Aphantasia - I never realised I think differently from everyone else

Imagine a beach. Can you see the sand and the waves? I can't.

This week I discovered that I have something known as aphantasia. This is the inability to see things in my imagination - my mind's eye is blind! Of course, I've always known that I didn't really see anything when I imagined it (why would I see it? it's only imaginary after all!), I just never knew that other people really did see what they imagined. I still find it hard to believe that other people see what they imagine.

I was writing something about robot faces as part of my PhD research and I wanted to find out the name for seeing faces in inanimate objects, like doorknobs and car headlights (it's called pareidolia, by the way) and I came upon a page about aphantasia, describing how some people don't see anything when they imagine it. This was not a revelation; it seemed to be pointing out the blatantly obvious. It's like saying that people don't look as beautiful as they wished they looked, or that people aren't as rich as they want to be. Well duh, imaginary things and reality are obviously different. Turns out, it's not so obvious after all, as most people can see what they imagine. Weird.

Baggy McBagface. Image source: The Conversation

It's really strange that I never realised that my thinking was any different to anyone else's, and yet according to several studies, this "condition" of mine affects just 2-3% of people! So I'm in a tiny minority.

So aphantasia is a minority thing; most people have normal phantasia (they see what they imagine), and another minority at the other extreme have hyperphantasia (an exceptionally vivid imagination). I was certainly surprised to discover these differences in how we imagine. I've read Descartes, Locke, Hume, Kant, and other philosophers who wrote about ideas and imagination, and discussed these with others at length. Yet never did I realise that others were imagining differently from me.

Which of these categories do you fall into? To find out, you can take a VVIQ test here. I scored the very lowest score on every single question: no matter how hard I try, I don't 'see' anything when I imagine it. Visualising a beach is as impossible as visualising a colour that doesn't exist; imagining a house is as impossible as imagining what the thirty-second flavour of the alphabet sounds like.

How do I know what I'm imagining?

You might wonder how I know when I'm imagining something. How do I recall what things look like? That's not particularly easy to explain, but I'll try. 

I know when I am imagining something because I'm aware of the thought in my mind. I have thoughts, such as "I'm hungry", and "I must remember to go to the post office" and "I remember putting my purse on the shelf yesterday" and "horses are yay tall" and "5 x 6 is 30". None of these thoughts have any imagery for me, but I now understand that some of them may have imagery for other people. But the imagery really doesn't seem necessary to the thought. I know that 5 x 6 is 30 without having to visualise a rectangle of five squares in six rows: I just remember the fact. It's the same with where I put my purse, or what my mother looks like. I can rattle off a 'shopping list' of features of my mother, just as I can rattle off an actual shopping list. I don't need to see a picture of my mother in my mind to know that she has short hair.

It's both fascinating and unfathomable to discover that other people's imagination really is different from mine. I had no idea. Our minds are private, and I suppose that's why people like me manage to go so long without realising our minds are different to anyone else's. I could quite easily have never found out.

Wittgenstein gave an example that helps illustrate this. He asks us to imagine that everyone has a little box, and inside their box is something which everyone calls a beetle. No one can look in anyone else's box, but each can look in his own box. Everyone says they have a beetle in their box, but I have no way of knowing whether the contents of my box (my 'beetle') are the same as the contents of yours, or indeed if some people have empty boxes. The mind is the same; I cannot leave my own mind and look inside someone else's to check if it's the same as mine.

Probably not what Wittgenstein had in mind, but it's hard to know for sure.

What is life like for me, without any visual imagination?

Well, it seems totally normal to me not to see things I imagine, but that's not helping you to understand what it's like, so I'll try to clarify. But knowing which features of me are features of aphantasia and which are just parts of my personality is tricky. There's no way for me to separate the two, but I'll do my best. But know this: life with aphantasia feels totally normal. I see things that are real, and I don't see things that are imaginary.

Inside my imagination

When I close my eyes and imagine something, all I see is some sort of brownish blotches such as this. I suppose it's the insides of my eyelids that I'm seeing, because when my hands are over my eyes, what I see is darker, and when I'm in bright sunlight, what I see is lighter. But literally whatever I'm imagining or thinking about, this is what I see (if my eyes are closed; if my eyes are open I see what's in front of me).

Some people with aphantasia say they don't have visual dreams. I do. Dreams seem just as real to me as reality does (until I wake up of course). I can recall some dreams and they seem quite vivid. Of course, when I recall them I don't see any images though.

