one. Simultaneously, she lives in a culture where being noticed – having followers and an attractive online persona – is a currency. She learns, perhaps, that showing any need or sadness is “weak,” that to be loved she must be flawless and fun. If she has natural leadership or aesthetic talents, she might even get a lot of positive feedback for embodying these ideals: she gets good grades, excels in sports, or later climbs a career, all the while maintaining a curated Instagram of her successes. On the surface, she is the envy of peers – pretty, smart, confident, “has it all together.” This is reinforced by algorithmic feeds that show her more of what she likes: other empowerment content, self-help that basically says you create your reality, etc. It’s easy for such a person to slide into a grandiose self-concept wrapped in seemingly positive language.

However, because this identity is built on external images and approval, it’s often brittle. Narcissistic structures are prone to crisis when reality doesn’t conform. For instance, perhaps she has trouble with intimacy – real relationships require showing need, compromising, acknowledging flaws, which goes against her internalized image of the Phallic Woman. She might choose partners she can dominate or who idolize her, avoiding genuine vulnerability. Or at work, she might overestimate her abilities and then react with disproportionate rage or meltdown when criticized (a classic narcissistic injury). Another feature might be a kind of voyeuristic-self-exhibition loop – she is both the watcher and the watched of her life. Many PNPW-type patients create a scenario where they are constantly observing themselves from an outside perspective (the internalized gaze we discussed). In therapy sessions, for example, a patient might recount events almost as a narrator, describing how things looked rather than how they felt. This can be a clue: the focus on appearances and external metrics of success over inner emotional life.

Social media not only shapes such an identity but also sustains and amplifies it. The person curates an online persona that matches the ideal – perhaps carefully selecting photos that show her as strong and glamorous, posting feminist quotes to signal righteousness, etc. With each rewarding hit of likes or comments (“you’re an inspiration!”, “go queen!”), the algorithmic superego tightens its grip. Recall how the algorithmic Other operates: “It does not forbid; it ‘shows more.’ It suggests: Enjoy. Enjoy more. Never stop.”. For the PNPW, this translates to never stop performing empowerment. She cannot log off or show fatigue because the digital superego whispers that she must keep proving her perfection. The continuous exposure and pressure to remain visible means she rarely has an “off stage” moment to confront any emptiness or sorrow. The IPA/FLŽ strategy text noted: “there is not a single moment in which the subject is disengaged… When the space for desire to structure itself disappears, the unconscious can produce nothing but symptoms”. In a PNPW patient, we often find psychosomatic symptoms or anxiety underlying the shiny surface. She might have panic attacks she hides, or binge-eating at night after a day of strict self-control, or depressive crashes when alone. These symptoms are essentially the unconscious trying to speak – evidence of the repressed true self’s distress, breaking through the cracks of the persona.

PNPW also interacts with the aforementioned trend of personality disorders turning into identity badges in youth culture. The strategy document observed how young people now sometimes say “I’m so bipolar” or “I’m such a borderline” almost casually or performatively. In some cases, being a “narcissist” or “alpha female” is even glorified in certain circles (e.g. some self-help gurus encourage a kind of “narcissistic” stance for success). A woman embodying PNPW might ironically never consider herself ill – she might instead adopt labels like #BossBitch or even joke about being a narcissist as a positive (e.g., some songs and memes celebrate being obsessed with oneself as empowerment). This is a good example of what the strategy text calls “the boundary between the clinical and cultural evaporates”. Traditional pathology (narcissistic personality disorder traits) is in a sense encouraged by parts of culture as a means to get ahead or as the epitome of confidence. Thus, the PNPW rarely comes to therapy voluntarily complaining “I think I’m too narcissistic.” More likely she comes due to consequences – a relationship breakdown (“men are intimidated by me, it’s their fault, but I’m oddly lonely”), career burnout or sudden failure that shatters her self-image, or intense anxiety that she can’t explain since outwardly she “should be happy”. Sometimes, she might be brought in by others’ urging after they see through cracks (like family noticing an eating disorder or a depressive episode).

Case vignette (composite, anonymized): A 28-year-old professional woman, let’s call her Ana, seeks therapy after panic attacks started interfering with her presentations at work. Ana is immaculately dressed, confident in speech, and very articulate about her achievements and feminist views. She quickly establishes that she prides herself on being independent and not “needing validation” from anyone. Yet, she describes an exhausting routine of maintaining a perfect life – strict diet and exercise, always responding to work emails instantly, managing a popular travel blog on the side. On social media she has a modest ‘influencer’ status for promoting women in business. Ana expresses frustration that others (especially men) don’t live up to her standards – she’s ended several relationships because the partners were “intimidated” by her success or “too weak”. As therapy progresses, initially she has trouble accessing any vulnerable feelings; she often intellectualizes and may even unconsciously try to impress the therapist. Only after trust builds does she reveal a profound fear of failure that dates back to childhood, with a critical mother whom she felt she had to impress by being exceptional. When her last relationship ended, she didn’t publicly show any hurt (posting cheerful solo photos and empowerment quotes), but privately she felt “like a void” and experienced nightmares of being publicly humiliated. These panic attacks started right after her ex moved on with someone else (triggering feelings of being insufficient).

In this vignette, we see how the PNPW persona – the empowered, independent façade – is a defense against feelings of worthlessness and longing for acceptance. The cultural narrative gave her a template (be the best, show no weakness, you go girl), which aligned well with her childhood coping (pleasing a parent via achievement). But the result is that she’s split: a false self that glitters and a true self that is starved. The therapy would involve helping her tolerate being “ordinary” sometimes, valuing herself outside of performance, and addressing that core belief that love is conditional on perfection. It may also involve a gentle deconstruction of the media messages she’s internalized – showing, for instance, that needing others or slowing down is not failure but humanity.

It’s worth noting that men can have an analogous syndrome influenced by media – perhaps the Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Man is almost redundant because classical narcissism in men already has phallic connotations. But with evolving media, even men now face a weird double pressure: to be super sensitive allies but also rich, fit, and assertive. Some respond with a version of PNPW – e.g., the “male feminist” who brandishes virtue but maybe hides aggression, or the “self-made man” influencer who similarly never shows doubt. The common thread is media encouraging a kind of performative selfhood that is grandiose and denies vulnerability.

PNPW syndrome, while not a formal DSM entity, can be conceptualized within existing frameworks: it has elements of narcissistic personality disorder (entitlement, need for admiration, often lacking empathy for those deemed “weak” or not as enlightened), and perhaps features of histrionic personality (attention-seeking, shallow emotional expression – though PNPW is more controlled than classic histrionic). It’s also fueled by what the strategy report called “symptom transference” at a societal level – pathological behaviors that can be learned and imitated via media. For example, if a young woman watches reality TV shows where drama, narcissism, and vanity are normalized as how successful people act, she may unconsciously adopt those patterns. If she sees online that being outrageously self-confident gets followers, she might mimic that. Society ends up “applauding the illness”, so to speak. In terms of feminism, someone like this might even get celebrated for “breaking the mold” or “being a strong woman” when in fact she is suffering internally and perpetuating a cycle of emptiness.

From a broader perspective, PNPW is a microcosm of what happens when ideology infects personal identity. The mediatized regime took hold of the feminist drive for equality and distorted it into an ego-demand: “you (woman) must be perfect and powerful (to prove our ideology true).” In the unconscious, this can be a superego voice that’s as harsh as any patriarchal admonition: “If you’re not extraordinary, you’re nothing.” Many women have internalized this without realizing it’s a cruel double bind (because patriarchy once said “you can’t be extraordinary since you’re a woman,” now the reaction formation is “you must be extraordinary in every way to justify being a woman”).

