"Profiles" in Abuse: The Gaping Sinkhole

Eric Heather Haddox

In my previous post, I wrote about how abusive situations make you feel like leaving isn't an option. This post is about forms of group denial.

Another blogger came up with the idea of the missing stair. Basically, the missing stair is a problem or person [problem person] in a community that everyone simply steps over.

Do they replace the stair? No. Do they warn other people about the stair? Sure. Does that mean everyone, especially those new to the community know about the missing stair, so that they can do their best to avoid it? Probably not.

In the context of the post, the missing stair is a rapist within the BDSM community. What's staggering is that, although the writer didn't name names or give any identifying information, everyone knew exactly who the post was in reference to.

They knew. They knew they had a rapist in their midst, as in "Oh yeah, that's Charles, the rapist that also happens to be part of my social circle. He's not so bad once you get to know him."

The post over at Pervocracy is worth reading in full and then reading again and sharing with all your friends. Special points for using the phrase "Rape Babysitter."

The story of Profiles and Darrell W. Cox reminds me of this concept—because people knew about the abuse. They knew that there was something off. His fellow actors / employees (?) formed unofficial support groups around this guy. His co-director enabled him every step of the way. Women warned other women to stay away, keep their distance.

We need a new metaphor here, for a person who abuses those under his power with relative impunity, enabled by the system(s) in place around him. Darrell W. Cox was not a missing stair. He was a gaping sinkhole.

For years and years, important things would go missing. They would get too close to the edge of the sinkhole and be swallowed up whole. Dairy cows. A few really nice couches from IKEA, the kind you proudly buy when you get your first apartment. Once, an entire bus full of Swedish tourists got sucked in and was never heard from again.

For nearly three decades, those who lived by the sinkhole whispered stories about it, of what might happen to you if you got too close. Roughly once a year, someone would put up a sign warning passers-by. But the sinkhole would quickly swallow that up too.

When someone would make the bold suggestion that perhaps something might be done about the sinkhole, people would point out that the sinkhole was an extremely gifted communicator. Many spoke of the unique gifting that the sinkhole had to preach and spread the gospel. Yes, there was the matter of the cows and those unfortunate Swedish tourists, but sometimes, sacrifices must be made.

I once worked for a CEO who went through assistants like some people go through jars of Nutella. I think everyone (including the higher-ups) knew that he could be a difficult person to work for (how could they not?), but I have no idea if they knew the extent of it.

He was extremely intelligent and charismatic. Of course he was. Sinkholes always are.

Even now, I wonder how he could've happened. How and why was he allowed to engage in abusive behavior in a professional environment? Was everyone blind to it? Did they just not care? Am I crazy for thinking "This is crazy"?

At a certain point in most abusive contexts, you learn to accept the unacceptable. Gradually, you become tolerant of behavior that in any other context would strike you as absurd, even nonsensical.

Maybe no one bothered to warn you. Maybe everyone around you is acting like this is normal. Maybe there's a giant, gaping sinkhole beneath your feet and, "No big deal. Just walk a mile or two to avoid it and you should be fine."

"Profiles" in Abuse: You Don't Need a Reason to Leave

In the latest scandal to rock the theater world, Profiles theater recently shut down due to allegations of abuse, sexual harassment and exploitation published in an extensively researched article by the Chicago Reader.

Before this, I had never even heard of Profiles theater. And now, sadly, I will never get a chance to see one of their shows (sarcasm alert).

Despite my lack of personal connection, I wanted to lay out some of the most striking and familiar aspects of this particular story—the things that strike me as uncanny (because abusers and abusive environments often share a lot in common) and the things that strike me as indicative of abuse as a system/structure (not merely the actions of one evil person).

Good.

This story doesn't come from the Chicago Reader, but from a blog post published by an actress who worked with Darrell W. Cox at Profiles.

Emily Vajda describes sitting in a chair "being abused for hours" by Cox after he misinterprets something she said:

I remember thinking, “Listen, breathe, rebuttal.” And so that is what I did. I would listen to his abuse, take a breath, and refute it. I threw his teachings in his face. I didn’t back down. I had no idea I possessed this much strength. And that is a beautiful thing to realize, to recognize one’s own power. 