Many people with aphantasia report having a bad memory, particularly for visual things. I would say I have a pretty good memory actually: I can learn the names of a new year group of up to 60 students in a week. I have memorised all the national flags of the world (if I see the flag, I can identify the country; I find it much harder to hear a country's name and describe the flag though), and I obviously have a mind good enough to manage a PhD. I fare very well on all aspects of IQ-type tests, including things that seem to rely on imagination, such as spatial reasoning. I can memorise lists of things, and I can recall things I've heard more easily than many people can. For example, a few years ago I did some conservation work in the Amazon rainforest, and I learned over 70 bird calls. I didn't find it easy, but I did manage it where many others failed.

But my mind isn't perfect; I'll forget appointments if I don't write them down, and I forget how to do things if I don't practice. But I think that's fairly normal. 

I don't really enjoy reading fiction. Especially fiction which is description-heavy such as Lord of the Rings; it's excruciating to have to trawl through lengthy descriptions of a landscape. The fiction that I do occasionally read is more action-based, or I could happily read a play - where there's almost no description at all. I prefer non-fiction, as it sticks to the facts. Although I can read as quickly as anyone else, my comprehension is slower than I'd like. When I used to read fiction, it wasn't uncommon for me to reach the end of the book, but struggle to recall the plot. I have to make notes on academic papers or I will very quickly forget what I've read. That's a bit of a pain, but I've always managed: I am a prolific writer and happy enough to make notes on things I read.

What must life be like for people who do have a visual imagination?

It seems very strange -- and disturbing -- that some people see what they imagine. If you are seeing things that aren't real, that aren't there, then that to me sounds like an hallucination, if not the sign of a serious mental disorder. And suppose a person is imagining their dog is sitting next to them. When they see the dog, how would they know if it's the real dog or the imaginary dog?! It must be a bit like being in a hall of mirrors. Not to mention terrifying. I have sometimes imagined scary or upsetting events - if I actually saw these things happen in front of me because I'd imagined them, I'd be a dribbling wreck, seemingly surrounded by skeletons and snakes and other monstrosities - all imaginary, of course. 

But maybe people don't imagine scary things - perhaps they only imagine nice things. I must admit, it would be nice if I could call the faces of my deceased loved ones to mind, but I can't. I cannot see them any more, and when I imagine (think of) them, I see nothing at all. Dealing with grief must be a whole lot easier when you can just 'see' your loved ones and talk to them simply by imagining it. 

And holidays.... there'd be no need to go and see the Pyramids at Giza, the Grand Canyon, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, given that you can just 'see' them for free by imagining them. I'd save a fortune on holidays if I could just see anything I wanted to by an act of will! I'd travel the universe too.

Imaginary pancakes... or are they real? 

I've read that it's not just the sense of sight, but that most people can hear, smell and taste the things they imagine too (there doesn't seem to be the same phenomenon happening for touch though). I don't experience any of these things when I imagine them.

If others really can hear, taste, smell and feel what they imagine, then dieting must be a breeze! You could eat a tiny salad but just imagine that it was a burger and chips, or eat the same dull porridge oats for breakfast every day, but just imagine it was a breakfast fit for a king! I can only assume that it's not as simple as that, but I just can't get my head around the idea of really, actually experiencing the things you imagine.

Just a figure of speech

I'm still sceptical that others really do see (hear etc) what they imagine. Surely, no one can actually see something that's imaginary? You're having me on! It's a collective joke, for sure. Or perhaps - just like with the Emperor's new clothes - no one wants to admit that they can't see something which others claim to see. Most people don't want to feel "abnormal", to have a deficiency in place of an ability which others have.... if indeed others really do have it. So if some people say they can visualise something, others may agree even though they can't in fact visualise it. 

Or like the old me, people may think "visualising" something is just a figure of speech. I speak that way too: I say things like "ooh, I can just imagine myself lying there on the beach under the sun"... well yes, I am thinking about it, and as far as I am concerned, thinking about something and imagining it are the very same things. I always believed that people were speaking figuratively when they said they could 'see' or 'visualise' things. I knew I didn't mean it literally, so assumed they were the same.

Life goes on

It's a curious thing to go one's life (over 40 years now!) having an unusual condition and all the while, thinking it was normal. Anecdotal evidence on forums seems to suggest that people can go almost their entire lives without realising there is anything unusual about their thought processes. It's fascinating to think that a condition such as this, which has presumably been prevalent for quite some time, has hitherto gone unnoticed (or unnamed at least) until the 20th century. It does make you wonder what other mysteries people might be hiding within their minds, all of us trapped in our own little worlds, trying to interact as best we can. 