In clinical practice, identifying PNPW traits can guide intervention: one must carefully work with the defenses of grandiosity (which will resist feeling weak or average) and the shame underneath. One might use a bit of psychoeducation: talking about how constant social media use can inflate our narcissistic parts and starve our authentic feelings, or how early experiences plus cultural messages form an inner critic that is never satisfied. Sometimes it’s powerful to discuss the concept of the phallus in therapy – surprisingly, many patients resonate if you explain it as “the thing you think will make you whole but doesn’t exist.” For Ana (from our example), recognizing that she’s been chasing a non-existent ideal (a life with no lack) can be liberating. It opens the door to grieving the fact that she, like all of us, has lacks – and that that’s okay. It can create space for her to identify authentic desires rather than what she thinks she should want. Perhaps she realizes she actually wants a slower-paced life or a different career, but was living out a script of “the modern empowered woman” rather than her own dream.

This ties into a core psychoanalytic insight: the importance of lack. The PNPW is an attempt to plaster over lack completely. Psychoanalysis instead would help her reclaim her lack (not as a negative, but as the space where her true desire can emerge). As Slavoj Žižek often emphasizes, the goal is not to fulfill the fantasy, but to traverse it – to stop the endless pursuit of the phantom object (the phallus) and find freedom in acknowledging the gap.

In sum, PNPW syndrome exemplifies how cinematic and algorithmic influences can shape a personality structure characterized by grandiosity, performativity, and internal emptiness. It’s a gender-inflected version of narcissistic pathology for the digital age, one that masquerades behind progressive and empowering rhetoric. Recognizing it is important for clinicians, so they neither collude with the patient’s façade nor harshly strip it away without support. It requires a nuanced approach: validating the patient’s genuine strengths and aspirations (which likely do exist) while slowly unpacking the unconscious costs of maintaining the phallic illusion.

Having dissected this specific formation, we should situate it within the larger landscape of psychiatric pathologies influenced by media, and then turn toward our strategies for intervention. As we will see next, mediatized syndromes are contributing to surges in more familiar disorders as well – depression, anxiety, trauma – all in new guises that necessitate updated clinical and ideological responses.

VI. The Mediatized Unconscious and Mental Health: From Spectacle to Symptom

The influence of cinematic and digital media culture on mental health is pervasive, giving rise not only to novel syndromes like PNPW but also altering the expression of more “classical” disorders. We are witnessing a shift in the distribution and presentation of psychiatric pathologies under the mediatized regime. Issues like depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive behaviors, eating disorders, and personality disorders aren’t new – but their content, triggers, and societal context are deeply entwined with media exposure today. This section will map out some key ways in which the spectacle is shaping the symptom and how the unconscious is responding (or struggling to respond) to our image-saturated, algorithm-driven environment.

Depression and Anxiety in the Age of the Algorithm

Depression is often conceptualized as a withdrawal – a turning inward when the external world or internal conflicts become overwhelming. However, in the mediatized age, even withdrawal is hard to achieve; the world follows us onto our screens into bed. The strategy report insightfully describes depression now as often stemming from an “algorithmic fall” – a trauma of losing visibility or failing to keep up in the digital social arena. For example, a teenager might sink into despair after being “ghosted” (friends suddenly cutting off contact online) or losing a stream of “likes” they once enjoyed. These are new psychosocial stressors: “Digital experiences like ‘ghosting’, ‘being unfollowed’, replace classical separation trauma”. The unconscious experiences it as a form of abandonment or loss of love from the Other, akin to, but not the same as, earlier traumas of separation. The difference is the relentless quantification and publicness of these experiences – a breakup or rejection in the past was private; now one sees ex-friends flaunting life without you on a feed, or notes that 100 people “saw” your vulnerable post but few responded, etc. Depressive episodes triggered this way often involve intense feelings of inadequacy and humiliation on top of sadness. The depressed subject under the gaze may feel “I am nothing if I am not seen” – a painful internalization of the spectacle logic.

An illustrative anecdote: a college student reported severe mood crashes whenever her posts didn’t get “enough” engagement; rationally she knew this was trivial, but emotionally she felt worthless and even suicidal seeing others get more attention. Therapy helped her realize that she had tied her self-concept to this external metric. This is a clear interface of algorithmic culture with vulnerability for depression. The platform algorithms prioritize content that gets attention; in turn users feel pressure to gain that attention, forming a vicious cycle where failing to do so can spark a depressive spiral. It’s no wonder internal research found “teenagers blamed Instagram for increased levels of anxiety and depression”. The constant social comparison and exposure of personal moments to evaluation by peers (and strangers) can produce chronic background stress – a sense of never being good enough or safe enough socially, which is fertile ground for depression and anxiety.

Anxiety disorders too have taken on new forms. The perpetual connectivity means the mind never rests; many feel an incessant need to check devices, a fear of missing out (FOMO), or an alarm if disconnected. This is partially an addiction mechanism, but also an anxiety of losing one’s place in the social matrix. The IPA/FLŽ text likened the algorithmic pressure to a sadistic superego command: “Enjoy. Enjoy more. Never stop.”. Anxiety in such a climate can stem from the feeling of constantly falling short. The subject thinks, “I’m not enjoying enough, not achieving enough, not as happy as others seem.” Even relaxation becomes anxiety-provoking if one has internalized that one must always be “on” and performing life. This kind of anxious state is different from a simple phobia or generalized anxiety of old – it’s diffuse but tied to a cultural narrative that one must keep up or be left behind.

Interestingly, research has noted correlations between social media use and anxiety disorders. For example, a study cited earlier found that “the higher the narcissism level, the more anxiety symptoms are experienced that foster the development of addictive [Facebook] tendencies”. It points to a loop: narcissistic tendencies (boosted by platform use) lead to anxiety, which then ironically leads one to seek more reassurance via the platform, deepening the dependence. This is quite new – traditionally, narcissistic personalities were anxious mainly when their self-esteem was threatened; now the very medium that props their esteem also feeds continuous micro-threats (unpredictable feedback).

An emerging phenomenon is social media anxiety disorder (not an official label, but discussed in mental health circles) where individuals have panic at the thought of not being able to check their feeds, or conversely, have panic while on the feed due to overwhelm. This shows how intimately technology is entwined with neural responses.

Obsessive-Compulsive and Addictive Patterns: The Algorithmic Drive

Obsessive-compulsive tendencies have also been reshaped. The report notes “obsessive behaviors are now directed not at objects but at notifications, comments, and post timing”. People develop compulsions around checking for updates, ensuring no message is left unanswered (compulsive replying), or curating things in exact ways (e.g., deleting a post if it didn’t get a desired number of likes within an hour – an obsessive perfectionism about one’s digital footprint). These behaviors echo classic OCD in that they involve ritualistic actions to alleviate anxiety (like refreshing inbox 50 times an hour to be sure nothing is missed). But they’re reinforced by design – platforms intentionally use notifications and red badges as triggers, a kind of intermittent reinforcement schedule that is known to create compulsive engagement.

