Posing as frazzled and frayed, at wit's end, hanging by a thread is a common ploy for keeping feedback at bay. Acting wounded by feedback can be a passive aggressive way of saying, "Now look what you've done, you creep. I demand immunity. Don't ever give me feedback again." (See Yintimidation.)

When someone says, "I can't take this right now," being half a mind reader, you might well wonder if it's true. If you voice your doubts you enter a head-to-head struggle over interpretations of the resister's state of mind.

You: "Oh, come on, you're not feeling that vulnerable. You can take it!"
The resister: "Hey, don't tell me what I'm feeling."

This typical response asserts that the resister is backed by something with the force of natural law, basically "If I say I can't take something, and you doubt whether it's true, I should win automatically because I'm inside of me and therefore must know better."

Of course this bogus natural law isn't borne out by the evidence. We lie about what's going on inside ourselves-often to ourselves, too. Being inside ourselves sometimes keeps us from seeing our own motivations as clearly as others do. (See Mindreader's Rights.)

Citing it as natural law is one of many ways to say, "I sense that you don't trust me, but trust me, you can trust me." Even the simple declaration "No really!" has this meaning. It's easy to see why such insistence is not entirely convincing. If I don't trust you, why should I trust you when you tell me to trust you?

For pretzel logic, this "trust me, you can trust me" stuff is still surprisingly persuasive. At least it gets employed a lot, which suggests that it must be effective at least some of the time. Perhaps it's not entirely convincing, but it opens such a daunting can of worms that people just surrender rather than entering into a secondary debate about whether the resister can or cannot handle the primary debate.

It's possible to stymie feedback with a line that opens an even bigger can of worms. If I really want to keep you from giving me feedback, I can say in an exhausted yet threatening tone, "Look, I've had a hard day. I'm not going to take your crap right now." Most of us have in our repertoire a certain harsh sigh that says much the same thing.

This is an example of what Gregory Bateson called a double bind, a statement that points in two opposite directions. First, "My reserves are low; please do me the favor of accommodating me by sparing me what may be genuinely useful feedback and I will be grateful." Second, "I normally humor you by tolerating your worthless suggestions, but today I am so worn out I cannot respond with my usual generosity." It's a mixed message, a snarled request, an assault delivered on bended knee. It's like saying, "I'm a little short on cash. I humbly request that you pay for my lunch right now you greedy selfish SOB." Calling it "your crap" is an engagement and a disengagement all at once. (See Butterfly Punch.) It's saying both "I'm not receptive to this debate; I surrender" and "I'm winning and terminating this debate with these last words."

It's a con, but always? By definition, no. Disingenuous moves would have no credibility if they didn't imitate legitimate ones. There are times when saying "I'm too tired; I can't take your crap" is perfectly reasonable. Think of the enslaved or oppressed people who after years of enduring it, finally rise up against an intolerable foe. Think of Rosa Parks. When she refused to sit at the back of the bus, she didn't call it crap, but quite understandably she wasn't going to put up with segregation anymore. That's the kind of legitimate gesture we imitate when we use those double bind statements or sighs to deflect feedback.

And likewise there are people who really can't change. There are times when supposedly constructive feedback isn't constructive because the person can't change in response to it. Tell a quadriplegic she ought to try walking. She'll say it's hopeless, she has given up on trying. Persist, saying, "Oh come on, where's that can-do attitude? You know, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's something ventured, nothing gained too, so leave me alone."

You too may be tired of these psychological convolutions, and that's my closing point. How do we know what people can and can't take? How do we know what they can or can't change? It's hard. There is no final authority on it. We don't just report the state of our reserves or our "fixit self-efficacy," because it opens cans of worms-debates about what we can and can't take. We may wish for the wisdom to know what we can and can't change about ourselves and each other, but we don't necessarily trust each other's wisdom, and there's no final arbiter in such debates. These are the reasons the subtexts often stay sub.