But in truth, lacking the ability to actually see what is only imaginary does not bother me at all, any more than it bothers me that I can't sense electromagnetic signals the way a shark can, or sniff out a missing person the way a dog can. These are not senses I need nor really want. I am perfectly happy to live with my mind the way it is, and be safe in the knowledge that everything I see, hear, smell, taste, and touch is real. 

Probably.

The value in atheists learning about the Bible

This morning, my son refused to go to school. Why? Because yesterday, his teacher had told the class the story about Jesus feeding the 5000 with only two fish and five loaves of bread, and it angered my son.

I am an atheist, and like most parents, I have shared my belief system with my offspring, and now he believes what I believe (ie there is no God). So this morning when he was flat out refusing to go to school (which is very unlike him) I tried to offer an explanation of (a) why I think the story was written in the Bible, and (b) why it might be useful sometimes to learn about things we don't believe in.

Man trying to catch lunch for him and his 4,999 friends

My son is only in Key Stage 1 of primary school, so my discussion with him was fairly basic. First I got him to consider how big a fish is. "Any size" was his very reasonable answer - for example, feeding 5000 people with two whale-sharks (the world's largest fish) is quite plausible, and to the best of my knowledge, the Bible does not describe what type of fish was shared out. Then I suggested to my son that a story can alter a little bit with each person who tells it: A describes Jesus as feeding a small group with two large fish; B describes Jesus feeding a group with two fish; C describes Jesus feeding a large group with two small fish; D describes Jesus feeding an enormous crowd with two tiny fish - etc.

So I'd explained why the story was in the Bible when it wasn't (as far as I'm concerned) true, but still my son said he didn't think there was any point in learning something that isn't real or true. I gave him simplified versions of the arguments I offer below. I'm not sure he was entirely convinced, and I'm not sure I'm really convinced there is value in knowing lots of stories from a religion one doesn't believe in. I know that as a parent I have the choice of whether to withdraw him from religious education, but I am reluctant to do so, and I said that it is sometimes worthwhile learning things even if we don't believe them.

The arguments I make below are:
(a) It's interesting to learn stories even if we don't believe them
(b) It's useful to know the sorts of things other people believe

It's interesting

Part of our job as parents is to point out
what's real and what's not real.

I don't believe in fairies, pixies, unicorns, gods, or dragons, but sometimes it is interesting to know stories about these things. Stories about magic and impossible events can be exciting and marvellous. Reading about fictional beings, people and events can make for a great story. In fact, just about all of the best stories known to man are fictional, so fiction is obviously great.

God can seemingly do the impossible in the Bible, so that makes for a fun story. The Red Sea parting, turning water into wine, immaculate conceptions, man coming back from the dead, and indeed feeding 5000 people with two fish - these are fantastical stories which it can be fun to learn about.

That's what I told my son anyway.

But for my own part, I hated learning about religion in school: by age 7 or 8, I began to feel irritated and cheated when a story was presented to us as if it were fact, when I was pretty sure that it wasn't. For example, I recall being told several of Aesop's fables in this way, and I was particularly annoyed when we were told the story about How the Tiger got his Stripes. The teacher read it to us in assembly and prefixed it by saying it was a true story: upon hearing the title and that it was a true story, I remember being eager to find out why tigers have stripes, because I didn't know. And then when he told us the story - that the big cat had been tied to a tree and the ropes set on fire, and the black lines are where the ropes burnt into its fur - I felt cheated. He'd said it was true, but I knew it couldn't have been, because I realised that one tiger being burnt wouldn't make all tigers have stripes. And whenever we were told a religious story, I felt exactly the same: the teachers said it was fact, but I felt sure that it wasn't. (I went to a Church of England primary school, so there was plenty of religiosity each week - and my parents sent me to Sunday School for a couple of years, which was torturously dull.)

So I had sympathy for my son being annoyed at being told that Jesus had fed 5000 people with two fish and five loaves of bread, and he was insisting to me: "It's not possible to do that, so why did they say it was?" I felt for him, but I said that sometimes it's fun to learn a new story even when we know it's not real. I'm not sure whether I convinced him, but I didn't convince myself.

