I haven’t really wanted to write in a while – either in my journal or on this blog. I told myself at the outset, with both, that this would never become a “have to” type thing. Because having obligations imposed on me (even when they are things that I would normally want to do or would lead to my good) is really an area of great tenderness. And, frankly, I don’t want to give that internal dictator a hold.
I’ve been feeling some neck and back tension today. The neck tension started as I began to write this. The back tension has been off and on. It started slightly before I asked a… – what shall I call him? I do not think it would be wrong, but only factually innacurate, to call him a friend… – so, a friend if he would be willing to speak with me. We have not spoken at length since the spring, for a variety of reasons – mostly having to do with my actions.
I have been curious for some time to hear and know this friend’s experience of me and of the things which led to the closing off of our relationship. He seemed at first very reluctant, and then less so. I too am reluctant – feeling a good deal of the fright of it, and wondering how it will go. But yet I respect him, and admire him, and I was in the wrong for a good deal of what led to our falling out, and I am genuinely curious as to his thoughts, feelings, and experiences… and so – though feeling the fear of it – I will take the opportunity he is allowing me.
The neck tension has diminished slightly. N had an excellent call today. So many things about the call struck me – but mainly things in my own feelings and experiences. At first I was… well, not overtly frustrated… but covertly. I wanted to give “evidence” and speed him along – what I told myself was that he was stalling, and not being 100% truthful… which is true, of course… but another thought is “why should I care? That is closed.”
I do not know if it was wrong of me or not. Others were feeling frustration, and expressing it. But I did not express mine, except to send one whisper to Stef providing a “fact” – which was true, of course, but absolutely unnecessary. I did not take care – in a call about honesty – to be honest first with myself about what I was feeling or experiencing. This is a hypocrisy that Stef talked about in the call as well: people who cannot see their own evils or failings in themselves see their evils or failings foremost in others. (Not that this was a great evil, but it is very sub-optimal. And if I expect people to be honest and forthright with me, how can that expectation be reasonable if I will not first be honest and forthright with myself!)
I began also to think about the husband-in-my-head. He’s been around for… oh, since about May? After the thing with N had ended and I got into therapy. I cannot always see him – when I am in denial I do not see him… and of course I saw him rarely during the Russia episode – but he has been around quite a bit lately. John isn’t happy with my slip today, nor indeed with my dinner plans.
It’s much easier to ignore John short-term than it is to follow his good counsel. Long-term… I know for certain that the consequences of ignoring him would be disastrous. I don’t think John is the same as the “husband” I dreamt of last week, but… I don’t know. Are you?
He smiled and shook his head no. That’s another thing – he doesn’t speak at all. But that is better, I think. He’s my better self: the one who knows all of this already. I’m the one who won’t admit it. :)
I’m feeling a little less tension. I’m going to go make dinner – what John suggests, instead of what I had thought idly of doing, which is more expensive and less healthy. He also wants me to go and work out. Which I may yet do.
I’m feeling a good deal lighter and happier, actually. I like doing what pleases him – and not because it releases me from tension… because it’s not a “removal of punishment” sort of thing. But just because I like it.
Ah, that’s what’s what. Because now I also want to journal a bit. It appears that the call and this writing unstuck a bit of a blockage.
I would like to speak with some of you this week. Could we, if you all want to, do sort of a weekly call on our own, perhaps? Just to chat, catch up, etc? I’d like that of all things. Let me know if you’re interested. :)
(or, at least, with Stef in the form of podcast 1239)
“When we maintain the irrational… we must manipulate and lie and evade and attack…”
“If we didn’t know it was a lie we wouldn’t resort to such tricks.”
“It’s impossible to respect yourself when you do these ignoble things.”
[note: this was going to be a text post, but the MEs took over.]
I want to be able to respect myself.
Then do respectable things.
Not quite that easy.
Of course it isn’t easy. If it was easy, you wouldn’t respect yourself. The harder it is to be virtuous, the more honor there is in the virtue. We know this already.
I’m not happy.
How virtuous have you been lately?
Not very.
Not very? Can you tell me one thing you’ve done in the past 6 months that was virtuous?
I listened to criticism two times and was grateful, though it hurt me.
And what else.
I came back to the US, and I called these therapists.
And what else.
I realized what I was doing – lying, evading, putting myself in dangerous situations, hurting people – is wrong and..
You’ve been corrupt towards yourself.
Yes.
Is it really any wonder you didn’t want to journal in Moscow?
No.
Why – I want to hear you say it.
Because I needed to maintain that internal delusion – fogbank, evasion, obfuscation.
Why? For what purpose? What have you gotten out of all of this weaselly behavior? What have you got out of shitting on people – yourself most of all?
That’s a bit harsh.
A bit? You say you want to respect yourself, and then you hide when anyone comes right out and says it to you. What you’ve been doing is wrong, and foul, and will lead only to unhappiness. And you knew it – we know you knew it, becuse you attempted to hide it. What I want to know is WHY? What good came out of it?
Besides the goods that will accrue now.
You can’t use that as an excuse. The goods that are accruing are things you gave up to go on this jaunt – a stable home, a job, and a therapeutic relationship. So you can’t say that this whole little episode was to gain those boons. You’ve put yourself back 6 months for what, mastermind?
That’s what I intend to find out.
Oh, you intend. You intend. Tell us now! Say it!
I hate you. You’re a big bully.
And just like the other one you’d be happy to do our bidding if only we’d be soft with you.
I might more cheerfully listen and heed your advice.
Cheerfully? Is this something to be cheerful about? You’re spending Christmas alone – and enjoying it, for some unknowable reason, or at least you tell yourself that – because no one will be around you.
Well, is that not deserved?
Yes, it’s deserved.
Well? Should I be morose because I’ve been given a chance to improve?
You had one before, you cow!
What if what Nate said is right. What if this is really the fastest we can improve. So what if what you were saying before is true, and people have completely written us off. (It’s NOT true, because at least some of them are willing to help us – but let’s give you the benefit of the doubt.) How many people did we write off who have done amazing things and come back to impress us?