The concept of algorithmic drive can be introduced here: Freud’s notion of the drive involves a repetitive, aimless force seeking satisfaction but never quite getting it, circling around the object. Social media and digital content consumption mimic a drive – we scroll not because we need to for a goal, but because something keeps us in that loop, as if satisfaction lies just a bit further down the feed. Žižek might call this the “drive to jouissance” orchestrated by the algorithm – always consuming, never fulfilled. The individual’s own drive is co-opted by a system that keeps presenting new stimuli. Over time, this can develop into behavioral addictions – for instance, doomscrolling (compulsively consuming negative news on Twitter, etc.), or binge-watching series for entire weekends. The person might articulate, “I hate that I do this, but I can’t stop; I feel I have to know, or just one more episode.” These are mild compulsions but can degrade quality of life and mental health.

From a psychoanalytic lens, we could say the symbolic meaning is stripped from actions, leaving pure repetition. In the past, someone might obsessively wash hands (with a symbolic meaning perhaps about cleanliness or guilt). Now someone might obsessively check their online status. The outer act is different but inner purpose might be similar: managing anxiety or guilt (e.g., “If I don’t respond immediately, I’m a bad friend; if I don’t stay informed, I’m irresponsible” – there could be a superego dictating the compulsion). The major difference is the collective normalization of these behaviors. When “everyone” is glued to their phones, a pathological extreme may go unnoticed longer. It’s harder to identify the line between heavy use and compulsion, and patients might be more resistant to change because giving up these behaviors means stepping out of the social current.

Eating Disorders and Body Image: The Visual Violence of Aesthetic Ideals

One of the clearest direct impacts of media on psychopathology is in eating disorders and body dysmorphia. The strategy report uses a strong term: “visual violence of aesthetic totalitarianism” fueling anorexia and bulimia. Indeed, Instagram and other image-centric platforms inundate especially young women with idealized body images, often unattainable without filters or surgery. The internalization of these standards is well documented. Facebook’s own leaked study admitted “Instagram makes body image issues worse for one in three teenage girls”, and many “trace a desire to kill themselves to Instagram” (as shocking as that is). These stark findings highlight that this is not a subtle effect – it’s a direct line from seeing curated images to self-loathing and potentially self-harm among vulnerable youth.

Anorexia nervosa, already understood as a disorder of control and self-image, finds fertile ground in the social media context. Pro-anorexia (pro-ana) communities have existed online since early internet, but now the algorithms can unintentionally serve “pro-ana” content to users who show interest in dieting or fitness. A teenager who innocently likes some fitness influencers might soon find her Explore page filled with extremely thin body images and diet tips. The aesthetic of some Instagram fitness or fashion culture glorifies a thin ideal under the guise of health or beauty. This can tip a predisposed person into full-blown obsessive body monitoring, food restriction, etc. The mediatized aspect also means many anorexic individuals now document their illness online – another way the symptom gets exhibited rather than quietly hidden. We see teens posting transformations with tags like #thinspo (thin inspiration), essentially using the media like a twisted mirror to reflect their dwindling selves for affirmation. The symptom – being underweight and obsessed – becomes valorized in a certain subculture as an aesthetic in itself (the fashion industry has long done this; social media democratized it). This is what the report calls making the symptom a “wearable style”. Instead of a collapse to be resolved, it becomes something one might almost take pride in (“look how disciplined I am, how ethereal”).

Bulimia and binge-eating, involving cycles of loss of control, may be exacerbated by the stress and dissociation that heavy media use encourages (one might mindlessly binge on both content and food), then purging out of guilt. Some young patients talk about “scrolling TikTok for hours while eating and suddenly realizing they’ve consumed 2000 calories without noticing” – this coupling of dissociative media absorption with unconscious eating is a modern pattern.

Furthermore, the constant camera can turn one into one’s own body’s harshest judge, fueling Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD) tendencies. People now regularly see their own face in selfies and on video calls, sometimes leading to what’s dubbed “Zoom dysmorphia” – increased dissatisfaction and requests for cosmetic surgery due to seeing oneself on camera too much. The prevalence of filtered images leads to real surgeries (e.g., wanting to look like one’s filtered selfie). This is hyperreality hitting the body itself: the image precedes the flesh, and the flesh is altered to match the image. BDD, typically a secret preoccupation with perceived flaws, could intensify as external images amplify one’s internal critical voice.

All this points to a pathogenic environment where it’s not just that individuals have certain vulnerabilities – the media context actively produces and amplifies these vulnerabilities by offering both the trigger and the (false) solution (e.g., “just lose weight and you’ll be like these happy people online!”). The strategy text sums it: “the screen doesn’t merely show trauma – it produces it”.

Personality Disorders as Performance and Identity

We touched on narcissism with PNPW, but broadly we see an interesting phenomenon: Borderline, narcissistic, histrionic, ADHD – these diagnoses have become part of pop culture vernacular. TikTok and other platforms are full of content like “things you do if you have ADHD” or people role-playing their “multiple personalities” (sometimes genuinely, sometimes for clout). The report notes “DSM labels are carried like identity cards… functioning as social passwords for inclusion in communities”. This can lead to teenagers self-diagnosing or even unconsciously molding their behavior to fit a trendy diagnosis because it grants membership (e.g., romanticizing being “borderline” because it’s associated with intense, dramatic relationships as portrayed in media).

While raising mental health awareness is good, the mediatized approach can flatten complex disorders into memes and aesthetics. For example, the “sad girl” aesthetic – glamorizing depression (think of characters like those in Euphoria or the proliferation of quotes about being broken yet beautiful). This risks normalizing and sustaining symptoms instead of encouraging healing. When someone suffering sees their symptom echoed everywhere as part of identity (and maybe even finds a peer group that valorizes it), they might be less inclined to seek change. The pain becomes a badge (consciously as virtue signaling or unconsciously as a resistance to letting go because it’s become who they are).

Clinically, one encounters adolescents who proudly say “I have X disorder” but resist doing the work to manage it, sometimes almost protective of the disorder. On exploration, it turns out they fear losing a community or a sense of specialness attached to that label. This is a very modern dilemma: how to validate a young person’s experience of, say, social anxiety, while gently challenging the notion that it wholly defines them or that indulging it is beneficial. The therapeutic stance must navigate between destigmatizing and de-romanticizing these conditions. The mediatized culture often destigmatizes but simultaneously romanticizes by giving disorders an edgy or cool aura. For instance, the troubled artist trope (depression as depth), or the eccentric genius trope (ADHD or Asperger’s as brilliance). So the person clings to the symptom as the source of identity or talent, fearing being “ordinary” if they heal.

Trauma and Dissociation: The Cinematic Repression of the Real

Trauma traditionally is the domain of the unspeakable and unseen – the repressed that returns in nightmares, flashbacks. How does media intersect here? On one hand, we have unprecedented exposure to others’ traumas (videos of violence or war on social media, confessional posts, etc.). On the other, a kind of desensitization or packaging of trauma into consumable bits. Some survivors find online support, which is positive; but others might inadvertently retraumatize themselves by over-identifying with content or seeking validation through continual recounting of their story without private processing. Also, as mentioned, cinematic techniques make trauma “spectacular” – e.g., a beautifully shot rape scene on a TV show can be problematic, arguably turning the viewer into a voyeur of real human horror, which might dull their empathy or give a distorted message.

Moreover, the continuous stream of content can prevent the necessary incubation period the psyche needs after trauma to integrate it. Instead of a quiet recovery, someone might flood themselves with distractions or, conversely, with more traumatic content (doomscrolling after a tragedy, etc.), which can fragment their processing. Some therapists note that trauma clients these days often come in not just with their personal trauma, but also a layer of vicarious trauma from constant news and social media consumption of others’ tragedies. It’s as if the boundaries of personal experience are porous due to media – the collective unconscious bleeds in through our timelines.