The difference between learning a Bible story and a story about dragons is that teachers don't suggest that the dragon stories are real. As a parent, I think that kids learning Bible stories is OK when it's prefixed by "There's a story which says that..." or even "Some people believe that..."  I think I would have been OK with that as a child, and I think my son would have been OK with hearing the Bible story had it been prefixed in such a way. My son - like me as a kid - is quite happy to hear stories about talking animals, goblins, wizards etc. so fiction isn't the problem; the problem comes when a story is presented as fact when it is entirely at odds with what seems plausible. So by all means tell kids the Bible stories, but suggesting that they are factual isn't reasonable.

It's useful

Now I argue that it's useful to know about religions that we don't believe in for three reasons:

1. To be sensitive to others' beliefs and live in harmony with those around us
2. For the sake of general knowledge
3. To help reinforce our own beliefs and know what we're arguing against

Firstly, we live in a diverse society in terms of religious beliefs: the 2011 census found that 59% of people in the UK identify as Christian, and 25% identify as no religion. We also have plenty of Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and other religions, and in the spirit of living in harmony with others around us, it's useful to know some things about different religions. For example, it's useful to know that Muslims may fast during Ramadan (and when Ramadan falls in a given year), in order to be sensitive towards anyone who is fasting. Similarly, it's useful to know that Christians might give up something for Lent, or they might want a day of peace or prayer on Easter Sunday. Although I must note that it seems to me that far more than a quarter of UK residents (the atheist population) 'celebrate' Easter by purchasing chocolate eggs, and so perhaps some people who identify as Christian are less concerned about Jesus rising from the grave than they are about chocolate eggs rising in price. Nonetheless, it seems useful to know a thing or two about the religions of those around us, particularly in the case of people who actually practise their religion. Knowing about others' religions enables us to be respectful even if we disagree with their beliefs.

Secondly, in terms of general knowledge, it is useful to know different facts about religion in the same way that it's useful to know geography, history, literature, languages, artworks and so on. If one goes around thinking that Muslims routinely wear turbans or that Hindu women wear the hijab, one is ill-informed. Aside from being little use in a pub quiz, this kind of ignorance can fuel hatred and bigotry. I seem to recall that after the World Trade Center was attacked in 2001 by Muslim terrorists, there was a spate of violence against Sikhs! So we owe it to ourselves, if not others, to have some knowledge of different religious views.

Thirdly, as John Stuart Mill wrote in On Liberty, "He who knows only his side of the argument knows little of that" (ref: Chapter II, paragraph beginning 'If the intellect and judgment of mankind...') Mill is one of my all-time favourite philosophical authors, and I think he's spot on with many of the things he writes, and his stance on knowing both sides of argument is no exception. If we atheists wish to enter into a debate with theists, it helps to know what their beliefs actually are. In knowing them, we can strengthen our own arguments and reaffirm our own (lack of) faith. To be misinformed about a theory is not a reason to disbelieve it: we should find out about the theories that exist (whatever they are) and then we can make an informed choice about what we believe, and construct arguments to show why our beliefs are more plausible than others'.

Source: The Atheist Dose

A fourth possible usefulness of hearing Bible stories is one which Christians might suggest, but that I do not subscribe to: "it's useful for non-Christian children to hear Bible stories so that they can hear 'the truth' and then change their views accordingly and convert to Christianity". I think it's definitely useful for children (and adults) to hear a range of viewpoints, but whenever one shuns fact in favour of fantasy, nothing worthwhile has been achieved. But then, I suppose a Christian might make the same argument about someone abandoning Christianity in favour of atheism!

Conclusion 

So should my son have to sit through Bible stories? Well, I think that when told sparingly and prefixed by "Some people believe that..." then there is a definite benefit for him to hear such stories. When the Bible stories are presented as if they were facts, I can understand why he finds it irritating, as I myself did at the same age. No child should be told that unverified (and unverifiable) theories are facts.

In case you're wondering, I spoke to my son's teacher this morning and asked whether they'd be learning more about Jesus today and she said no, yesterday's story was just a one-off - so my son was happy to attend school today! I'm just glad I didn't send him to the Catholic school not far from our house!

Weirdest seminar ever

Last week, I got sick with food poisoning (from my own cooking it think. After four days of sickness I went to the chemist and got some anti-nausea tablets. The following day, after 5 days of barely eating, I was starting to feel spaced out and weird, like this was not really reality, nothing matters, I wasn't controlling my own actions, and I couldn't concentrate on what people were saying. It felt like I was in a TV programme, or living in a memory or my own imagination: it didn't seem real.