None have strayed from that path with less cause than you.
But we don’t know that! I can’t give you the answer to “why” – but I can take you to the place that will help all of us find it. I think there is a cause, or we would not have done it. You saw how much energy it took to get us moved.
Less energy than it took to obfuscate the fact that you’d gone off the rails – and you turned to Stef of all people for a justification. And he was right that you could have dealt with some of these things abroad… but you didn’t, did you.
No. And – I’m anticipating your argument – even all the energy we’ve spent both physically and mentally in the last 6 months does not equal the amount of energy it would have taken to really make a go at therapy.
You’ve grasped it.
And because you’re angry at me, you’re making me take self-punishing action.
You’ve miscalculated?
Well, you say you don’t want to do this stuff… and then you yell at me and you’re completely incurious…
…no more incurious than you’re being with me…
and then… Alright, fine. Fine, guilty as charged. We’re both being incurious. Which is one of the reasons why we have these problems, my dear!
I’m not going to be first to make it up.
So you want me to listen to that podcast again – ok, two of them – and be the first to capitulate.
See when you phrase it like that, how does it help us.
You want me, then, to be the proverbial “better man.”
No, still not right. How does sarcasm help us?
I’m sorry. I’m doing right now what I’ve been doing all along. I don’t want to admit I’m wrong. I don’t want to admit I’ve miscalculated. I’m scared of being attacked.
And rightly so…
…because I’m attacking you?
Hah. See how that thought was reversed.
It made it more true. I’m attacking first.
Like a counter-offensive. What we always did with…
…mother. Ex-act-ly. Pre-cise-ly.
So this all goes back to her.
Well, she set it up. But you’re the one who set it whirring again.
For what reason?
Now who’s asking why?
But we can go to the place to figure this out.
Sure.
Till then I want to be safe. Can we have a cease-fire?
No. Because you won’t go as slow as is required.
I’ll go slower.
No, you won’t.
Try me.
Prove it, then. If you actually pause at any time in the next 10 days before you take a decision, I’ll be flabbergasted.
Going slowly makes me sick.
You know a synonym for quick?
Heedless.
Exactly. Heed-less. Not listening. Everything becomes a blur – of motion. You obfuscate.
If you do the same thing and expect it to yield different results…
…then you’re mad. Can you respect someone who is mad?
Not if they have chosen the madness.
Can a madman be virtuous?
Not if the madness is of his own choosing.
Then don’t choose to be mad. And by the way, stop reading the emotional repression manual that is Rand. That shit didn’t work when we were 12, either.
Any port in a storm…
…of your own making.
You’ve a point.
Now go sort this stuff out. Don’t add procrastination to your list of other faults.
“Go slow” and “don’t procrastinate” contradict each other.
You’re wrong, and you know it. Go prove it to yourself. Also, stop buying things.
Yes, I ought to.
Feed us – simply – clothe us – in the stuff we already have – and shelter us – in a permanent home and not this series of a-room-and-a-plane-and-a-room-and-a-plane-and-a-room-and-a-plane we’ve been on for 6 months.
Saturday then, if you’ll help with negotiations.
We’ll be there.
This has been painful. But thank you for the help.
Such as it’s been.
Don’t underrate yourself. That’s my province.
Heh. Go.
Filed under: FDR, self-work | Tags: FDR, friends, philosophizing, self-work
I’ve spent a great deal of time in my life apologizing for things. Sometimes I was in the wrong. Sometimes not. Usually, however – whether I was in the wrong or not – the apology stemmed, not from genuine remorse, but from anxiety. My mother, for example, (if I did not apologize to her for “provoking her” to do me wrong) would stop speaking with me. Sometimes for weeks. This was extremely anxiety-provoking.
I learned to apologize early and apologize often, whether I felt remorse or not, in order to avoid anxiety.
The reverse of the medal was also true. Many people have apologized to me for various things – whether they were in the wrong or not. Precious few of these apologies contained any genuine remorse. Precious few of these apologies came after the person had sat down and thought about what they’d done, and then taken steps to correct what precipitated the wrong in the first place. Apologies without due consideration first feel hollow. Feel false. To both the apologizer and the person who receives the apology.
Having been on both sides of an apology recently, I’ll give 2 cases in point.
Case one – in which I was the person giving the apology.
In this case, a dear friend (whose good opinion I value above almost all others) confronted me with some of the destructive behavior I had perpetrated. He mentioned that it made him feel extremely nervous to see what was going on in my life, because I seemed to be putting myself in extreme danger without realizing it, and without connecting at all to my emotions.
It hurt me extremely badly to hear this. Because what he said was true. It wounded me so much to know that I’d hurt him – and repaid his extreme generosity, his care for me, and his virtue with punishing him.
I can’t undo the hurt there. But we set down some ground rules – we’re not speaking for an indefinite amount of time, except to say “Hi” sometimes if we both happen to be in the chat room. We talked this out, and that conversation was the only time I’ve spoken with him since the beginning of the month – except for a short exchange which he initiated. This was extremely anxiety-provoking for me until I realized that he’s not doing it to punish me. He’s doing it to help me.
I haven’t apologized to my friend yet. I have taken steps to rectify the problem (come back to America, found a job, and will be finding a stable place to live and a therapist within the next 2 weeks), but the problem is not rectified yet. So I cannot apologize yet, and mean it. Even after I apologize, it will take some time to earn his trust back. By summer I hope to be speaking with him again. I have tears in my eyes writing this, since I’m so terribly sorry for hurting him… but it doesn’t mean anything until I actually fix the problem.
Case two – in which I was (initially) the person receiving the apology.
(I will admit my own hypocrisy out front in speaking about this publicly without consulting her, when one of the biggest problems I have with this person is her speaking about this publicly without consulting me. I don’t think I need repeat the parable about the goose and the gander.)
