Thoughts and Ramblings
I have thoughts. I ramble. It makes sense.

I do my best not to fall into the trap of making generalizations about “people today”, mainly because I don’t think they work most of the time. But I have noticed something recently that bothers me more and more as I get older, particularly because I know that I have been an offender of the problem on multiple occasions myself.

We all know there are occasions where what someone says doesn’t need to be taken wholly seriously. If I see my neighbor outside while taking out the garbage and ask how he’s doing, I generally don’t put too much time and effort into figuring out whether his response of “Good” is indicative of some new found fortune or just a regular old “Everything’s fine” answer to my question. The truth is, it is politeness that prompts me to ask the question in the first place, and I usually just assume that a similar etiquette motivates his answer. And that all strikes me as fine.

But what has been worrying me lately is the extent to which people offer seemingly heartfelt comments to other people with the same throwaway intention as they would with their neighbor outside. This can cause all kinds of problems for the recipient, especially if they aren’t aware that the comments weren’t given in earnest. And once they realize after the fact that they were duped, God only knows how their ability to believe the next set of remarks about them will be affected.

Here’s an example that many will be familiar with. John and Jane have been dating exclusively for over a year when out of the blue Jane calls John and tells him it needs to be over. When John asks why, Jane responds by saying that “It isn’t him, it’s her, and that he is an amazing person with an amazing heart, and she has never felt so loved in all her life. The timing just isn’t right, etc.”

What are we to make of this? Or, more specifically, what is John to make of this? Assuming Jane is someone in whom he had put his trust for the past year, and someone who he loved, wouldn’t it make sense for him to believe that he really is an amazing person with an amazing heart? Wouldn’t he believe further that if the timing were right, they’d still be together? All of that seems to make sense if we take what Jane said at even a remotely literal level. But notice that in most cases like this, the “Jane’s” of the world really don’t mean any of what they are saying. How do we know? Well, common sense would say that if a person finds a partner who truly is amazing, there wouldn’t be much of a reason to end it in the first place.

The fact of the matter is that people have become too accustomed to using hyperbole in situations where doing so can be very dangerous and hurtful to the other person (or people) involved. If John really is as “amazing” as Jane said he was, why is she dating someone else four days later? Is the new guy even more amazing? Or was it just the easiest way for Jane to leave, without having to be honest with John–and perhaps even herself–about why she was doing so? In effect, was Jane treating her boyfriend of over a year with the same level of honesty as I treat my neighbor when he asks me how my day went at the mailbox in the evening?

How did we get to this point? How did we become so unconcerned with the consequences of our actions when we speak to people without thinking it through fully? Or have we reached a stage in human civilization where lying really has become the new truth, and the only real question is to what degree the fabrication has been created?

Don’t get me wrong–I understand as well as anyone that sometimes it’s just better, and safer, to offer up that little white lie in place of the brutal truth. If I am asked whether a dress makes my wife, or mother, or sister, or a female stranger in a clothing store look fat, you’d better believe I’m going to say “no”. End of story. I value my life. But when it is understood that the conversation is of a serious nature and someone asks me a question with my honest answer as the goal, don’t I have some sort of responsibility to oblige with a truthful response?

I think the number one perpetrator of my concern is a single word, beginning with the letter “L”. I recognize that there are degrees to which someone can love another person, but I never thought that the baseline for that emotion would disappear as much as it has. And to be clear, I’m not talking about children and teenagers. If you’re fifteen and have just received the first kiss from your first girlfriend, you have my blessing to serenade her with as many L-bombs as you wish. But when adulthood is upon you and you have entered a relationship with someone who you know is serious about you, the same rules simply cannot apply. To tell her that you love her has different meaning this time, regardless of your level of commitment in the utterance. And that’s the point after all. You may be using the phrase “I love you” as a way to get laid, or pacify her, or even as a result of too much wine that night. But she can’t know that for sure, because she isn’t in your head. She assumes when you use those words that you mean it, and her expectations for the future of your relationship will be altered accordingly. It’s only natural, right?