From a psychoanalytic standpoint, the mediatized regime acts to re-repress trauma by making it look addressed while actually burying its sting. For instance, after a school shooting, the immediate flurry of media debates, memorial posts, etc. might create a feeling that something is being done, but a survivor’s actual grief may get subsumed in the spectacle. They might even feel guilty or abnormal if their experience doesn’t match the predominant narrative they see. We must consider that for some, true healing requires stepping out of the media noise entirely – a challenge when engagement feels obligatory.

Societal Neuroticism: A Collective State

All these individual issues scale up to what some call a collective neurotic state. If so many are anxious, performative, obsessed, and relationally impaired due to these syndromes, society as a whole exhibits symptoms: polarized discourse (splitting, idealization and devaluation akin to BPD dynamics but at group level), short attention spans, outrage cycles (manic-defensive episodes followed by crashes), etc. The concept of algorithmic superego implies that society’s moral compass is partially outsourced to algorithms that amplify extreme voices and shaming – reminiscent of a harsh, unreflective superego. This fosters a climate of fear and conformity paradoxically alongside superficial declarations of empowerment and freedom.

We can frame the mediated unconscious as almost an anti-unconscious: rather than a rich private theater of dreams and latent content, it becomes an inundated space with prefab images and imperatives. The risk is a kind of symbolic collapse or implosion of meaning, which leads to more neurosis because when the symbolic cannot do its job (mediate between raw impulse and reality with creative meaning-making), people oscillate between raw enjoyment/jouissance and rigid control. That describes much of the mental health landscape today: oscillations of binge and purge, mania and depression, over-connection and loneliness.

In conclusion of this section, it is evident that mediatized syndromes are not just a theoretical concept but a tangible clinical reality. Whether it’s an increase in teenage self-harm linked to online bullying, or an adult with panic attacks triggered by email overload, the fingerprints of media are everywhere on the psyche. The unconscious, rather than being given room to express itself spontaneously (through dreams, art, relationships), is being continually hijacked by external content, leading to a sort of artificial dream – one orchestrated by others. And as the IPA/FLŽ document asserts, “unless this cycle is broken, society will remain ill… while continuing to applaud this illness”. The next sections will pivot to how we might break this cycle: outlining strategies, on both the broader structural level and the individual clinical level, to intervene and restore a healthier balance between humans and their images.

VII. Structural Strategies: Clinical and Ideological Interventions in the Mediatized Era

Having mapped the problems, we turn to solutions. The struggle against mediatized syndromes must occur on multiple fronts, bridging the gap between individual therapy and sociocultural change. In this section, we outline structural strategies encompassing both clinical practice and ideological activism, as they are deeply interdependent. Psychoanalysis and psychotherapy can no longer confine themselves to the consulting room alone, because the sources of pathology seep in from the outside culture. Conversely, large-scale interventions (like policy changes or media reform) require clinical insight into human psychology to be effective. Our proposals here aim to defend the integrity of the unconscious and symbolic life at both the intimate and public levels.

1. Forge a Psychoanalytic-Clinical Alliance Focused on Media Impacts

A first strategic task is to reorient mental health services to explicitly address media influences on symptoms. Psychoanalysts, psychotherapists, and psychiatrists should collaborate, bringing together depth psychology and medical perspectives, to develop new diagnostic and treatment frameworks. This means training clinicians to routinely ask about a patient’s media diet and digital life as part of assessment. Just as we inquire about family history or substance use, we should inquire: What images and content is this person regularly exposed to? How do they present themselves online? What online interactions have marked them? These questions can reveal precipitating or maintaining factors of the psychopathology. For instance, a clinician might discover a patient’s panic attacks coincide with high engagement on Twitter political arguments, or a relapse in bulimia followed weeks of immersion in “fitness” Instagram.

Clinics and counseling centers should incorporate media literacy into therapy. One might even include psychoeducation groups where patients discuss how social media makes them feel, sharing the often shameful admission that their self-esteem is tied to it. Normalizing this and giving it a language removes some of the alienation. Psychoanalysis’s role here is, as the strategy text says, to offer “not a solution but an ethics of interrogation… questioning not the subject but the cultural codes that have made them ill”. In practical terms, therapists might help a patient critically examine a TikTok trend that they feel pressured by, or decode the ideological message in a favorite film that left them unsettled. This externalization – seeing the symptom as produced partly by external forces – can empower the patient to not over-identify with the illness (“I’m not broken; I’m reacting to something toxic and can resist it”).

On the medical side, psychiatrists prescribing medications for issues like anxiety or ADHD should be aware how much of the patient’s dysfunction is exacerbated by digital hyperstimulation. Perhaps smaller doses or alternative treatments suffice if a patient concurrently reduces exposure (like a form of “visual diet” we’ll discuss). Conversely, severe cases might need medication to stabilize enough to unplug. The key is integrated care that doesn’t pathologize the individual in isolation, but contextualizes them in the pathogenic media environment.

Some concrete ideas: Develop intake forms that include questions about average screen time, social media platforms used, number of online friends vs offline, any online harassment experienced, etc. Use those as springboards in first sessions. Encourage professional conferences or journals to include research on mediatized trauma or internet-related disorders (some are emerging, e.g., “Internet addiction” though not formally in DSM). The International Psychoanalytic Association (IPA) and other bodies can create task forces to update psychoanalytic theory for this era – for example, exploring how transference might be affected by a patient googling their therapist or following them on Twitter (new challenges to the frame!). All this acknowledges that the clinic is porous: the media enters it, so the clinician must consciously address it.

2. Ethical Accountability for Media and Tech: The Call for Algorithmic Oversight

On the societal level, one strategy is to treat major media and tech companies akin to how we treat pharmaceutical companies – as entities whose products can affect public health, thus requiring oversight. Psychoanalysts and mental health experts should participate in public discourse and policy-making around technology. This could mean pushing for regulations that demand transparency of algorithms, especially those targeting vulnerable populations like youth. For example, one could lobby that platforms must allow independent audits of how their content recommendation might lead to self-harm or extremism rabbit holes. Similar to how food has nutritional labels, perhaps content should have some labeling or at least the algorithms should have opt-out choices (“show me chronological feed, not optimized”).

The strategy text frames it: “Behind the screen lies not only content creation but an engineering that determines desire routes… The ethical responsibility of these structures is as much medical as political”. As such, one idea is for mental health associations to issue guidelines or warnings – e.g., a statement that excessive social media use is linked to depression in teen girls, akin to Surgeon General warnings on cigarettes. Governments have started noticing (some countries considering age limits or time limits for youth on certain apps, etc.), but they need expert input not to do it in a blunt or freedom-curbing way. Psychoanalytic thinkers can contribute nuance – stressing it’s not about censoring content but about allowing symbolic space. For instance, advocating for “digital sabbath” initiatives (one day off screens) as a public health campaign, or championing the idea of a “right to disconnect” for workers to prevent burnout (some countries like France have such laws).

In addition to policy, engaging directly with media producers is key. This can take the form of writing op-eds about portrayals of mental illness (praising those that are nuanced, critiquing those that glamorize pathology), consulting on film/TV projects to encourage psychological accuracy, or even creating content. Psychoanalysts historically often stayed in their offices, but figures like Žižek have shown one can engage pop culture and reach a wider audience with theory. We should encourage a new generation of analytically informed writers, YouTubers, etc., to bring these critiques to where people actually consume media. The goal isn’t to “ban” things but to gradually shift culture by making people aware of what they consume – essentially to instill a reflective gap: “What is this show making me feel, and why? Do I really need to follow this beauty standard?”