This began in the chat room the other night, before the call-in show. A number of people were in the chat room laughing and joking. One person in the chat was very obviously feeling insecure, and been constantly “joking” (in that way that is not joking but betrays huge unprocessed anxiety and neediness – I say this having done it often myself) about having people come long-distance to see her over Christmas. Someone made a joke about how doing so would cost about as much as everything he owned.
This person whispered to me (without telling the jokester) that she got very angry about that joke. I replied that she should leave the chat room for a while to think about that and process her anger, because I wasn’t sure that what she actually felt rage about was that joke. She replied saying something like “I just wanted to share my experience.” I replied that I was uncomfortable speaking about it when it was obviously unprocessed.
After the show, this person (having remained in the chat room for 2 more hours constantly laughing and joking and without talking about her anger at all) apologized to me for acting out. The apology felt hollow. I felt very tense and uncomfortable at seeing the apology, and left the chat room.
I woke to find a post on the FDR board from this person implying that “people” (no mention of herself) were being covert about their feelings and not processing their anxiety, and that she had stopped speaking to one person over it. I (not knowing that I was the person quasi-named) responded with an abbreviated version of the above, and asking her to talk about her feelings and what had happened. No reply – except for a snipe 2 posts down about how I had attacked and belittled her. (I ran my post by a couple of people, who saw no attacks whatever in it.) It was only then that I found out for certain she was not speaking to me.
I really want to help this person. However, I was quite angry at her actions – and the disconnect between her words and actions. I spent a good part of yesterday and today thinking about this situation, journalling, and processing it. Now, my feelings about the issue mainly center on sadness. This is what I did to Stef in May, frankly – projecting my problems onto him, and acting out at him, then apologizing only in order to get him to talk to me, then making snarky little recordings in my journal… and it’s sad. I don’t want to see anyone going through that.
It’s been fairly anxiety-provoking to have her not speaking to me – but it’s actually a good thing, in a way. I certainly can’t aid her from where I am now, and it’s a good thing, I think, to take a break. It’s also shown me that my uncomfortable-ness about my taking up this issue with her was quite justified.
It’s a sad situation, but if I had accepted the “apology” given, it would have been an even sadder one, and done more of a disservice to both of us.
Conclusion
Apologies are not anxiety-avoidance mechanisms. At least for me, they served that function in my chilhood. But as I’ve sort of progressed psychologically (to the degree that I have) I’ve realized that apologies can either serve to strengthen one’s relationship with others (in the case of apologies given after doing work to rectify the situation) or to undermine one’s relationships (in the case of the hollow apologies given to avoid anxiety). The former, because then one’s relationships are built on taking responsibility, on full knowledge and acceptance of one’s actions, and on mutual respect and trust. The latter, because then one’s relationships are built on fogging, obfuscation, pain- and anxiety-management, and (to be quite frank about it) lies and denial.
As a child, all of my relationships were the latter sort. That is precisely what I do NOT want in my adult life. I want relationships based on responsibility and trust. Building them is, to be even more frank about it, fucking difficult. Which is why those relationships are so damned valuable.
I finally got the idea to write that barn-stormer of a post. I was on point of going out, and now I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom in my winter coat and hat, typing.
Stef speaks in 1233 about people willing to put down the fucking mouthpiece of “virtue” and take up the sword to fight the good fight. He talks about those whom you have offered the sword and the chance to fight for virtue hating you – inevitably – when they fail to take up that sword. When the weakness they have been shifting and evading and avoiding and prevaricating about in themselves is revealed by your virtue.
I realized that my mother’s hatred of me – and the world’s hatred of virtuous people in general – is in direct proportion to our virtue. To our ability to pick up that sword and fight that fight.
I was thinking, earlier, about the person I become around my mother. Or the person I became around her after I was no longer dependent upon her. I told one of my MEs (in the form of one of you, my readers) that he would very probably feel rage upon seeing that person I become. Hatred and fear, reacting in that crucible to become rage. Another one of my MEs said “You are inexorable for that poor woman!”
Yes, and I will tell you why I am. I will justify myself.
I would have less contempt for my mother if she was stupid. I would have less contempt for her if she did not understand virtue. I would have less contempt for my mother if she had no capacity for the exalted, if she was un-philosophical, and – especially – if she had never deFOOed, and then returned to the parents she loathed and knew were abusive. And – though I am glad for the fact I am alive and could not wish it otherwise – I would have far less contempt for her if she had not left me in the hands of these parents she loathed and knew were abusive.
For “contempt” you may substitute hatred, outrage, anger, or anything you like. There is something in the feeling of contempt, I think, that makes the person who feel it equally contemptible. This may or may not be true – and I would like to come up with arguments both sides. But that doesn’t matter at the moment.
Mother’s hatred of my virtue was in direct proportion to the magnitude of the virtue that she strangled and smothered and denied and killed off in her young self. She was not born to become what she became – and that’s the worst of it. No one is born to become base, contemptible, anti-philosophical, abusive, or anything of the sort. That precious, innocent child that was born into the world to my dear friends yesterday has unlimited potential for virtue, if it is not crushed within her – and if she can avoid crushing it herself.
That’s the wildcard, isn’t it. How much of what mother became was determined by her childhood, and how much of it was determined by her own actions. It doesn’t matter. I am living proof – and if you are reading this, so are you – that our early upbringing does NOT have to condemn us to a virtueless life. That one can overcome history – slowly, painfully, but finally.
And so, I am inexorable for “that poor woman.”
One’s capacity to abuse others is directly correlated to one’s capacity to abuse oneself, I think. And so leaving mother in her own company is the best punishment that anyone on earth could devise. I used to think I would like to punish her. But I could not, without denying that virtue and empathy in myself.
What does the fact that I loathe her say about me? Is this “punishment” of her? The fact that I’ve got very little empathy whatever for what she became… is that because I lack empathy for myself? I do not think so. It is right – just – to hate one’s abusers. One cannot do otherwise without self-abnegation. Like this woman on the boards. What is she? She has regressed. She… in all likelihood, was never there.