What we’re really talking about here is points in time. The person who says “You’re amazing” or “I love you” as a conversation stopper, or for other ulterior motives, is using the words with finality as the goal. He knows that the other person wants to hear what he is saying, so once he offers the words up, his obligation has been met. Mission accomplished. But in reality, the other person is almost never hoping to hear something like that with a further hope that nothing else ever come of it. It’s not the way most of us function. And what comes with this is a further implication that despite the variance in people’s vocabulary, and command of grammar, etc., there is a foundation of understanding in language that the vast majority have a grasp on. It is contextual, to be sure, but it is there all the same. It is that understanding that allows me to know that my exchange with my neighbor over the mailbox or trashcan is different–or should be, at least–than my conversation with my girlfriend.

So while it might be easier to use loaded words like “love” or “amazing” or “brilliant” or “wonderful” as methods for cutting everything cleanly, the reality is that this sort of usage does a massive disservice to the person being given the so-called “compliment”. In truth, where lip service has been paid to end a discussion (and perhaps a relationship altogether), we should instead view these kinds of dialogues as beginning points for further, deeper, interactions. “I love you” should not mean “I love you right at this moment, but no further.” Nor should it mean “I love you until you leave my apartment.” “You’re amazing” should not mean “You’re mediocre but I know this will shut you up.” “You’re brilliant” should not mean “I have no idea how smart you are, but I need your help with this project and you’re the only person left.” These words have deep meaning and to use them in such superficial ways is a problem not only for now, but for later as well.

If there is a moral to this story, it is probably obvious by now. Lying, fibbing, and omission of the truth all have their places in our world. But most of us are experienced enough with our language to know when and how they should be brought to the table. Beyond that, just be careful. You may be able to move on with your day after telling the fourth woman of the week how much you love her, but understand that she may really be taking you seriously. And if you can live with that, congratulations. But I’m not sure that makes us all better of in the process.

My therapist gave me a very intriguing insight today. Normally I wouldn’t divulge much of what is said behind those doors–or even that I go behind those door in the first place–but I think the concept she offered is worth exploring here. So now you know, I have a shrink. And I am damn proud of it.

In any event, after commenting on how busy my life is these days, she asked me what I do when I am alone. It took me a while to think of consistent times when I am actually “alone” (usually early mornings on the weekend when everyone else is asleep), and once I did, I responded with my normal routine of playing video games, watching movies, or watching TV. Not necessarily in that order. Upon hearing that, she shook her head slightly with what I expected to be quasi-snobby disdain for my juvenile hobbies and said “You know, it would be much better for you if you spent your time reading or writing.”

Normally I would have nodded and moved on with the assumption that she was just turning her nose at the idea that a soon-to-be 31 year old could find anything interesting in playing video games, but I know her relatively well–at least in that therapeutic context–and it isn’t her style to pass that kind of judgement. So I asked how playing video games or watching movies could be that different from reading or writing? All can evoke emotion, and even though it is admittedly a little more difficult (at least for me) to read and write than to watch movies (some video games are damn hard), it seemed odd to me that she would offer such stark contrast between the two groups as something that would be helpful to me in particular.

Here was her response: “Video games allow you be either mindless or competitive, or both. Movies and television can be fine, but generally they do the work for you in the way of imagination. If you do feel emotion as a result of watching something, it is reactive–sort of in the way you might react to an argument with someone. Reading and writing, however, require both imagination and creativity in order to do them well. But more than that, they make you get in touch with emotion that can only be found when there is a part of you not being stimulated or told where to go. That type of emotion is something you really need to focus on learning about.”

***I wish I had asked whether the “emotion” I get from listening to music is real. It’s not like I always gather up feelings from the lyrics alone, so I would think that the feelings conjured from listening to melodies and instrumentals and words combined must be somewhat real, right? Just a thought.***

I found it interesting to hear that I have trouble emoting. From my recollection I am too emotional for the most part. I have gone through the gamut of emotions in a variety of contexts, from television commercials, to movies, to real-life fights, to the life and times of my two year-old, and so on. But to hear my therapist tell the story, despite my “feeling” whatever I felt in the moment, it was all reactive to the situation. I wasn’t really the one creating the emotion–I was just weighing in on something else. And because of that, I have guarded myself from truly feeling anything in many environments where it would have been healthy to do so.

