Self Will and Surrender

Lessons on Life in Good Will Hunting

I don’t think there’s such a thing as too many viewings of Good Will Hunting, the 1998 classic fueled by Dunkin Donuts, Boston accents, and the undeniable brotherhood of Matt Damon and the Affleck duo. The movie works on many levels: it’s an underdog story, a dating manual, a coming of age tale. It fits into the epic hero cycle archetype, and it presents the divisions that class imposes on growth in society.  It also reveals an important aspect of recovery: the necessity of surrendering self will and accepting the will of a power greater than ourselves to experience true freedom and connection. 

The title Good Will Hunting should be enough for us to realize the film is about a bit more than a young genius discovered by a Scandinavian MIT alum professor. I never really thought too deeply about the meaning of this title; maybe the film’s place as a classic in the world of cinema just held it above all scrutiny in my mind for a time. On one level it gives a qualifier to the protagonist, Will Hunting, perhaps reflecting the inherent goodness of his character, who is ultimately drawn to love and vulnerability rather than money and fame. The title also suggests a search for good will, playing on Will’s name in a way that titles such as The Importance of Being Ernest and The Santa Clause do. The title introduces us to a protagonist who is either hunting for good will or is just good Will Hunting. He proves to be both. 

The film reflects Will’s personal struggle to discern his true calling in life and to strategize the best way forward on that path. From the beginning, he seems drawn to something greater than what his Southie existence has in store for him, but he needs a push to actively pursue that greatness. The Will Hunting we meet works as a janitor at MIT,  a job he obtained through his PO for an unmentioned past misdemeanor. We learn that Will has many of those in his closet of skeletons. He lives on his own in a dismal rental and spends his unemployed hours either living the ruffian life of a young Bostonian or devouring library books that feed the natural intellect and hunger for knowledge that distinguish him from the guys with whom he’s grown up. Will’s insatiable need to fill his mind with information seems to be a kind of escape from the trauma of his past as well as his discontent with his present. On one hand, it serves him well -  evidenced by the scenes in the bar, when he effectively shuts down a snobby Harvard student who has insulted his buddy Chuckie (Ben Affleck), and in the court, when the judge cites a slew of past offenses all dismissed by Will’s defense arguments that invoke lines from the Constitution and other legalities. Both occasions witness Will’s uncanny ability to summon information from his books with a photographic recall and masterful application of the content to the situations at hand. However, though testaments to his intelligence, these examples present Will using his knowledge against others rather than as a means to connect with them. Will’s knowledge is a lonely thing. He reads his books in the dismal setting of his shabby apartment and doesn’t seem to have anyone in his life with whom he can share this pursuit in a meaningful way. He may be able to embarrass a Harvard student and get himself off a few run-ins with the law, but his knowledge doesn’t give him true fulfillment, and it only temporarily saves him from the downward rolling cycle of his life on the tough streets of Boston. 

Our addictions function in a similar way. They serve as temporary fixes for the variety of issues in our lives, all of which stem from the greatest problem of all, that is our growing state of disconnect from self, others and our higher power. Everyone experiences this disconnect on some level, and the greater the trauma that exacerbates it, the more urgent our need for a solution. The urgency of this need dictates the weight of our found solutions in our life patterns. For Will, who has lived through abandonment and abuse, the need is high. His pursuit of knowledge gives him a sense of control and allows him to prove himself superior on some level. For a young man who has become all too familiar with the message that he is unworthy - of love, of respect, of acceptance, of everything - this knowledge allows him to prove that message false on at least a couple fields of play. He can outwit someone who refuses to respect him, and he can convince himself that his life is not destined to spiral downward into an existence confined to the verdicts of other men. He finds relief in his ability to retain knowledge, but he also finds some relief from his personal hell by engaging in reckless behaviors alongside his four man Southie wolfpack. Not only does he feel a sense of belonging in something as seemingly insane as joining his buddies to beat up on some guys that used to bully him in kindergarten, but he also buys into the delusion that this kind of action evens the scales of justice in his life. In becoming an agent of violence upon others, he becomes the giver of pain instead of the victim. He fails to see that this action cannot erase past harm and only puts him on a path on which he faces more consequences and restrictions from the very authorities he feels are against him. 