I’m here. I love my capacity for life, and for work, and for virtue. I love nothing else, really – because all else is an exponent of my life and my work and my virtue. Those capacities are what I cannot reject. Mother rejected them, and committed treason. Against herself and that innocent child born to my grandparents in June of 1952, and, yes, against virtue – and against life. I can’t call what mother is doing “living.” It is a horrible waking death. The living 0. The vivified nought.
If I am being honest with myself, I would say that there is no “mother” left to hate.
Filed under: self-work | Tags: attirance, body image, FDR, self-work, sexuality
That line comes from my favorite Jane Austen novel, Persuasion.
I don’t want to take the focus off my previous post, since that one is much more important. But I’ve had a block on writing in this blog for a while, and I’m disposed to be loquacious tonight.
I’ve never been what anyone could consider to be a “well-dressing woman” – by any stretch of the imagination. This has come from a variety of factors… but most of these factors stem from being uncomfortable (and having that uncomfortableness encouraged and reinforced) with my body – and, more broadly, anything that could be considered healthy sexuality.
I was dressed by mother and grandmother in early childhood, so we’ll skip over that – except to say that I hated dresses with a fiery passion. I had one particularly hated dress of white chiffon with tiers of lace and pink satin rosebuds, and a cap of white lace that tied with a pink ribbon under my chin. Mother loved to dress me in that when I was 5 and 6, because – with my curly, golden-blonde hair, white skin, and blue eyes – the dress made me look like a china doll. Like a fucking plaything to be dressed up and put on display in a shop window.
Suffice to say, I took from that a real antipathy to looking “girly” – I suppose (but I hesitate to assign a single reason for it) because looking like a girl always equated with being exploited or being used for someone’s self-aggrandizement, or being the center of attention, which made me damned uncomfortable.
From the age of 12, I began to choose my own clothes. Frankly, this means that I began to steal my own clothes, because mother wouldn’t buy any. (This was in the days when RFID was just coming into widespread use.) I stole tents. For about 2 or 3 years – from age 12 to age 14 or 15 – I wore mostly men’s clothes, and those mostly 2 sizes to big for me. My everyday uniform was a man’s grey t-shirt with some Old Navy slogan on it, size xxl, and a pair of too-big men’s carpenter-style jeans. Oh, and beaten up Birkenstock sandals. My hair was cropped short like a man’s and dyed black. (I was never into the “goth” thing, but I remember thinking how the black hair really showed off Trinity’s blue eyes in The Matrix, and so I copied that.)
I was fat – measurement-wise, the same as I am now, but since I was about 2 inches shorter I looked much fatter – and unkempt. I never wore makeup… and, frankly, I was frightened. Frightened to death of having people look at me, and judge me. I was in a new school, a stranger amongst people who had grown up together. I was teased – lonely and isolated – and I isolated myself even further. I had a great model of this in mother. And… isolation is the pre-requisite for abuse, is it not? I was abused. Badly, during this time period. In a way that… it really pains me even to think about. Even mother didn’t look at me. I didn’t want her to – and yet I did. I needed her to see me, and she didn’t. She never did, or ever will.
I gradually began to stop dressing in too-big men’s clothes when I found a hobby – and a group of supportive (or more supportive than I had theretofore ever encountered) people that got me out of mother’s house frequently and encouraged my talents – and excited my admiration. I met a woman who became a sort of surrogate mother, and who taught me many arts and crafts, and how to keep house and entertain and all those “womanly” things which I had really lacked, and wanted to learn. Lissa had her faults (among them was that she was a devout – though not a fundamentalist – Christian), but she was better to me and showed more interest in me than in my own family. I began – very slowly – to take better care of myself.
Once I moved out on my own, I sort of stalled. I was no longer wearing men’s clothes or clothes that were too big, but I definitely wasn’t comfortable in my own skin or with my own sexuality. My clothes still reflected my desire to hide my body. I was in a destructive relationship at this point – one in which I felt (and it was true) that the only value I brought (or the only value that was desired of me) was my ability in bed. Tom didn’t care how I dressed, because I was generally nude around him anyway. (It was very stressful to be so. Even though he said he found me very attractive nude, I was always uncomfortable being so around him when there was a light on. I’d undress quickly and wrap up in a sheet while he was in the bathroom. I always tried to undress and get into bed quickly before he finished his ablutions.)
It makes me really sad to think about that. It was an impossible situation. I only had value to Tom through having sex with him, but I felt myself so unworthy of that and so unattractive that it was impossible for me to convince myself from moment to moment of my value. GOD, how sick it all was. Not even the mutually exploitive relationship we were in… but what preceded it. What possessed him to use women in that way, and what possessed me to step right up (knowingly, willingly) and let myself be used in that way. To welcome it – and to tell myself, consciously, that I could do no better. It makes me SO angry – but not even really at Tom.
Anyhow… fast forward several years. It is January of last year and I’ve been at FDR for 3 months or so. I begin to go to the gym. I begin to dress a bit better – not in revealing clothes, necessarily, but in clothes that don’t try to disguise or hide my shape. I lose a bit of weight.
Fast forward to August. I’m standing on a beach in Brighton with a friend. We’re speaking of a mutual friend, and of his appearance. My friend mentions a fact I’d been thinking of for a long time: that losing weight or bettering your appearance doesn’t have to be for others. And doesn’t have to be vain. That it can be for you. That it can show – not vanity – but that you care for yourself. You care enough about yourself to make an effort to be healthy and present yourself well. This friend names all the things that I had been unconsciously grasping for months, but had not been able to name in words. He inspires me to re-dedicate myself to fitness. I begin running, and buy some nicer clothes. One night, we go to the theatre. He tells me I look nice. Without any ulterior motive – we established very early on, thank god, that we were not going to “go there” for even an instant – and… I felt pretty. It’s brought tears to my eyes even thinking of it. Someone, for the first time in my life, complimenting me with no ulterior motive – and going out to see a play that I want to see because he enjoys my company and maybe even trusts my judgment of the play. And, frankly, something he wouldn’t have said if he thought I’d take it the wrong way. Maybe I’m reading too much into it… but it seemed like a compliment or a sanction on more than just my clothes. My god… I have worth outside of being an object for someone to exploit for their own pleasure. Worth that I – I! – have earned through my own work and virtue. I don’t think he knew how much it meant, that he said that.