Moreover, pushing for design ethics in tech: There is a small movement of “humane tech” designers (some ex-Facebook etc.) calling to redesign platforms for wellbeing, not just engagement. Psychoanalysts could collaborate with such designers, offering insight into what fosters healthy mental processing (for example, maybe apps could encourage breaks after an hour of scrolling: “You’ve been here a while, perhaps take a walk” – some mindfulness apps do that). Or designing interfaces to be less about instant dopamine (like hiding like counts by default; Instagram actually considered this). These might reduce the addictive and performative aspects.

Think of it as updating the superego of the culture: currently the algorithmic superego says “more, more”; we want a cultural superego that says “balance, reflect, care”. Oversight and ethical design can provide that external check until individuals internalize a healthier self-regulation.

3. Public Campaigns: Exposing Pathological Representations and Fostering Media Literacy

As the strategy text urges: “What is needed is not art therapy, but the exposure of art itself”. This means we should launch public educational campaigns that decode how media portrays mental health, gender, success, etc. The goal is to make the unconscious ideological content conscious for the general public. For example, a campaign in schools that shows, side by side, an Instagram photo and the behind-the-scenes (e.g., number of shots, editing) to teach kids that what they see is curated and not a yardstick for their life. Or a documentary series (maybe on Netflix or YouTube) exploring “The Social Unconscious” – highlighting case studies of people harmed by media, interwoven with analysis from experts. Already some documentaries like The Social Dilemma (2020) have raised awareness about how social media manipulates – but we need the psychological angle too: how is it manipulating your desire? Perhaps featuring young people’s genuine accounts of mental breakdowns tied to social media and then commentary about those mechanisms. The aim is not fear-mongering, but illumination.

Media literacy should become a standard part of school curricula, the same way sex ed or DARE (anti-drug education) were implemented. But media literacy here is not just learning to detect fake news (which is important), but also literacy about emotional and psychological effects. Teach adolescents about dopamine, about the way posting can become validation-seeking, how algorithms might funnel them into extreme content. In an analysis-oriented way, maybe even read/discuss some age-appropriate excerpts from psychoanalytic thinkers on technology. High schoolers could likely handle discussions around “do we present a persona vs our real self online?” which touches on Winnicott’s true vs false self perhaps. By sowing these reflective skills early, we help the next generation not be as vulnerable to mediatized syndromes.

Public art and forums can also help. Art exhibitions that challenge the aesthetic totalitarianism – e.g., an interactive installation where you walk through a hall of Instagram images with a distorted mirror at the end reflecting your own anxious face. Such visceral experiences can spark insight that leads to change. Community discussions (town halls on “Technology and Mental Health”) could bring families together to share struggles and set collective norms (like neighborhoods agreeing on device-free play times).

The strategy specifically emphasizes critical alliances: “the alliance of critical cultural studies and psychoanalysis is vital in decoding the codes of mediatized pathology”. This suggests working with academics from media studies, gender studies, etc., to publish and promote analyses of trending phenomena (for instance, a scholarly yet accessible article analyzing the phenomenon of TikTok “trauma dumping” videos where people cry on camera – what does that say about society’s handling of distress?). The verdict on these issues must reach beyond journals to mainstream discourse. Already terms like “doomscrolling” or “Instagram envy” have entered common parlance – these came from people naming their experiences. We need more terms and narratives that people can latch onto and say, “Yes, I do feel surveilled by the gaze of social media” or “Yes, I see how I was constructing a Phallic Woman persona for myself.” Language is power; naming the syndrome is half the battle in resisting it.

4. Encourage “Visual Diet” and Right to Disconnect as Unconscious Rights

Just as we have concepts of rest for the body, we need rest for the psyche from stimulation. The report’s Section VI calls for “Limiting Exposure: Visual Diet as a Right of the Unconscious”. We propose making it a cultural norm that everyone deserves and needs breaks from screens – not as a luxury, but as a fundamental mental health practice. Workplaces could implement policies like email curfews (no emails after 7pm, for instance) to let employees mentally detach (some companies do). Schools could have device-free hours or meditation minutes.

On an individual level, therapists should actively help patients plan and execute “media fasts” or detoxes, framing it not as punishment but as empowerment. It can be very hard for someone deep in it to do on their own (FOMO, compulsion). But possibly as a therapeutic experiment – “Try one weekend without social media and journal how you feel” – can be revelatory. Many realize their anxiety drops or they suddenly have time for activities that actually nourish them. Repeating such experiments can build a new habit. Over time, the patient internalizes that it’s okay to not be plugged in always – that the world and their social ties won’t collapse. This directly challenges the false urgency the media instills.

Collectively, maybe campaigns like “National Unplug Day” or challenges (#DigitalDetoxChallenge trending?) could make it a shared experience, which reduces the anxiety of missing out because if a whole community is doing it, you’re missing out together on purpose. That can even be bonding.

Underlying this is claiming a right of the unconscious: just as we have a right to free speech, we arguably have a right to private mental space, to not be inundated. One could philosophically argue for it in human rights terms eventually – the right to mental privacy or cognitive liberty (some ethicists discuss this in context of neurotechnology, but it applies to media too). In policy, that could support laws like banning extremely intrusive data practices (since targeted ads are a form of intrusion into unconscious desire).

5. Revolutionizing the Screen through Return of the Repressed

Finally, all these strategies tie into what the conclusion of the strategy report calls “the revolution of the screen… through the return of the unconscious”. That is almost poetic but also literal: to truly change things, it’s not enough to cut down harm; we must proactively re-infuse culture with authentic unconscious expression. This could be seen as promoting art, storytelling, and communication that allow ambiguity, diversity of meaning, genuine emotions – essentially making space for the repressed voices and images. This might mean encouraging creators from marginalized groups to share stories that break stereotypes (thus undermining monolithic phallic images), or supporting indie films that have non-formulaic narratives (so audiences learn to appreciate complexity, not just Marvel spectacle).

On a therapeutic activism note, psychoanalysts could sponsor or lead community workshops on dream-sharing or creative writing as a way for people to reconnect with their inner world beyond the screen. Imagine community “dream circles” where people disconnect from phones and talk about recent dreams or fantasies; such practices can strengthen the muscle of symbolic thinking in ordinary folks, providing an antidote to passive image consumption.

There is also a case for digital innovation that aligns with unconscious processes: perhaps VR experiences designed not for adrenaline but for introspection (like VR meditation, or virtual environments that react to one’s biofeedback to literally visualize one’s emotional state – there are interesting experiments there). Harness tech to connect people to their feelings, not just to stimuli. If mainstream media won’t shift easily, at least carve a subculture of reflective media.

The “revolution” may not be one big event but a gradual tipping point where enough individuals and institutions practice these strategies that the overarching culture changes. Already we see glimmers: more people vocally taking social media breaks, more conversation about mental health impacts, even some influencers pivoting to “authenticity” and showing unfiltered realities. While some of that is performative, it indicates a hunger for something real. Our strategies should feed that hunger with substance.

In implementing these, we must guard against moral panic or technophobia. The tone matters: it’s not “screens are evil, avoid them” – that’s unrealistic and alienating. Rather, “here’s how to use these powerful tools in ways that serve you, not enslave you.” It’s about reasserting human agency over technology and media narratives. Psychoanalysis teaches that what is not consciously acknowledged will control us from the shadows; thus, making the dynamics conscious to society at large is liberating.