Early in the film, Professor Gerry Lambeau (played by Stellan Skarsgaard) discovers that Will is the  one responsible for solving two “impossible” math problems left in the hallway as a challenge for his MIT students. The feat is a sword-in-the-stone kind of achievement, a challenge meant to single out greatness. When he realizes the identity of the contest winner, Lambeau finds Will in court defending himself against his most recent charge of assault. Though Will makes an impressive case for himself, the judge - dismayed by his rap sheet - doesn’t seem inclined to let him off. Will’s savior arrives in the form of the ambitious Professor Lambeau, who negotiates a deal in which Will reports to him to work on mathematics and to attend court-ordered therapy. 

The therapy goes as you’d expect any therapist sessions to go when the patient doesn’t have the willingness to be vulnerable, to admit a problem, or to be honest. Will, who insists that he doesn’t need therapy, rips through five therapists, who each storm out after the first session, angry and offended by Will’s insolent attitude and refusal to take the work seriously. The sessions are hilarious, but they’re also sad. They reflect Will’s mastery of putting up walls with his intelligence as a means of guarding himself from the threat posed by actually opening up about the real fears and trauma that lurk just outside those defenses. The therapists who give up on him so readily either don’t see this truth in his actions or fear having to be vulnerable themselves in dealing with someone who targets them so he doesn’t have to look at himself. Lambeau finally brings in his former roommate from MIT, Sean Maguire, a psychology professor with Southie roots of his own. In his first meeting with Sean, Will tries the same routine of turning the focus from himself, asking Sean questions and critiquing a painting on the wall of his office, even transgressing into the territory of Sean’s marriage with his interrogation. Though Will treads on sensitive ground with this last line of questioning, Sean perceives the inexperience and pain behind the cocky, intelligent front that the young man presents, and he agrees to continue working with him.

In deciding to work with the young man, Sean enters a battle of wills. He sees that Will’s self will rules his life and prevents him from pursuing true connection with others as well as with himself. Sean sees that Will desperately wants connection and fulfillment but is not willing to take the steps needed to do the work of getting there. Connection requires vulnerability and a surrender, but Will’s past trauma has led him to prioritize security over love. Will cannot be sure of love, so he chooses to devote his energy into factors he can control, namely factual intelligence. He feels that the wealth of knowledge he has accumulated can both protect and empower him, since they give him a kind of superiority over others. He doesn’t perceive his failure to cultivate real connections with people as a loss. If he doesn’t let people in, he doesn’t allow them to hurt him. Will is willing to pursue only the things he can be sure of, and even if he wants the kind of life that involves love and happiness, he can’t bring himself to surrender the self will that this kind of connection requires of him. So when faced with therapy, an experience in which he should be turning his focus inward to begin the work of healing, Will instead chooses to look at subjects that fall into his areas of knowledge.

Sean sees that Will wants to know the world, to know art, to know love and to know himself but doesn’t know where to start and is too afraid to find out. Knowledge of the facts of something gives us the delusion of control, but it’s the kind of knowledge we can achieve in the safety of isolation. As a way of explaining his choice to work with Will, Sean tells him that his knowledge hasn’t come from experience of real love or loss, because he hasn’t let himself love anyone more than his self-preserving ego will allow. To truly know and love someone, we need to be with them and to risk the pain of loss. Sean concludes, “There's nothing you can tell me that I can't read somewhere else. Unless we talk  about your life. But you won't do that. Maybe you're afraid of what you might say.” 

In recovery, we cannot cultivate real connections with others, our higher power, or ourselves if we let the fear of honest vulnerability maintain guard over the walls we put up. This fear is what caused us to deny our problem for so long, even to ourselves. And this fear sometimes still causes us to retreat into the smaller lies of denying daily struggles and resentments. This fear can keep us from acknowledging the parts of ourselves we are most ashamed of, therefore only allowing us to reveal pieces of ourselves to the people in our lives. 