And… now.
That’s how I kept myself in baggy clothes for years. I told myself that it was “vain” or “stupid” to dress for others or to lose weight for others. I thought of losing weight only in terms of being attractive to others. But really… what that self-talk was hiding was a low opinion of myself. It was hiding my uncomfortableness with my own sexuality. It was hiding my fear of being looked at, of being thought attractive… and it was hiding the fact that I didn’t think I was worth taking care of. The fact that I didn’t think it was worth trying to be healthy or keeping myself up.
Was it me who thought or felt those things? It was ingrained into me from day 1 – you are worthless. You only have value insofar as others want you. Sexuality is a sin. You’re always going to be fat anyway, so why bother.
I’m still loath to spend money on my appearance. Still, the most makeup I’ll wear is tinted lipgloss. It’s REALLY hard to crawl, pulling myself along by my fingernails, out of this abyss of… I can’t even describe it. This self-abnegation. This feeling of essential worthlessness. And, of course, clothes are the outward sign and semblance of that. Losing weight is an outward sign and semblance of that. The real change is taking place within, and I mustn’t (and won’t) forget it.
I have to remind myself all the time that I have worth outside of whether someone wants to sleep with me or not. It’s odd because there are some men I can’t even think about that with – can’t even think about being “valuable” in that way to them. What differentiates those men from others? They usually have an essential “innocence” about them… but I have to think more about that.
It’s not just about the clothes.
Filed under: FDR, self-work, therapy | Tags: FDR, philosophizing, self-work, therapy
I’ve been listening to this with not as much mental energy as I should. I think there’s a reason why I’m circling it. Let me tell you why.
Stef talks near the end about pain-avoidance and determinism. If you spend your whole life in stimulus-response reacting to your past and doing whatever you can to avoid pain… then determinism may as well be true. Because something – your past – really IS determining your actions. You really haven’t got any free will until you go down that road of going out to meet your pain, working through it, and processing things. Otherwise… what the hell are you? A machine. Wheels and gears to the purpose of avoiding pain.
Well, what have I been doing since June?
I don’t mean this in the way of beating myself up. Stating truth – or proving these thoughts to be true using reason and evidence – is not self-punishment. The truth cannot punish. In fact… it’s the prerequisite for healing. For dropping balm in the wounds of the past. The necessary but not sufficient first step on the road to healing is to state the truth.
So let me prove it to myself now using reason and evidence.
Starting in May, for a number of reasons which I’ve hashed out with Stef in a couple of podcasts, I completely went off the rails. There is no one cause, but a number of things contributed. Stef and I had words – or, to be frank, I lashed out at Stef from fear. He knew this. It took me months to see it. During this time I blamed Stef and thought him the problem. A couple of good things came from it, though. One of those being my entrance into therapy.
I was in therapy for almost 2 months, doing 2 sessions a week. It was painful… but at first I couldn’t feel anything. Not anything at all. My emotions were suppressed – I suppressed my emotions – so much that… it took me about 3 weeks before my therapist started hearing sadness in my voice whenever I spoke of sad topics, and another week before I was able to shed tears. But my progress was good.
The thing is… I didn’t work as hard as I could have. Good lord, that’s the understatement of the century. I went to the sessions, which I recorded. In the beginning, I listened to each session over again. This re-listening ceased after the first couple of weeks. I was pushing back – resenting, almost, going to therapy. Resenting the work, and – I think – sabotaging myself so that my resentment would be justified.
This had nothing to do with my excellent therapist. But, as I’m typing this… I see a similarity between this situation and the way I reacted to things in the past. For example, mother would try to make me clean my room, and I would put it off to the last possible second, when she would actually physically threaten me, and then do it with hatred in my heart. I would resent her and the cleaning and everything… even though I wanted to live in a clean room! I did not resent my room being clean. I resented (or so I told myself) doing it on her orders. I resented her fucking arbitrary power over me.
But my therapist had no power. He did not make me come. Nor, in fact, did Stef. He’s some bloke in Canada whom I’ve never met. He has nothing over me. He didn’t make me go to therapy. Yet it was the same situation as with cleaning my room. I wanted to go to therapy, but I resented someone “making me” – except no one actually made me.
Reaction formation. Having nothing to do with the actual therapy.
Then, at the end of July, I left New York. This just when I had settled into a trusting relationship with my therapist and was headed towards discussing the really big stuff. The stuff which partially precipitated my blow-up at Stef. The stuff…. that even though I’ve got a much healthier perspective on now than I did even in June… that I still don’t want to talk about. That is just so goddamn painful that I’ve walled it off even from myself. The stuff that is almost my entire reason for going to therapy – in order to break down that wall.
I ran off, half-heedless, through Europe. Though I’d had plans to go abroad long-term since age 17… why did I choose to do it right then? Machinalement – mechanically, as the French would say – I ran away from pain. Not consciously, but unconsciously. And look what a success that turned out to be. It caused a (totally deserved… god, how totally deserved) break with one of my friends – with the person whose good opinion, second only to Stef’s, I desire most. And much else of harm besides.
That’s not all. That’s not the half of it, but here’s a beginning.
All my life, really, I’ve been running from pain. This was understandable when I was a child (and oh, my dear MEs, thank you for helping me to flee like fucking blazes from that pain) because I simply could not have handled it and lived. It is impossible to come to the conclusion that your family is toxic, corrupt, evil, and other adjectives as well while you’re a child. But NOW, what served as a safety valve and protection in the past – i.e. running the hell away from pain – is actually serving to bring more pain into my life.