I remember sitting in my living room looking at my hands and moving them around and thinking I know these are my hands, and they are moving in the ways I'm wanting them to, but it just doesn't feel like I'm the one who's moving them. It feels like someone else is controlling them, and it's just luck that they're doing what I want them to. I found myself looking at my son and thinking I know I love him, but I just don't feel the love. I know it in the same way I know that my colleague loves her kids; I have the objective, propositional knowledge, but I don't feel it myself. 

Feeling this way worried me: what if I hurt him? What if I decided that I just didn't care about anything, because nothing felt real, and went on a killing rampage, like a video game where it just doesn't matter whether you kill the characters are not, because they aren't real. I decided to drive to the walk-in centre to get help: driving felt as if my car was staying still, and the road was moving around me, like a simulator. Even though it didn't feel real, I sort of knew it was real, and I had to be careful not to crash. With hindsight, there is no way I should have been driving, but I hadn't realised that at the time. At the walk-in centre I struggled to articulate why I was there, and why it was urgent. She said there'd be a wait of around 4 hours. Four hours of unreality in a medical centre waiting room with a young child was not appealing. I decided to return home and call my mum for help. She lives a couple of hours away, but came over and looked after my son, while I stared into space and contemplated unreality.

I didn't take any more of the nausea tablets, and the next day I started to feel a bit better, so dragged myself into the seminar at uni (mum drove). It was Epistemology. What better subject to be discussing when you are having doubts about the reality of, um, reality, right? Well, Cartesian scepticism and thought experiments about reality not being real are fine, but living it is a lot less palatable. It was traumatic, actually, and genuinely scary. Why didn't I just stay at home? I don't know. I should have, but my judgment was compromised such that I didn't realise my judgment was compromised. I felt like I was losing myself, and I had to grab on to anything which I objectively knew to be reality (even though it didn't feel real) for fear that if I didn't, then it would genuinely cease to be real. So I went to the seminar in the hope that the professor - let's call him J - would talk to the other 3 students, and I could stare into space and try to absorb some of it and not have to construct sentences. That was my hope. It did not pan out.

I arrived at the room first, and started to unpack my stuff, and it took so much mental effort to work out what I needed to put on the table and what to leave in the bag. J arrived and asked if I was better (I'd emailed the day before that I wasn't well) and I said no, I wasn't better. He said he was unwell too, and it felt like there was a fog in front of him. I said I hoped he and the others would talk and I could just listen; he said he hoped he didn't have to do too much talking either as he was also struggling!

That much I remember clearly, but the rest of the 2 hours was a blur, like yesterday's dream; a drunken evening; a vague memory; a poorly imagined conversation; a half-watched TV programme. No one else showed up to the seminar, so he said it was up to me if I felt I wanted to proceed. I foolishly said I did. The next thing I recall is J talking about the article, while I had my hands over my face, then me crying and saying I couldn't do it as I just didn't know what he was saying. I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to construct a meaningful sentence, to pick the right word, put it in the right place: I think I sounded something like this: "I think the... um... writing... um... writer... author... is wrong that... um... well maybe... sort of... the thing is that... the examples doesn't... they don't really... um..." and I had my hands over my face or my eyes closed for most of the time. He said we didn't need to carry on but I said I thought I'd be ok, and kept insisting we should continue.

I remember the feelings clearly; how it felt like he wasn't really talking to me, like I was just remembering or imagining the conversation as it unfolded in front of me, like watching a video of myself having a conversation I'd forgotten about. It felt like I wasn't really there and my mind wasn't my own; like there was a blocker between me and my own actions and what I said. I remember having to cover up my eyes just to block out my visual perceptions which was so distracting, just so I could listen to what he said.

Anyway, I said I thought I couldn't continue with the seminar - but then changed my mind, and somehow did, although now, my memories of the content of what we talked about is something like this: something about a sweaty American politician... something about jelly babies... something about my sister's spending habits... something about a child waking up at 6am... something about eating someone else's lunch as they always bring too much. I reckon that's the sum total of memories of the content of what we discussed. Not exactly useful stuff. Hopefully my memory will return, or maybe that it's stored in my subconscious.

So it must have been pretty hellish for J, trying to do a seminar with only one student, who is a blithering idiot in a state of temporary psychosis, sitting with her face in her hands for most of the time, all while he was unwell himself. Poor guy! But he performed admirably.

A day later I realised that the tablets I'd got from the chemist were not supposed to be taken alongside another medication which I also take - and now I know why they say don't take them together! My mind is gradually returning to normal now (2 days later), and I'm trying to see the funny side of it all.