Later that same night (after a break) she comes back to the theater for "round two":

There was one lone chair in the center of the stage, presumably for me, while the rest of the company sat in the audience, watching. I sat down in the chair and said, “Round two? Bring it.” And he brought it. And I fought. And no one stopped it.

There is much that is troubling about Vajda's story—she points out twice that no one attempted to stop the abuse. No one stood up for her. Instead, they watched.

But reading this, what strikes me the most is this:

She didn't leave. She didn't walk out. She didn't even seem to know that she had any choice but to endure the abuse and fight back.

By "leave," I don't even mean quitting the theater or the production. I mean simply leaving the physical space in which you are being abused.

I'm not saying this to place blame, but to point out how abusive environments work. They mess with your head—and the effects can linger long after you've gone.

Back when I was in an abusive work environment, I promised myself that as soon as my boss said or did anything even remotely abusive to me personally, I would leave. I prided myself on what I referred to as my own personal "Zero Tolerance Policy."

But of course, it wasn't simply the person who was abusive—it was the entire system.

What I wasn't able to fully articulate at the time was this: You don't have to wait around for blatant and outright abuse in order to leave. You can leave at anytime. You don't need a "good" reason.

As a culture, we seem to pride ourselves on sticking it out, perseverance, when the going gets tough, etc. But what about leaving the first time he calls you a "bitch," what about looking for a new job the moment your manager starts making veiled threats—what about walking away before something terrible happens.

We all want that one moment—that one, undeniable, awful thing that justifies us and our actions. So that when anyone asks, we can point to it and say, "See? I had to leave. I had good reason. I made the right choice."

Often, there is a part of us that knows before we know—that sinking in our stomachs. That awful feeling of shame. That primitive knowledge best expressed as, "This feels like shit." Even if you can't express the "why."

Personally, I tend to overestimate my ability to stay emotionally detached (read: safe) in certain situations (I believe I am the exception to the rule).

The voice in my head is saying, "This is crazy. This is not normal. This is wrong." But it is the nature of extreme communal activities (like theater or working at a start-up) to get inside your head, to justify what in any normal situation would seem insane, so that you are no longer thinking clearly.

Part of this is just the sheer camaraderie involved—the good feelings, the connecting with other people, the genuine affection you feel for those you are in the trenches with.

None of this (the staying, the personal investment) makes you a brainless herd animal, it is simply part of what it means to be human. And abusive systems take advantage of that. The system is f***ed up. Not the person.

I applaud Vajda for fighting back against an abusive bully. I only wish she hadn't felt like that was her only or best option.

How to Manage an INTP

The title of this post is ironic, of course—you can't actually "manage" an INTP. If you do, he/she will simply give you a strange look conveying either, "The f***?" or "Come again, I couldn't hear you over the deafening roar of my teeming brain"

I jest. But only a little bit. 

When I contemplate dealing with authority as an INTP, it makes me want to laugh, cry and give up. When my bosses contemplate having to deal with me, It's probably much a similar response, though I'm sure some of them would go straight to strangling me to death with the nearest USB cable, zero tolerance policies be damned.

But it doesn't have to be this way! Things can be different! I believe! I hope! With all the irrationality of that first hit of caffeine at 9:37AM on a Monday, I hope and believe that we can do better than both homicidal rage and crushing indifference. 

I hope.

My theory is that with just a little bit of strategy, you can get way more value out of the INTP than whatever salary/rate you happen to be paying them, simply by capitalizing on the INTP's innate strengths and pre-existing inclinations. 

So let's just get this out of the way at the very beginning: The INTP does not respect you. 

Sorry to break it to you, but just because you are the boss, just because you are in charge, just because you hired her, just because you are signing his paycheck—means nothing. 

To her, the hierarchical structure of boss/subordinate is primarily a formality. An irritating one, a necessary one, perhaps, but mostly, just a formality. 

However, the innate disregard for authority demonstrated by the INTP must be carefully distinguished from an active, purposeful rebellion against anything perceived as a power structure.

The INTP is usually not out to actively subvert power qua power—too much work, and she has more important things to do than overthrow Capitalism. In other words, it is unlikely that she will leap to her feet at the next client meeting, yell, "F*** you and your commodity fetishism!", break something, and then storm out.