Fundamentally, though I want your good opinions, my friends… the only person whose good opinion I need is myself. And, to be honest, I can’t respect myself or sanction myself while I say one thing (“O, I am for truth and reason and evidence and processing things and therapy and being virtuous”) while doing another (staying the high holy hell out of the therapist’s office).
Again, not self-attack, but the truth. No bitterness and no recriminations.
My goal is to be well. My goal is to be virtuous. My goal is to be the kind of woman with whom all virtuous people want to have a relationship – of whatever sort. My goal is to attract a virtuous mate. My goal is to not pass on the horrors I’ve endured to my children, if any. My goal is to be a self-actualized human being, instead of a set of wheels and gears for the avoidance of pain.
My goal is to be well. And if that is really my goal – if I really mean that – then my actions have to be measured against that goal. And talking doesn’t help me to reach that goal. Posting on this blog or on the boards can inch me closer… but the only thing that’s going to really get me going is therapy.
I’m feeling sad, now. Low. I’ve lost a lot of time. I’ve done a lot to lower your opinion of me. These things can be made up or repaired in time… but every second I delay and every second I windbag on the subject instead of picking up the fucking sword and marching into battle, the more time it’s going to take me to get back to where I left off 6 months ago.
But if it’s not now… when?
There are a number of things I “can’t” read, lately.
I can’t read a certain post on the board because Stef congratulates the poster on achieving such a level of self-awareness.
I can’t read an article posted on a friend’s blog because someone commented on it saying it was “amazing and brilliant.”
I can’t read posts on another friend’s blog because I can see – without anyone’s comments – that it contains honesty and depth of feeling about her experiences.
The thought I get when reading the comments on these things is “Why won’t you compliment ME?!”
Well… the thought that follows on that is “What have you done to deserve it?”
Of course, there’s something behind that as well, the thought “I have done nothing to deserve anyone’s high opinion. I’m an idler. Lazy. Almost a failure. No one compliments me because I’ve been stalled.”
Before I write this off as “false-self critic teardown” or what have you… let’s look at that feeling. At that accusation.
(ETA: This turned, altogether unexpectedly, into a MEcosystem convo. Continued below.)
Is officially up and running. You can find it here:
http://www.voevodabolshoia.com
I’m going to post once about every 4 days to start with. It’s a travel blog, so if you’re not interested in travel then, hey, it’s probably not for you. :)
Other things in life… not particularly much going on. Am in the middle of a period of re-evaluation, but also a period of trying to slow down. Both are fairly difficult, but I’ve been receiving quite a bit of help from my friends lately, and also trying to give back where possible – or at least exchange value for value.
I realized earlier today, after reading a post on another friend’s blog, just how tempting it is to compare oneself with other people. With me in the past it was usually “Well, look how far I am compared to them!” but this morning – and this seems to be a recent change… I’ve been both having these comparative thoughts less often, and their content has changed – my thought was “See? Everyone is way out far ahead of me. They must think I’m just sitting here idling. How far ahead they are!”
And I realized… you know, it’s not a game. Not a race. And when I was most keen on telling myself how far ahead I seemed to be, I was actually much further behind. So those who might think I’m sitting and idling are… not talking from a mountaintop. ;)
It was only a brief flash of a thought. But another realization came. You know, I am doing what needs to be done at the current moment. Not in the sort of determinist sense of things… but if I am in fact idling, then ok. I will idle until I don’t want to idle any more. If I’m waiting while the slow, tectonic plate, underground changes occur, then good. I will wait. I won’t try to push. If this is the last phase Stef talks about, where changes come slower than they did before, then excellent. I’m so much healthier and happier and my outlook is so much better and more positive and I’ve made so much progress towards my dreams than this time last year… that that pace can’t keep up, you know? I’ve deFOOed. A change that big is not going to come again. I’ve committed myself to actually following my dreams, wherever those take me. Great! Now that that commitment is solid, the ground is sort of mapped out. It is a large change which will engender many small ones.
I can’t really say that I’ve been idling. I’ve been enjoying the company of my friends – both old and new. Strengthening relationships there, which has brought me joy. I’ve also been working on my relationship to myself. Have read books, begun learning a new language, am preparing to move to a country whose ways are so foreign to those of where I grew up…
And I’ve realized, recently, that that desire I had to “save” people has been weakening. Weakening slowly, imperceptibly… and not entirely gone yet, but the strength has so diminished that… yeah, it’s amazing. I’ve very little desire to respond to manipulative posts on the board. Very little desire to give “reassurance” where it’s practically begged for by people who want my sanction on their poor behavior. The desire is not gone completely, but it is less. I want to fight fewer battles.
I want to fight fewer battles against myself, too. That’s Ayn Rand’s description of John Galt, isn’t it? A man who never begun or lost a battle with himself. In actuality, I don’t want to be that kind of stainless steel puritan. But I also don’t want to write off feelings of doubt or caution that come up as mere “excuses” for my not doing things. That’s happned a few times lately, and is something I want to work on.
In the past, of course, I would make “excuses” so that I didn’t have to do the scary heavy lifting that philosophy requires. No recriminations for that – it was understandable. But that isn’t what these feelings are. More respect for these feelings, then, and for myself for having them. Feelings aren’t invalid. They should be tempered with sober judgment, of course, but they’re not invalid.
What else? Not too much. It’s been a good year. A hard one, but a good one.
Filed under: FDR, self-work | Tags: deFOO, FDR, friends, languages, mother, self-work
That is “my hovercraft is full of eels” in Latin. (See YouTube clip below if you have no freaking clue where that comes from. Hilarious sketch!) Literally translated, it means “my ship that rests on the air abounds with eels.” Beautiful, wonderful language, is Latin.
But… languages. I’ve been not-so-dilligently working on my Russian. Finally tonight I found a website that teaches the Cyrillic alphabet as I learn best – by giving it in immediately-useable words that I can then sound out to figure out the letters, and then requiring me to re-type/write the words to make sure I can use both words and letters. Very helpful indeed!