So that was the weirdest seminar ever. And I was the source of the weirdness. I'm glad that only J saw me in that state and not the other three in the class. It was a pretty horrible experience to feel that reality isn't really real. Cartesian scepticism will never be the same again.

Why one can't apologise for a mystery something

I know I have heard it plenty of times: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry!” It typically seems to be said when one person is annoyed with another, but won’t disclose the reason why they are annoyed. But does it actually make any sense to be sorry for something when one does not know what one is being sorry for? I suggest that it does not. Here I’ll argue two claims:

1. It’s not possible to be sorry for a mystery something
2. It’s undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery something

Here I’m using the term ‘mystery something’ to refer to whatever act, omission, speech (etc) which a person is claiming to be sorry for. Let us assume that the hearer of the ‘apology’ (if it can be called that) is aware of what the mystery something is. Let us consider this example:

Yesterday, S implied that his wife, T, had put on weight: when T couldn’t fit into her jeans, S said “I’m sure those jeans used to be loose on you.” This annoyed T. Today, it is evident that T is annoyed with S, but she will not tell him why. So S says the words: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry!”

In this case, the ‘mystery something’ is that S implied his wife had put on weight: it is a mystery to S, but not to his wife, T. Now I ‘ll consider why it’s not possible for S to be sorry when he doesn’t know what he is sorry for.

1. It is not possible to be sorry for a mystery something

First, let us set aside the way in which people these days use “I’m sorry” to offer condolences, such as “I’m sorry to hear that your mum’s died.” This is not a case of one being repentant: “I’m sorry your mum has died” is quite different from “I’m sorry that I killed your mum.” The former is a statement of condolences or sympathy, while the latter is an apology: I focus on the ‘apology’ use of ‘sorry’, where the speaker is or claims to be remorseful, repentant and regretful.

Being sorry seems to involve a feeling of guilt, and a recognition that one has done something wrong. But when one is sorry for a mystery something, one does not know what one has done wrong, and it does not seem possible to feel guilty about a mystery something. Being sorry also carries with it an implication that one will not do the said act again (or at least try not to). When one says “I’m sorry for scratching your car” or “I’m sorry for being late” one is implicitly stating that one will try not to do these things again. Whether or not one upholds such an implicit promise is beside the point, but what we can say is that when one is sorry, one is suggesting that:

a)    One is repentant

b)    One will try not to do the act again in future

In the case of being sorry for a mystery something, (b) certainly cannot be possible, and I suggest that (a) is also exceptionally difficult, if not impossible. The reason is that, suppose that after one has repeatedly said: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry,” one learns what the mystery something was. Suppose that at some later date, S asks T what was the matter with her on that particular date, and she tells him that she was annoyed that he implied she’d put on weight. Now suppose that S, being insensitive, then says: “Oh… right… that. Yeah, I’m not sorry I said that – because it’s true; you have put on weight.” In such a case, it is clear that S was never sorry for saying what he originally said (that her jeans used to be loose). I would argue that S’s ‘apology’ for the mystery something was never a genuine apology, because at no point was he sorry for what he said about his wife’s weight. Further, whenever someone apologises for a mystery something, there is always the possibility that if or when one discovers one’s ‘transgression’, one will respond much as S did – that one is not sorry at all. So if whenever someone says sorry for a mystery something, there is always the chance that one is not in fact sorry for what one is apologising for, and because it is not possible to be both sorry and not sorry about the same event, we should conclude that any apology for a mystery something is not a genuine apology; one may not in fact be sorry. Thus, one cannot be sorry for a mystery something.

2. It’s undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery something

This claim follows neatly from the first claim: it is undesirable for one to say he is sorry for something when he knows not what he is supposed to be sorry for. This is because it may turn out that the thing someone is seemingly apologising for is dear to him. Suppose that A finds it really irritating that B is a devout Catholic, and shows this annoyance to the extent that B, in exasperation, says “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.” It should be clear that had B known what he was apologising for (viz. being a Catholic), he would not have apologised for it, and in apologising for a mystery something, he has actually apologised for a thing which is fundamentally important to him. I suggest that whenever one apologises for a mystery something, one might in fact be apologising for something he would staunchly defend if he only knew what the mystery something was. For this reason, it is undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery event.

HOWEVER...
In real life when your other half is giving you the silent treatment, philosophical reasoning might not do you any favours. The above argument may not be sound relationship advice. View my Disclaimer if in doubt.