Case and point–my father died about eight months ago. I didn’t shed a tear. I’m not a huge crier, but one would think that if I can break down from watching a father play catch with his son in a movie, I could at least get a little misty over really losing the man who was my paternal role model for thirty years of my life. Never happened.

So what does this all mean for me going forward? Honestly, I need to work that out a bit. I’m taking the initiative to write here and now, and I’d like to continue with this trend on a more regular basis than I have over the past year. I also have a ton of books downloaded illegally to my iPad, so I suppose reading more would work too. But I may want to be a little more judicious with my selections–I’m in the middle of The Road right now and I pretty much want to claw my eyeballs out from the depression that comes with it. But hey, emotion right? Nope, just reactive.

I make light of this stuff because quite frankly I have no idea how to get to where I need to be. I don’t know why I can be so supposedly emotional from things that other people would think were ridiculous, and then go to a funeral and spend the majority of it wondering what kind of food will be served afterward. To be clear, I want to gain (conscious) access to those emotions that have been repressed for so long. God knows I do. I just don’t have the faintest idea how. So in the meantime, I’ll do my best to read and write my way into my heart. I can only imagine the horror show that will be on display when I get there, but if I ever want to get truly healthy and happy, now is the time. And maybe after I get through all of that, I’ll play a video game in celebration.

I was pretty unpopular in high school. I had a few people I would hang out with in school, but for the most part until my senior year I had relatively no social life. And even when I finally got a girlfriend, she went to a different school–so as far as everyone in my school was concerned, I was still a loner loser. In the past I used to get really upset about this and relive the moments of loneliness and social anxiety with “what if” fantasies about what I would do if I were able to confront all of those people who were ignoring me again. I would show them. Look at me now. Blah blah blah. The truth is, they probably spent a total of zero seconds thinking about me, despite my constant ruminations about them. That tends to be the way it works from what I understand.

But looking back, I don’t regret the times when I was actually mistreated and didn’t respond with confidence. I don’t feel bad that I didn’t “stand up for myself” by punching the bullies in their respective faces. That wouldn’t have made a difference to my life in the long run, except to demonstrate that I can get my ass kicked pretty easily if I make bad decisions. The thing that sticks with me now, however, is my continued desire to be desired by people around me. And my feelings up dejection and sadness when it doesn’t appear that I am.

Let me be clear: I’m not referring only to physicality. I was told recently that I can’t get through a post without mentioning that I’m “good looking” (I disagree, but whatever), and that isn’t the point here at all. Do I want people to like how I look? Sure, but no more than anyone else. What I really care about, though, is that the people in my circle of peers genuinely like me and want to be around me. And I want that without having to put on airs or pretend to be someone I’m not.

You would think this would be simple enough, but I have a number of things working against me–many of which are my fault entirely. First and foremost, I’ve been told by a number of people that I give off a standoffish vibe when I am introduced to them, in a judgmental “I’m too good for you” sort of way. I wish I knew why that is, since it is almost never the case that I feel that way about people in reality. I guess I just have an expression that displays on my face without my knowing. It’s like having an “ASSHOLE” stamp on my forehead at all times. I remember my mother used to say that I was a bitter old man at eighteen years old, and that never really left me.

Another thing I have going against me is my history. I don’t have a track record of making the best decisions, in part because I didn’t always know what the best decisions were, and in part because I have been an idiot. So if someone meets me with any background on me beforehand, it very well could affect the way they view me despite my best attempts to the contrary. I guess on that score it just is what it is.

But the final thing I have going against me is one that I have never really been able to rid myself of completely. My OCD, the constant, looming, awful demon inside of me that tries to push its way out whenever I try and buck its pushes. It always manages to put a negative gloss on my perspective whenever I try and internalize the way people think about me. For instance, if I meet someone for the first time and we have a good conversation, but the last exchange I have with him goes like this:

<Me> “It was really nice meeting you. We should get together sometime soon for drinks or something like that.”