Will’s relationship with Skylar - the Harvard student (played by Minnie Driver) whose number he famously displays in the window to the question of “How do you like them apples?” after outsmarting the pompous, pony-tailed grad student from the bar - further reveals his struggle to be vulnerable with the people he cares about. He clearly likes Skylar. She’s smart and funny, someone he can connect with on an intellectual plane who also brings out his lighter side. It’s evident to us after their initial meeting and first date that she clearly likes him too. This attraction terrifies Will, who conceals that fear beneath a confident, experienced demeanor. When Sean asks if he’s called her after their first date, Will replies in the negative, assuring his therapist that he knows what he’s doing. By delaying or possibly negating a second date with Skylar, Will maintains his illusion of her as a perfect woman while protecting himself from the rejection he fears when she inevitably learns the truths about him of which he is most ashamed. Even when they do continue to see each other, Will lies about his family and his living situation, using these conceptions as securities as he lets Skylar into other parts of his life. He fails to give her the full truth because he cannot trust her to stay with him when he has experienced abandonment and betrayal of that trust by the people in his life who were supposed to give him security and love. 

I’ve practiced a similar approach to relationships, especially when my drinking was a more prominent shadow in my life. When a college breakup coincided with a particularly difficult experience for me, I translated the circumstances as proof that the more honest I was about my struggles, the more inevitable it became for people to leave me. As my drinking progressed, I became a firm believer in this delusion. I felt that with every relationship in my life, the other person was moving along this line of knowledge that contained everything about me, organized from best to worst. Their movement down that line increased their understanding of me but also heightened the odds that they’d reach the point of departure. Like Will, I listened to my shadow and believed that at my core I was ugly, broken and unlovable, even if I might appear otherwise. And I would almost prefer people to leave me rather than reaching a point where they could see just what I saw. 

When I was teaching, I had a thought mid-lesson that my students would write down anything I wrote on the board out of practice, so I said something that made very little sense about the origin of the name Mount Vesuvius. My kids all wrote it down. I’m not great at lying, so I just paused and waited to see if anyone would question the notes on the board. I could see the lights come on in one girl’s face, but she was hesitant to question something I’d put on the board since I was supposed to know more than her. But she did ask the question. I think that’s how our minds are in active addiction. By nature and for survival, we learn from our experiences in life, and that learning is seriously affected by our warped and self-centered perception of reality. Our minds dutifully take lessons to heart that a healthier mind wouldn’t waste any notebook space on: I am unworthy of love, everyone leaves when they find out enough, if I love I will lose, this helps, this is hurting me, this is the only way. And even if we want to question it, we don’t always have the evidence to back our doubts and revise those interpretations of life’s lessons. 

I think that’s a big factor in why it’s so difficult to move from active addiction to recovery. Even without the substances that made those feelings of unworthiness and despair temporarily bearable, we still have the mindset that we’re not worth the love and connection we so need to succeed in recovery. When that connection becomes apparent in our lives in the form of people who want to help us or loved ones who urge us to change our substance use, we interpret the opportunity for connection as criticism and rejection rather than love. Even if we do see the love, we can’t accept it because we’re still believers in the lie that we’ve accumulated a list of sins too heinous for anyone to sanely forgive. 

In the heartbreaking scene when Skylar asks Will to come to California with her, Will demonstrates this mindset in his fear-induced reaction. I used to think he was a monster in this scene, accusing her of being incapable of understanding him and truly loving him while she cries that she loves him through tears. He leaves her after dismantling the false image he has tried to create of himself, giving her a glimpse of his traumatic past and leaving before allowing her to show him that she can love him for those things, not in spite of them or except for them. She asks him to stay, and he chooses to return to his safe existence of isolation in the fortification of his factual knowledge. I thought he was terrible in this moment. Skylar is this incredible girl who is being totally vulnerable and honest, and he just leaves. I felt that his action reflected a lack of love, failing to see that it was more a fear of both giving and receiving love. And I can see that I’ve committed that same offense over and over when I failed to turn to my loved ones and ran instead to the false security of my addiction. Every time I chose to drink rather than to be vulnerable and accept their love, I hurt them just as Will hurt Skylar. I can see now that while he did act selfishly, he acted out of fear and a firm conviction in the impossibility of staying. That list of false lessons screamed in his head, causing him to once again choose self-will over the easy surrender of love.