Also important to note: respect is not the same thing as following/taking direction. The INTP is perfectly capable of doing this. 

Which leads us to the first principle of managing the INTP: 

#1. Do not expect or demand performative deference.

It is possible to demand respect for no other reason than "I'm the boss." But all you can truly demand of a subordinate is the outward expression of respect. Not the reality. You simply don't have that kind of power. And do you really want to force someone else to respect you? 

Don't answer that.

The INTP does not respect you because she respects something else more—the work. 

The best way to earn the respect of an INTP? Be good at your job. Have integrity. Respect others. You know, all the normal things.

If you are hung up on a lack of "Respect," then you won't be able to appreciate the value that an INTP can offer. Which leads to the next principle:

#2. Catch them at the beginning. 

At the beginning of a job or work assignment, INTPs tend to be at their most motivated (this is probably true for most people).

In all likelihood, the INTP will bring the full force of her creativity and drive to the beginning of a new job. Take advantage of this.

Do you have a system in place that is broken, inefficient, or outdated? Set the INTP loose on its ass. It won't even know what hit it.

If there's anything that absolutely drives an INTP up the wall, it's an inefficient system for getting things done.

#3. Give them a challenging assignment and then (mostly) leave them alone.

Even better if no one else has been able to solve the problem or accomplish the task.

It is not necessary to check in with the INTP to see how things are going. In all likelihood, they will be checking in with you to vent about how frustrated they are. This is normal. Let them vent. Listen patiently, tell them you believe in them, and let them get back to work.

#4. Allow them to pursue their own passion and interests (within reason).

The INTP on a mission is like a heat-seeking missile—passion and single-minded focus are the name of the game. You can take advantage of this by letting them pursue the things that also help you accomplish your goals. There's probably some overlap here, so let the INTP zero in on what interests them (as long as it's also in line with your vision), then try to get out of the way.

#5. Work with their limitations.

You know that single-mindedness I mentioned in the last point? This can be both a good and a bad thing—but you can't capitalize on the one without factoring in the other.

Some examples of single-mindedness as a liability:

Being blunt and direct in speech—intensity of focus can tend to exclude things like wanting to be liked or being likable.

Neglecting housekeeping tasks that though important, are not a normal part of the INTP's routine (and hence are easily forgotten in the blinding light of the ONE THING).

Overestimating the importance of whatever it is they are working on rather than taking into account the whole project or the rest of the team.

Difficulty switching quickly from one priority to another, particularly if the first priority has already received their time and investment.

These are all things to take into consideration.

#6. Don't take their frustration personally.

Frustration is passion + obstacle. So, frustration means that the INTP cares. This is important, especially if the INTP cares about the things that you care about. Rather than seeing frustration as a bad thing, it's more helpful to see it as a necessary part of the process. Frustration is the precursor to breakthrough.

#7. Redirect their complaint into a mission to make things better.

Instead of taking their frustration personally, turn it back on them and ask them, how can we make this better or solve this problem? What would you like to see happen? How can we change the system so that this doesn't happen again?

#8. Don't let them get bored.

Challenge them, or they will leave.

#9. Give them free snacks. 

'Nuff said.

#10. Use time to your advantage.

If you sense that this is a short-term arrangement (maybe there's a limited amount of growth potential), use time to your advantage by capitalizing on the INTP's strengths from the beginning and asking them to create systems that will carry on after they leave—this could be as simple as a job description or task list for the next person or as complex as re-imagining an entire design process.

Get it in writing. Get them to write a training manual, create a wiki, or make a template. Get something you can use.

I try to approach a new job in such a way that I eventually "work myself out of of a job," usually by training someone else to replace me or setting into existence systems that make processes more efficient. If that isn't in the cards, I try to leave things better than I found them, so that the next person will easily be able to pick up where I left off or at least have some kind of starting point.

I'm not claiming this is out of some innate sense of altruism—it's rooted in pride as much as anything else—I want to be able to look back and say, "This is what I accomplished. This is how things were better because of me. Behold the works of my hands."

If you can capitalize on this instinct, you can get a ton of value out of the INTP. Just don't abuse it.

Hopefully, with these tips, managing the INTP can be a win/win situation for everyone.