Am not looking forward to learning Russian grammar. Admittedly it’s a lot like Latin grammar… except with a couple of extra tenses… and the fact that verbs have gender. What kind of a damned language has verbs that have a gender? Nouns having a gender = ok. I can understand that. But verbs?!
Oh well. Needs must. At the very least, I’ve got to learn the alphabet and some survival phrases. It’s not 100% certain that I’m going to Moscow yet, but it’s looking more and more likely. The big 3 contenders are Russia, Ukraine, and the Czech Republic. The Cyrillic alphabet will be useful in the first 2 countries anyway.
I actually would most like to go to the Czech Republic… but you never know. The winters are certainly milder in Prague than they are in Lviv or Moscow, and an ex-co-worker’s parents live there… so at least I have an introduction going on to some natives who speak English. I don’t want to spend 100% of my time with expats, even though I just know I’ll completely want to abandon everything and return home for about the first 2 weeks, and I’ll cling like mad to anyone who speaks even a word of English. After I’ve gotten the “ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod WTF have I DONE!!!!!!??????” week out of my system (that happens whenever I move – to Dallas, to NYC, to London, and in wherever I’m going next, no doubt it’ll be worse) I’ll want to make some native friends. And, of course… do things like eat, be able to get around, etc. Hence learning the language.
Mea vida adventuris abundat. (No, that’s not correct Latin.)
What else? Oh… a fellow at a kebab shop (what? I didn’t want to cook tonight) started hitting on me. Asked me for my number, and said he wanted to take me out for a drink. I should have lied and said I had a boyfriend, or – hey! here’s an idea! – just left sans diner and made a sandwich at home. I mean… I’m really not sure how to handle that. I’m totally unused to guys taking any sort of interest in me in that way. (No… really. I’m also horribly insecure about that, which leads me to all sorts of humiliating situations which y’all can no doubt think of an example of right off the bat.)
Thank you, FOO and certain gentlemen that I met in my formative years, for completely fucking me over in that area. Though I’ve thought about it a lot lately – and my thoughts in that area have been doubly renewed after a conversation last night with a friend – it’s hard to know how to proceed. I’m operating on the assumption that I only want what I can’t have (i.e. I want a stable, loving relationship with an upright, moral man – but I tell myself that I am absolutely, 100% in the dark as to how to accomplish that) but is that true? No, not entirely. I myself don’t even realize yet how untrue that is, I think.
I went for a run today. God, that was exhausting, but satisfying. Either running more or rock climbing tomorrow – my climbing soreness has gone away, and thanks to decent stretching I feel no bad effects from the run.
Another friend (I can call him a friend, no? It sounds… weird to my own ears when I term him “a friend”) sent me something to read, which I will start tomorrow. For right now, it’s listening to Jane Eyre in French, and re-reading my favorite parts of it in English. It’s amazing how much of the French I can get without having to re-translate in my head.
However… my sudden desire to re-read JE is a signal. It goes back to a certain period in my life – ca. 8-10 years old, when I felt almost more lonely and miserable than I did while living in mother’s house from 12-18. I’d like to talk to friends about that – not about JE, but what that sign portends. There are certain pieces of literature I go back to in certain moods. At least this one is not dire enough to warrant Hamlet. That’s the nihilism lit – or as close as I ever got to it. Hamlet betokens a really bad headspace. JE is only loneliness and wanting someone to love me. I swear to god, from 8-12 years old I couldn’t conceive of marrying a better man than Mr. Rochester, the Byronic hero of JE. Now I can. But that’s still many years off. I wish I had it all settled. I wish I knew what was going to happen – or not even 100%. I don’t need to know what, when, who… or anything like that. I only want a guarantee that I will be happy – someday. That’s what I wanted then, too. I would have given anything to see in my mind’s eye a possibility of ever being happy, when I was a child. That’s sort of where I am now – and why I sometimes do things like throwing myself after men that I know are bad for me. Just to get something settled. Just to… sigh. But there isn’t any guarantee.
Oh well. I can wait. In the interim, I’m doing (or supposedly doing) things which will bring me as close to a guarantee of happiness as I can get. There is an example before me of what I want – realized, living, reachable – but… I’m not there yet. Only another few years’ trek across the desert.
No… I won’t erase any of the above, but the tone doesn’t reflect what I feel. I feel sad, and sick, and tired. I feel as if I know there is a point to all of this, but I don’t want to see it right now. I feel as though I want to wallow in self-abandonment, lethargy, self-punition, and all of the other crap I saw mother do. “Woe is me, people have screwed me over, I’m hard done-by, it’s not my fault or responsibility…”
Except that’s not quite it. I have the “white knight” syndrome. Waiting for someone to sweep in on a white horse, pick me up, and carry me bodily to felicity – without my lifting a finger. Ain’t nobody coming but me. I do not want the fairy transport from A-Q through the jungle – or… I think I do, but in reality the white knight would do more damage than good, and I know it.
That’s right. Someone is going to lose the weight for me. Someone is going to come and clean my bedroom. Someone is going to learn Russian for me. Someone is going to find me a prince among men for a husband. Someone is going to do the work of repairing the damage I’ve done or contemplated amongst my friends. Someone is going to strengthen my relationships with them. Someone is going to pack up all my stuff and magically transport me abroad. Someone is going to pour money into my bank account if I spend it like water. Someone is going to pick up my financial arrangements where I left off and settle everything. Someone is going to read and comment on this new book my friend sent me. Someone is going to do all the little errands I’ve been neglecting. Someone is going to calculate the monies owed my landlord. Someone is going to find me a cheap ticket to Cancun this Christmas.
Well… no. Nobody is going to do any of these things. And when I sit here, and procrastinate, and begin to resent myself (and others who have absolutely nothing to do with what I’m doing to myself) for not doing anything, and wallow in my resentment rather than figure out what’s behind this… the only person I’m fundamentally hurting is myself. The friends I hold dear – if I wound them – can write me off and go happily live their own lives. There is no lasting negative impact on anyone but myself if I fail to sort out my problems. But I won’t take steps to help myself.