Let us now integrate these ideas and consider some case-informed strategies specifically for clinicians in practice dealing with mediatized syndromes, and then conclude with an overarching vision of how returning to unconscious truth can subvert the media’s grip.

VIII. Case-Informed Strategies for Clinicians: Recognizing and Disrupting the Cinematic Unconscious

At the clinical coalface, therapists and counselors are increasingly encountering patients whose inner lives and symptoms are deeply shaped by mediatized content. To effectively help these individuals, clinicians must refine their toolkit to recognize the imprint of cinematic and digital culture on psyche, diagnose accordingly, and employ interventions that address these influences head-on. In this section, we present practical, case-informed strategies for therapists working with analysis-oriented approaches (psychoanalytic, psychodynamic, or integrative) to disrupt the “cinematic unconscious” in patients – that is, to break the hold of internalized media narratives and reopen the space for the patient’s authentic unconscious to emerge.

1. Recognize the Signs of a Mediatized Psyche

The first step is awareness: the clinician should be alert to subtle cues that a patient’s discourse, fantasies, or relational style is mediated by media templates. Some red flags or clues include:

• Cinematic Language & Imagery: The patient describes their life events as if scenes from a movie or episodes of a show. They may use metaphors like “It felt like I was in a horror movie” frequently, or narrate in a highly chronological, plot-driven way rather than reflective. They might even explicitly compare themselves to characters (“I feel like Jess from New Girl, always quirky on the outside but sad inside”). These references can be gateways to understanding which cultural archetypes they’ve identified with or feel measured against.
• Self-Observation & Performativity: The patient exhibits an externalized self-awareness, as if watching themselves act. For example, during emotional moments in session, instead of fully experiencing the feeling, they might comment on how they must appear: “You probably think I’m crazy, like one of those crying girls on TikTok.” This indicates an internalized spectator. They might also occasionally seem to be “posing” even in therapy – giving the “right” soundbite or imitating therapeutic jargon they’ve seen online. If a patient says things like “I’ve been really into healing my inner child because I saw on Instagram that’s what I need to do,” it’s both positive (they are seeking growth) and potentially superficial if it’s just mimicry. The clinician can gently probe, “What does healing the inner child mean to you, personally?” to anchor it in their own context rather than just the trend.
• Timeline Compression & Aesthetic Presentation of Problems: A patient might present a personal narrative that sounds overly neat or aesthetically curated, as if they’ve edited out messy parts. For example, “I had a breakdown, then I found yoga and now I’m better – that’s my journey” said in the first session, like a brief social media post caption. This may hint they’ve been through genuine distress but are packaging it to be palatable (maybe even to themselves). The therapist should note if key details or emotional depth are missing under a smooth story. That’s often a sign of internal “PR work” – the person is treating their therapy narrative like a PR narrative. The work then is to slow down and unpack the raw footage left on the cutting room floor, so to speak.
• Online Transference Clues: Patients sometimes unconsciously pull the therapist into a social media-like dynamic. A classic example: expecting immediate replies to emails or texts between sessions, as if the therapist is another “24/7 online” contact. Or wanting to take a selfie with the therapist (yes, that happens occasionally in our social media age!). These behaviors should be understood through transference: maybe the therapist is seen as another audience or follower whose validation is craved, or as an authority figure whose attention is like an algorithm’s reward. Instead of just boundary enforcing (“We don’t do selfies”), explore it: “You want to capture this moment. What would it mean to you to post a photo of you and your therapist? What would you hope others see or understand?” This can reveal the patient’s relationship with help and image – maybe they want to show the world “I’m working on myself!” for approval.
• Pathologies in Line with Trends: If there’s a spike in certain symptomatology aligning with known media content trends, take note. For instance, during COVID-19 lockdowns, many therapists saw an uptick in OCD-like handwashing or germaphobia – partly reality, partly media coverage fueling it. Or after 13 Reasons Why (a show about teen suicide) was popular, schools observed more talk of self-harm among teens (some helpful talk, some imitative). A patient might not mention the show, but being aware of it, a therapist could ask if they watched anything that resonated with their feelings. Often, that opens a dialogue: “Yes, I watched X and I felt seen,” or conversely, “I watched X and it gave me ideas that scare me.” Either way, it externalizes some of the content.

2. Diagnose with a Dual Lens: Personal History and Media History

When formulating a case, integrate the patient’s personal developmental history with their “media history.” For example, in a classic psychosexual development timeline you consider childhood events, but now also consider: What were the formative images at various stages? Did Disney princesses shape her view of love? Did violent video games or porn shape his ideas of masculinity or sex? Did social media come into their life right at a vulnerable time (e.g., early adolescence)? This doesn’t blame media for everything, but contextualizes how they coped or what fantasies they used.

A depressed young man might have an Oedipal story and a story of retreat into video games during his parents’ divorce. Both matter: Oedipal theory might say he felt unmanned by his father leaving and identifies with a weak position. Media analysis adds that he found power in games, which created a safe micro-world but left him socially anxious and idealizing omnipotent roles. Now in relationships, he expects cinematic romance or shuns intimacy for online forums. So the diagnosis might be, say, dysthymia with schizoid defenses in the context of heavy virtual immersion that substituted real attachments. That last part changes the treatment: you know rebuilding real-world skill and trust is crucial, and you might incorporate graduated exposure to social activities analog style.

If a patient appears narcissistic, assess if it’s more trait (intrapersonal from childhood) or state (reactively amplified by social media usage). Sometimes you’ll see someone become more irritable and self-absorbed in session when they’ve been posting a lot; it’s akin to an addiction mood swing. Recognize that as possibly a media-intoxication effect rather than core personality only – meaning, maybe tapering that use will soften their narcissistic defenses.

To use another example, for a patient with body dysmorphia, traditional formulation focuses on early attachment and any trauma to identity. The dual lens adds: track when their obsessions worsened – was it after a surge in social media use or following certain influencers? That temporal correlation is diagnostically significant; it indicates part of the intervention must be to alter that input.

In summary, case formulation should explicitly include mediatized factors: “Patient X presents with Y, likely rooted in Z (developmental factors), and currently exacerbated by A (algorithmic exposure patterns), B (cultural narratives internalized), and C (online behaviors).” This integrated understanding guides a multifaceted treatment.

3. Therapeutic Contract: Collaborate on Reducing the Screen’s Third Party Presence

In therapy, we often talk about the “analytic third” or “third presence” in the room – usually meaning the symbolic field or perhaps a dominant dynamic. In mediatized patients, the screen itself is like a third presence in their psyche. It may intrude via their phone notifications or just in how they imagine outside viewers. As therapy commences, it can be useful to openly discuss and contract around technology use in relation to therapy. For example, some therapists might ask highly plugged-in patients to silence their phone during session (seems obvious, but many younger clients will glance at it otherwise – this deviates from older analytic technique where no one had phones on). Even addressing whether they look up psychological terms or their diagnosis online between sessions can be helpful: maybe they do and come with “Dr. Google” info which might conflict or confuse therapy. Work with that: “What did you find? How do you feel about it? Let’s sift which resonates with you versus which might be general.”

Also, gauge if the patient might be sharing their therapy journey online. It’s common now – some post about going to therapy or even share insights publicly. This is their right, but it can interfere if they start performing progress for an audience. Gently exploring their boundaries here: “I notice you mentioned you tweet about being in therapy; I’m curious what it’s like having public about what is usually private? Is it supportive or does it create pressure?” If it creates pressure (“I have to get better fast so I can show improvement”), address that explicitly in the treatment plan.