Thankfully for Will, and for us, the solution is a lot simpler than we perceive it to be when we’re trying to figure it out on our own. Though he struggles to accept love, Will has made progress in his relationship with Sean. He respects his input, and he allows Sean to see some of the pain he has held onto since his childhood. Sean tells him the words he has been unable to hear or believe since then - “it’s not your fault” - and embraces him, giving him love even as Will stubbornly tries to refuse it yet again. Even Will’s buddy Chuckie refuses to let Will deny himself of the opportunity for something greater than he thinks he deserves. When I told my brother I’d just watched this film again, the first scene he brought up was the one when Chuckie tells Will the best part of his day: “The ten seconds before I knock on the door,  'cause I let myself think I might get there, and you'd be gone. I'd knock on the door and you wouldn't be there. You just left.” It’s not a conventional expression of love, but in sharing this hope, Chuckie lets Will know that his friend deserves something more than the life he has accepted as his lot. Both Chuckie and Sean give Will something he didn’t ask for, and their love finally opens his eyes to the value in taking a risk and to the fact that the lessons he has let dictate his life have been wrong. In their own ways, Chuckie and Sean show him that his perception of himself and of love has been limited to a broken interpretation. 

I think these influences in Will’s life reflect an aspect of the title that I didn’t address earlier: the idea of hunting. Will has been hunting his whole life for something good, even if he isn’t sure that he deserves it or will achieve it. Hunting is a survival word; it implies that there is something evading us that we must track down in order to live. For Will, who has learned from a young age that he can trust nobody and that happiness might not be in the cards for him, hunting for something good seems the only way since he cannot rely on anyone to hand it to him. He craves good will but sees only pain, and the only solutions he has any confidence in are the ones he has learned in mathematics books and other forms of academic education. So while he has been hunting for solutions in gleaned intelligence, he has failed to see the good will present and available to him in the people in his life. 

The presence of and roles of people like Sean, Chuckie and Skylar in Will’s life are evidence of a higher power at work. They come into his life in different, fortuitous ways and choose to stay because they see something in him that he can’t yet see for himself. We too have people in our lives who can be sources of connection, guidance, love and support. And when we can see the availability of this love and the presence of our higher power in these connections - whether they’re our family, friends, teammates, partners, strangers or teachers - we can finally realize that God isn’t hiding and in need of hunting but is just here with us. Look at the people in our lives - the ones we’ve inherited by birth, encountered through shared circumstance or crossed paths with by seemingly random chance. If we can believe that there is a higher power orchestrating these relationships for a greater purpose, we can see that the connection we felt deprived of in active addiction has always been available to us. We don’t need to hunt it down using substances or behaviors that ultimately imprison us; we just have to learn to take down the walls that prevent us from seeing it. 

The term good will is the modern descendant of the medieval “God’s will” and comes with a bunch of definitions that express the desire of well-being for another. In Aristotle’s writing on the three forms of friendship, this is the highest, purest form of friendship: the relationship in which we care for the wellbeing of the other person not for any profit or enjoyment of our own. This is love. We can translate the title like a math equation: good will = love = God, and hunting = deliberate searching; ergo, good will hunting = searching for God. Without realizing it, Will has been searching for his solution and hasn’t found it in his life because he has been raised to see the absence of love instead of the presence. It’s like those black and white images - Rubin’s vase is the famous one - that show us two forms existing each in the absence of the other. We look at them and see only one of them first, finding it nearly impossible to see anything but the image that has become our mind’s focus. If we look at the darkness of Rubin’s vase, we see two faces looking at each other. However, when we focus on the white, we can see the vase. They’re both there. Will has been looking at the darkness for so long that he has missed the light reality in front of him. 

Trauma has accomplished this mindset for Will, and the trauma that either feeds or grows from our addictions functions in the same way. It blinds us to the love available to us and convinces us that we’re unworthy of it even if it was there. Through the people God has put in his life, Will finally sees the other reality. He sees that there is love in his life even with the trauma, and he chooses to set himself on the path toward cultivating that love when he leaves his Southie life to drive to California after Skylar. 

The film ends with a visual of Will driving rather than his inevitable reunion with Skylar, which may not offer the closure we want; however, it’s a fitting representation of his willingness to be vulnerable at last. He doesn’t know how she will receive him, but he’s going anyway, and he’s doing so in a vehicle gifted to him by his friends and having left a good-bye note echoing the line of his therapist turned friend: “I had to go see about a girl.” I like the ending scene of the road stretching into the distance, because it’s an accurate version of what it means for us to be in life, in recovery. We don’t know where our lives will take us when we take the road of recovery, but we’re choosing to set aside self will and go after something we trust to be right. We’re moving toward greater connection and more honest, vulnerable love despite the unknowns.