<New Person> “Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll give you a call later this week and we can figure it out. Maybe drinks or dinner. Or something else. Whatever.”

Rational response to a conversation like this would be that the person was interested in seeing me again and would call me later this week to firm up the details. Right? But the way my mind works, I would undoubtedly focus on the final word–whatever–over everything else. Internal dialogue would ensue with questions like “Why did he say ‘whatever’? Did he mean ‘whatever’ as in he doesn’t really care whether we hang out again, or because he doesn’t care what we end up doing? He said he would give me a call to firm it up, but how long should I wait before I decide it isn’t going to happen? I’m guessing it won’t happen anyway….”

I used a guy in this scenario to demonstrate that it isn’t just the usual “Guy meets girl, they have a nice first date, one promises to call the other, the other waits patiently by the phone, etc.” situation that can wreak havoc on my psyche–especially since I don’t get into those situations anymore in the first place. I’m just talking about a usual first exchange between two people who could become friends under the right circumstances. No big deal. And it doesn’t need to be limited to that. It could literally be anything from work colleagues, to students, to teachers, to family, to friends, to people in an audience watching me give a talk. Do you have any idea how awful I feel when someone falls asleep or is texting while I’m speaking? Not because I feel disrespected or annoyed. I feel terrible because it is an obvious indication that the person doesn’t like me enough to pay attention to something I find truly important. Rational or irrational, it is my immediate reaction and I hate it.

Why do I care so much whether people like me? Why can’t I just let it go if someone appears indifferent, and just give them the benefit of the doubt that I am probably overreacting? Or even better, even if they really do dislike me, why can’t I just say “whatever” in the right way about it? I have such a complex about this that it can cause me anxiety like I never experience in any other part of my life when I believe that someone is upset with me, especially if I think the anger is unjustified or misdirected. I need to find a way to fix the problem, even if I don’t really know what the problem is in the first place. I have to make the person happy with me again, even if they have no basis for not being. It’s the demon inside of me, scratching and clawing and pushing its way out to provide a quick fix to an issue that may not even have a true, genuine remedy available. In some cases it can be like putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound, but for whatever reason, the (very) momentary alleviation of real pain gives me relief from the demon so I can go on with my life. And I suppose that is why I continue to bow to its whims.

There are probably a few people who will read this and believe I am directing it at them. The truth is, I’m directing it to everyone and no one all at the same time. I have no specific example of rejection or acceptance that is motivating this beyond a recent realization that I really can’t continue expecting to live a healthy life until I get this in check. I don’t know how I will do it–perhaps my therapist will have some ideas–but I guess it’s good enough for the time being that I put it on the page and throw it out to the world for review.

In my dissertation, which was a hack bit on the right to die, I considered a guy named Hector who wanted to off himself at the ripe old age of 30 despite being in the prime of his life. As I told the story, he had accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish, didn’t have any dependents or family to leave behind, and thought it would be all downhill from there. At the time (I was 26) I thought “Who are we to stop this person from fulfilling his wish? If he wants to die, let him go. Help him if you want to. It’s his life.”

Now I’m 30 myself. I’ll be 31 in a month or so. My views haven’t really changed–I still think people should have a pretty liberal right to kill themselves (and be assisted with it, under the right circumstances)–but my life definitely has. Even in five years. I now have a real job. I now have a wife. I now have a child. I now have responsibilities, and debt, and a ceiling. Sound depressing? It should, because it is. When I wrote my hack bit, I viewed my life as at the bottom of a slope with an intensely high upward trajectory. Now I see myself at the top of a plateau, hanging on for all that I can.

The easy response would be “Don’t worry! You’re young, you’re good looking, you have a great family, you’re smart, blah blah blah.” And I suppose that’s all true. I have been blessed with gifts that many people would kill to have. But at the core of me–at the very inner essence of my being–I’m missing the elements that allow people to relish those things that make a life resume look so attractive. It probably stems from my background, and it likely has something to do with my upbringing. I’m sure I’ve made unhealthy decisions along the way that exacerbated the issues until they spiraled to my current state, but regardless of all of that, I’m here. And to quote my favorite Connecticutism–it is what it is.