One practical suggestion is to propose therapy “experiments” between sessions related to media. For instance, if a patient is working on social anxiety, the homework might be to have one real conversation in lieu of 10 text exchanges. If working on body image, maybe unfollowing certain social media accounts that trigger them and replacing with more positive or diverse ones (there are body-positive influencers, etc. – a form of curating their algorithm for health). Actually going through their follow list together (if they’re open) can be a powerful exercise: “How do each of these profiles make you feel?” This fosters mindful media consumption.

4. Leverage Psychoanalytic Techniques to Uncover Media-Related Unconscious Material

In session, use classic techniques with a media twist. Free association might include association to images or shows. Invite the patient: “If your panic were a scene from a movie, what comes to mind?” or “Close your eyes, the feeling of that loneliness – does any image pop up, maybe even from a film or book?” This legitimizes the inner library of media as part of their psyche’s language. Often, a spontaneously mentioned show or character can be like a modern myth or dream symbol. Analyze it like you would a dream: Why that reference? What does it mirror in their internal object relations? A patient likening her controlling mother to, say, Cersei Lannister from Game of Thrones gives a vivid archetype to work with (power-hungry, loving only her own, etc.). It also externalizes – we can talk about Cersei safely and then ease back to mother.

Dream analysis itself might increasingly contain media elements. Many people dream of checking phones, or have TV characters cameo in their dreams. Don’t dismiss that as mere day residue – explore it. Perhaps a dream where the patient is trying to get the attention of a celebrity could reflect their desire for parental validation (celebrity representing the idealized Other). Or a nightmare of being chased while trying to dial 911 on a phone that won’t work might say something about feeling unable to call for help. By analyzing these, we integrate the new symbols into classical interpretation frameworks.

Transference and countertransference awareness is key. Patients may transfer media-related expectations onto the therapist. For instance, a patient used to quick, entertaining content may (unconsciously) wish the therapist to be a sort of infotainer or influencer. If you notice yourself feeling pressure to perform or give Instagram-worthy advice, it might be a countertransference sign they cast you in that role. Interpret that gently: “I noticed I felt like I needed to come up with a catchy solution. I wonder if part of you expects me to have a quick fix, maybe like advice you see online? But therapy can be different from those posts – here we can also sit in not knowing and see what emerges.” This differentiates the process from the fast-paced culture out there.

Conversely, the patient may have a transference fear that you, the therapist, are judging them like an online audience would. They might be embarrassed to share “shameful” behaviors (like hours of porn use or envy of others on Facebook) because they think you’ll scold them. The countertransference may be that you sense a gloss or defensiveness. Interpreting, “Perhaps you worry I’d see you as shallow for caring about likes? In fact, I think many people feel that way nowadays. Let’s explore it without judgment.” This encourages them to reveal the vulnerability behind the persona.

5. Encouraging Symbolization and Narrative Beyond Stereotypes

A core therapeutic aim is to help the patient move from being a passive consumer of ready-made narratives to an active author of their own story. Many mediatized patients initially speak in clichés or borrowed language. The therapist should gently push for more nuance: “You said you ‘literally can’t even’ with your stress – that sounds overwhelming. If we put aside that phrase, what does it feel like you can’t even do or face?” This invites them to find their own words.

Using creative techniques can bypass the media clichés: art therapy (draw the feeling, they likely can’t draw as slick as an IG graphic – which is good, the imperfection lets true expression through), sand tray, or writing a letter (maybe never sent) to someone rather than texting—these analog methods re-engage symbolic thinking.

Role-play can be useful if a patient is stuck in a particular phallic persona. For example, have them play the role of their vulnerable part and you or they themselves play the strong part responding, then reverse. Allowing them to embody what they hide can break the ice – often tears or genuine reactions come when they temporarily put down the act.

For patients with identity performed online, suggest a mini “identity moratorium” (in Eriksonian sense): maybe take a break from posting and observe what feelings arise when not getting external feedback. Process that. They might say “I felt invisible and that scared me.” That’s fertile ground to explore childhood or deeper roots of needing to be seen, which perhaps was covered over by the online coping strategy.

Case example to illustrate integration: A 22-year-old patient, heavily active on social media with tens of thousands of followers as a fitness model, comes to therapy for burnout and a sense of emptiness. She often speaks in motivational quote language: “I just need to manifest positivity.” Initially, therapy focuses on her exhaustion and inability to sleep (she’s up late editing posts). The therapist suggests a sleep hygiene plan including phone-off by 10 pm; she struggles but agrees. In discussing her day, the therapist notes the performative language and invites her to just describe a moment without worrying how it sounds. She breaks down one session admitting she doesn’t know who she is off-camera. This leads to exploring her childhood: always the star athlete and pressure from family to be perfect. Transference emerges of the therapist as perhaps another audience/judge; she often asks “Is that okay?” after sharing something negative. Therapist interprets gently that she might fear disappointing him by not being the always-positive girl. This unlocks deeper grief and anger she’d suppressed. Over time, they work on integrating her “Instagram self” (confident, strong) with her wounded self. She practices authenticity in small ways: telling friends when she’s sad, posting one unfiltered photo and tolerating fewer likes but feeling oddly liberated. The therapy ends with her decision to take a hiatus from influencer life to pursue a long-delayed interest in art school – a path that felt truer to her but didn’t fit the social media brand she built. Now free from that, she felt anxious but “real” for the first time in years.

This case shows the trajectory: identify media influence, strengthen an autonomous self, use therapy relationship to validate that self irrespective of external approval, encourage life choices aligned with internal desire not external validation. It’s a “return of the unconscious” as final aim – her repressed artistic desire and real emotions returned, upending the screen persona.

6. Disrupting the Cinematic Unconscious: Building Tolerance for the Real and Imperfect

Ultimately, to break the cinematic hold, therapy must help the patient develop a tolerance for reality’s unscripted nature and their own lack. This is classic psychoanalytic goal (accept castration in Lacan’s terms), but in this context it means specifically: helping them stay present in awkward, non-stimulating, or unadorned moments without rushing to check out into a phone or fantasy. Techniques like mindfulness (though not psychoanalytic per se) can complement – train them to observe their feelings moment by moment, which builds a muscle to resist reflexively escaping into stimulation.

We often talk about “working through” – here it might include working through the withdrawal symptoms of less media, or the identity grief of letting go of an ideal image. Encourage them that feeling a bit “blah” or unsure who one is, is normal and even positive – it’s the fertile void where new authentic interests will sprout. Many mediatized folks fear that emptiness and run back to content. The therapist’s role is to accompany them through that detox and identity reconstruction process, reassuring that the void is not the end, but the beginning. As the strategy doc said, “the screen will fall silent. The void will speak. Desire will hear its own voice again”.

In concrete terms, celebrate small victories in therapy when a patient says “I was bored on Sunday without Instagram, so I ended up drawing and it was actually nice” – highlight that. Frame boredom as the royal road to creativity (akin to Winnicott’s “capacity to be alone” in the presence of someone). Frame making mistakes or not looking perfect as signs of growth (“You allowed your friend to see you cry, and she didn’t leave – that’s real connection, not weakness”).

7. Involving Families and Social Support

If appropriate, involve family or partners to create a supportive environment for changes. For a teen, educate parents on the importance of not overexposing them or using devices as babysitters, encourage family tech-free times. For an adult, maybe their spouse also scrolls in bed; couple therapy might address how both can change habit together (less Netflix binge, more talking). A systemic approach ensures the patient isn’t swimming upstream alone; ideally their circle joins or at least respects their changes (like friends not making fun if they don’t respond instantly anymore).