Am I not worthy, mother? Screw you. Am I hard done-by? No. I know the solutions. I know that there is light at the end of the tunnel – that all of this work is for a reason. Do I deserve such wonderful friends as I have? You know what, if I don’t, I can fix that. I can do everything in my power to be the sort of person I want to be, and that will earn me the kind of friends I want in my life. So you know what? I’m sick of these fucking habits that were ingrained in me. That YOU – all three of you – ingrained in me. But this isn’t about you guys any more. All three of you are dead – two in fact, and you, mother, in spirit. This time is about me, and getting out from under all this crap. So get off my back! I am going to get you, finally, off my back.
(reposted from the FDR board)
I went and took a climbing class today. 5 hours of rock climbing. My limbs feel like jelly. I have scrapes and rope burns and all kinds of crazy stuff… but as I was coming home, something hit me. A metaphor, if you will. Let me expound a bit, by your courtesy.
Last week, I booked a spot in this course. Over the weekend I began thinking about it. Questions flooded my mind. “What if I’m too fat?” “What if they tell me to go home?” “You can’t rock climb in glasses, can you? I’m sure they’ll fall off and I’ll be stuck somewhere at the top of the rope completely unable to see.” “I’m not strong enough to do this, am I? I’ll probably be the only one in the group who can’t get up the damned face.” And other somesuch questions. Enough so that I thought about just cancelling my place in the course. I’ve wanted to climb since I was 10 – and that desire has never gone away – and I was thinking of cancelling.
I got to the center and met the other 5 people on the course, and the instructor. The instructor was wearing glasses. While he was fit, he didn’t have a 6-pack at all – in fact, he had a wee belly. Well… that’s two fears down. Learned to tie into the harness. I – having never been good at knots – was the last one to figure out how to do it. We moved to th 4m walls. I belayed (held the rope at the bottom so if my partner fell I would catch him) first. Watched my partner – he having never climbed before – power up the wall no problems. My turn. I got 2m up and started shaking all over. Literally tremors so strong that I fell off the wall. I was the only one who didn’t make it to the top of the wall. Partner went again – no problems. I started again – got to the same place and fell. Did this for about 2 hours – my partner trying all different kinds of routes, and me falling off – invariably – 2 meters up. I began to get really frustrated. I hated when I was actually on the wall, searching desperately for somewhere to put my feet, strength seeping away out of my muscles the longer I held on. I began to hate the damned wall, and myself for being weak.
We then went to do bouldering. Traverses – moving laterally across the wall. After a little instruction, everyone popped on the wall and traversed just fine. I went in about 2ft spurts – falling off every 2 feet. Then vertical bouldering – without any ropes. Everyone else started from a sitting position and hit the top of the wall. Me – 2m, then got really scared, then jumped off. Jumping backwards off a wall when you’re 6 feet off the ground is a little scary. That fear really hit me – no ropes, no protection. People sitting on the sofas behind me shouting encouragement – but stressing me out as they told me where the next hold was. When I made it about me and the wall, it was ok. When I brought others into it… not so much.
We took a break then. Had a coffee and a snack and a chat with the others in the group. No one was elitist. No one was concerned that every time I got up to about 2m I fell off the damned wall. Just a nice friendly chat about travelling – as most of the others had just come back from holidays of various lengths. Brilliant people – I quite liked them all. 5 people who didn’t know each other… just becoming comrades in the space of a couple of hours. The break ended.
Then… the big walls. 13m huge overhanging walls.
This time, I got 6m. Next time, 8m. Not the whole 13, but higher than I’d ever climbed. I began to love the sensation. Even though my muscles had turned completely to jelly by this time, the feeling that I knew what I was doing – I was tied in correctly, my equipment was good, partner was watching what he was doing ready to catch me… that took over. It was about me and the wall again. I realized that I was afraid of falling, not of heights, and that based on current evidence and past experience, even if I fell I would not get hurt. That feeling took over. And I was sad when it was time to go. Even though I never once got to the top of anything I tried – still I had a go at it. And I’m going to go back on Friday after my job interview and do it all over again.
So where does the metaphor come in, after all this rambling?
Think of the process we’re going through – re-thinking our relationships (personal, our own relationship to reality), perhaps deFOOing, and all the other crap that we’re going through – as climbing a wall. The people who have gone before us – Aristotle, Rand, Stef, the people who came on FDR before us and are leading the way in this process – have set protection out ahead of us. The route is laid out. As we clip into each successive piece of protection (i.e. as we go through each particular step of this process) we shorten the height of our fall. The piece of protection saves us – and as we go higher, we have shorter distances to fall. That means… if you’ve deFOOed, what’s the chance you’re going to go back to your family? Fairly slim. You’ve taken a look at all your friendships and tossed out the people who advocate the use of force against you. What’s the likelihood you’re going to make another friend who wants you shot? Not too high. Barring catastrophic failure of all protection, if you fall off the rock for a minute, so what? You’re not going to hit the ground. You’re never going to go back to your old life.
The instructor told us today that if we feel like we’re going to fall, to just fall. No need to cling onto the face for dear life and waste all our energy and make things even worse. Just fall – because you’re not going to fall far. That’s something that’s taken me a hell of a long time to learn at FDR – to not worry so much about blitzing up the wall or blitzing through the process, and to be ok with the inevitable slip-backs, mini-falls, going slightly (or majorly, as was the case in May) off the rails. Because I realize that the more I used to cling onto the face for dear life and try to convince myself everything was ok, the worse the situation got. I know that’s been the same for other people as well – this all-encompassing fear of going off the rails, of falling completely off the face and having to start all over again.
So… my metaphor… just go with it. It’s about you and the rock – not about showing off, or about anyone else, or comparisons. Trust your comrades – you can’t climb alone. And if you fall… well, fall! You haven’t got far to tumble.
(For those of you who have no clue what I mean, see this vid:)