So now what? As many know, and some have complained about, I am pretty obsessed with my son. I love being around him, I love taking pictures of him, and I love talking about him with people. I know I could probably do more in the way of helping him experience the world outside of my little existence, but I think for the most part he’s pretty happy. Or I hope so, anyway. So perhaps I could make him the center of my universe and call it a day. He’s the only one I know who will never, ever be in my debt. He’s the only one I know who had no choice but to deal with me on a regular basis, and for that I will do the best I can to make his life as bearable as possible. I owe him that much at least.

But beyond my son there exists a group of people for whom my relationships include a reciprocal give and take. My family, my friends, my wife–they all owe as much as they are owed. That’s how the world works. I don’t say this because I think people are coming up short with me. In reality, I probably have left more people out to dry in my life than the opposite. But it is important for me to remember the nature of my interactions and the way they would be impacted as I decide how to continue in my life as an adult. I think that’s what was motivating me five years ago, whether I knew it then or not.

Here’s the thing–I’m really not getting any younger. Whether fifty is the new forty and forty is the new thirty, I really don’t care. I’m not worried about wrinkles and gray hair. I couldn’t care less if my jump shot won’t fall anymore. I was never that good to begin with. What I do care about is whether I can improve as a person as I move forward. In other words, I don’t want to go on living if the trajectory is heading down for good. I just don’t.

To be clear, this isn’t some wordy, veiled suicide note. I’m not Hector. I have a son, and I have people who rely on my being alive and productive in order to continue in their lives. And to be honest, I don’t want to die. It terrifies me and always has. But it’s getting to the point where I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve topped out in my potential, and that scares me even more.

Story: When I was about fifteen years old I decided to move out of my shared bedroom with my brother and into a small sun room off the living room in my parents’ house. I needed my own space, and I was willing to sacrifice size for independence. I put up curtains all over the room, including the glass french doors, and installed a lock to ensure that I would never be bothered (didn’t always work). Once the foundation was set I went about collecting the things that I always wanted, including a secondhand cable-ready television (which I perfected by splicing my parents cable from the living room without their knowing), a Super Nintendo, and a CD player. I didn’t really have any friends at the time, my home life was dysfunctional to say the least, so this was my sanctuary. I would get home from school, grab some food, and lock myself in their for the duration of the evening. Once my homework was finished I would spend the rest of the night playing video games while listening to the oddest collection of music one would ever think to hear (imagine a mix including the tunes of Michael Jackson, The Fugees, Tracy Chapman, The Beach Boys, and LL Cool J). I had a phone in there too, but no one ever called and I didn’t expect them to. Thus continued my life for most of high school.

I offer this recollection not as a way to garner sympathy for my teenaged self, or as a fuck you to those who forced me into isolation. The truth is, I did it all myself. But throughout it all, even though I honest to God never thought I’d have a girlfriend, have sex, or get married, I also had an odd, intangible confidence that I would make it someday. I would succeed, I would get mine, and I would be happy. I don’t know how or why I thought this, but I did. Perhaps it was because I had managed to setup my space so successfully without training or help. Perhaps it was because I was getting good grades in school. Who knows.

Fast-forward to the present day. Fifteen years have passed and on the surface at least, I’ve achieved all of the things I didn’t have while playing Aladdin on my cheap Emerson TV set and listening to “Give Me One Reason” for the third time in a row on shag carpet. I got some friends, I got girlfriends and a wife, I got a son, I got a job. I got a house of my own. I got out of the city that I thought would suffocate me if I stayed a day longer. In short, I had every reason to be afraid of not making it back then, but I wasn’t. And now that I have “made it” in theory, I’ve never been more terrified.

I don’t want to get old if it means the arrow is aiming to the ground. I have too much I want to do, even if I’m not completely sure what it is yet. I don’t want to lose the ability to do it once it becomes clear to me. I don’t want to look back with regret. I want to be that chubby kid sitting in the sun room with tears in his eyes because of how lonely he feels. It could only get better for him. Or so I thought. Crazy? That’s me.