In concluding sessions as therapy nears end, talk about relapse prevention in media terms: noticing if they start slipping into old online habits when stressed and using the insight and tools they gained to course-correct (maybe even booster sessions if needed).

By implementing these strategies, clinicians not only heal individuals but also gradually foment a cultural shift – each recovered patient is one node of culture now interacting more mindfully with media, potentially influencing peers. This is how clinical work feeds into the larger ideological intervention.

Conclusion: Restoring the Unconscious – A Revolution Against the Mediatized Order

Sigmund Freud, Jacques Lacan, and Slavoj Žižek – representing three generations of psychoanalytic revolutionaries – remind us that reclaiming the unconscious is key to resisting ideological domination.

In this comprehensive strategy report, we have navigated through the intricate relationship between media culture and the psyche, exposing how cinematic and algorithmic forces have engendered new syndromes and shaped mental distress in our era. From the ideological apparatus of classical cinema to the hyperreal onslaught of today’s social networks, we observed that the mediatized regime operates by colonizing the space of desire and suppressing the symbolic capacity of the mind. It aestheticizes trauma, glorifies superficial “empowerment,” and commodifies even our symptoms. The result is a society that appears enthralled by spectacle and progress, yet suffers a collective neuroticism – manifest in epidemics of anxiety, depression, identity fragmentation, and pathological narcissism.

We paid particular attention to the abuse and weaponization of cinematic culture and feminism. Through the concept of the Religion of the Phallic Woman, we illuminated how an underlying fantasy – that of the “complete” woman who lacks nothing – has pervaded both the male gaze and certain strands of popular feminism. This fantasy, born of a refusal to accept the reality of lack, has been nourished by cinematic heroes and algorithmic virality alike. We saw it in the trope of the “strong female character” who is rendered one-dimensional and invulnerable – a supposedly feminist icon that paradoxically reinforces a patriarchal ideal of perfection. We saw it in real-world phenomena of social media influencers performing empowerment while being privately ensnared by the need for approval. And we analyzed the extreme outcome of these trends in the Pathological Narcissistic Phallic Woman (PNPW) syndrome – a pathology wherein a person’s entire identity revolves around a grandiose, media-validated self-image, to the detriment of authentic relationships and inner peace.

Against these formations, we set out a broad arsenal of strategies. We argued that psychoanalysis and psychotherapy must reclaim their activist roots, stepping beyond individual treatment to critique and change the cultural conditions that breed pathology. This means forging alliances: between clinicians and educators to build media literacy, between psychoanalysts and policymakers to ensure ethical oversight of Big Tech’s algorithmic power, between critical theorists and artists to reveal ideological distortions in popular media. It also means updating our clinical practice – integrating questions of media use into assessment, addressing the “third presence” of the screen in the therapy room, and helping patients break the cycle of compulsive visibility and comparison.

Central to our proposal is the idea of granting the unconscious its rights back. We championed the notion of a “visual diet” and the right to disconnect – asserting that individuals and communities deserve regular refuge from the flood of images and demands. This is not about escapism, but about creating conditions where the mind can dream, reflect, and feel without being immediately co-opted or graded by a digital audience. In those off-screen spaces, the repressed can resurface – unfiltered sadness, genuine joy, latent creative impulses, critical questions. These are the raw materials of mental health and personal agency.

What would it mean, at the largest scale, to win this struggle? It would mean that a young woman watches a film or scrolls a feed and no longer unconsciously asks “What must I do to be like that (or get approval)?” but instead thinks, “Do I even desire what is shown here? What do I truly want?” It would mean that the design of our technologies shifts from maximizing attention to respecting psychological wellbeing – perhaps apps that encourage pauses and self-awareness, as much as they encourage consumption. It would mean popular narratives embracing complexity and lack: for instance, mainstream films portraying heroines who are strong and allowed to fail and learn (neither polished idols nor mere objects), or social media trends where people authentically share not only successes but also uncertainties, without those being weaponized against them. In short, it would mean a cultural environment that validates the imperfect, the unseen, the nuanced – the hallmarks of reality and the unconscious – over the airbrushed and performative.

Such a revolution is admittedly ambitious. We are up against massive economic and ideological machinery – a “mediatized regime [that] is the most advanced apparatus of repression ever constructed upon the unconscious”. Yet, history reminds us that apparatuses can be resisted and repurposed. The 20th-century psychoanalytic pioneers – Freud challenging repressive Victorian norms, Lacan countering the conformism of mid-century psychology, Žižek critiquing late capitalist ideology – all in their own ways staged revolts of the mind. They taught us that wherever there is an official story or image of wholeness, one must look for the crack, the symptom that tells the truth of a conflict. Today’s official story is the glossy, optimized life on-screen; the truth is in the rising curve of mental distress off-screen. By focusing our therapeutic, intellectual, and activist efforts on those cracks, we widen them until the façade can no longer hold.

In practical terms, even minor acts can accumulate toward this shift. Every time a clinician helps a patient put into words a feeling that doesn’t fit the Instagram narrative – that is a subversive victory. Every time a young person decides to delete an app for the sake of their anxiety and instead meets a friend in person – that is a reclaiming of reality. Every media creator who chooses authenticity over clickbait, every tech designer who prioritizes ethics over profit, contributes to tipping the balance.

Ultimately, “the revolution of the screen” will not be about destroying screens, but about changing who is master. In our current arrangement, as we have shown, the screen (and those who control its content and algorithms) acts as master over the unconscious – commanding the gaze, dictating desire, anesthetizing pain with spectacle. Our goal is to invert this: to make the unconscious the master of the screen. In concrete terms, this means media and technology in service of human needs (for connection, expression, knowledge), rather than humans contorting their psyches to serve the needs of media platforms.

Psychoanalysis, in returning to this fray, becomes not a niche introspective indulgence but a form of cultural resistance and healing. It reminds society that “as long as the unconscious is repressed, neither the individual nor society can be free”. Freedom here is the freedom to want what one truly wants (beyond internalized scripts), to relate to others beyond avatars, to see life in its richness and not through a distorted funhouse mirror of ideology.

We conclude by harkening to a line cited earlier, an almost prophetic motto for this fight: “The lion leaps only once. And that leap happens not on the screen – but in the unconscious.”. The lion symbolizes the raw, untamed forces of human desire and truth. It will not find its liberation in the endless loops of images on a screen. It finds it in the singular, bold act of turning inward and then outward with new eyes. Our collective task is to facilitate that leap – to give people the courage and means to withdraw their libidinal investment from the false images and reinvest in reality, in each other, in themselves. If enough of us make that leap, the screens will eventually have to follow suit and reflect a new reality: one where human unconscious and creativity, not mediatized syndromes, chart the course of culture.

Sources: The analysis and strategies presented draw on contemporary psychoanalytic critiques and studies of media’s impact on mental health. Key references include Fidaner’s concept of the Phallic Woman and mediatized ideology, Laura Mulvey’s feminist film theory on the gaze, Nancy Fraser’s critique of neoliberal feminism’s co-option, as well as findings on social media’s links to anxiety, depression, and body image issues. The IPA/FLŽ Strategy Manifesto itself provided a structural framework for understanding the intersection of media and pathology. Through integrating these sources, this report offers a multi-layered approach to freeing both individuals and society from the pathogenic grip of the mediatized unconscious – a freedom that begins when we let the silenced void speak and listen once more to the authentic voice of desire.