Brave New Kitty

First, you can tell a person’s maturity level by how well they listen in general. Are they usually available for you? Do you feel comfortable talking to them, and know this is a person you can count on for good counsel and feedback? If so, then this person probably has some stuff figured out.

The theory of cognitive dissonance proposes that people have a motivational drive to reduce dissonance by changing their attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors, or by justifying or rationalizing their attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors. –Wikipedia

Years ago a therapist told me, “Pay attention to people’s behavior, not their words.” As obvious as this sounds—and even then, it sounded obvious—I had a hard time figuring out how to do it. This was because as a child, I was taught to ignore what I saw and heard in my family.

Both my parents drank. A lot. They had no difficulty telling me they loved me, and they did so regularly. Then they would get drunk—three, sometimes four nights a week—and fight, loudly and profanely, until their alcohol-fueled energy waned and one of them passed out. I’d huddle at the door in my room and listen to every word, barely breathing, as if monitoring them was my sacred responsibility. I learned words no nine year old should know.

They didn’t always fight. Sometimes they were happy drunks. They played records—Creedence Clearwater and Kris Kristofferson. My mother would dance provocatively and sing while my father watched, occasionally groping at her swaying breasts. Because we lived in a rural area, there were no neighbors to complain about the noise, so the music was loud. Louder than the yelling. So loud it was impossible to sleep. Once I gathered my courage, padded out to the kitchen in my little pajamas, and asked my father to turn the music down. He looked me up and down in the harsh overhead light, laughed, and went back to watching my mother, who was also laughing—her only acknowledgement that I was in the room. Of course, I never asked again, and many were the days I had to get up for school with nowhere near an adequate amount of sleep. (It was a miracle from above when I discovered earplugs in my teens.)

I remember thinking he loves me, he said so, so why won’t he turn down the music? By the time I was ten, this happened with both my parents in dozens, maybe even hundreds, of ways: they’d say they loved me, but behave in a not-very-loving way. To make sense of this chronic invalidation in my tender shoot of a mind, I was forced to choose: either believe what my parents said, or believe what they did. As what they did was too awful to contemplate, I chose to believe what they said. Actually, I’m not sure “chose” is the right word, as children aren’t really able to make such choices. Rather, they’re obligated, by their desire to survive, to go with the least threatening option available. This is what I did, and thus began a pattern of cognitive dissonance that I was to carry long into adulthood.

I spent most of my twenties high and jumping from one bad relationship to another. They weren’t all violent; some were just bad matchups. Even though I knew somewhere deep inside that they were wrong for me (I must have, because I never passed a point of no return with any of them), I stuck it out over and over for far longer than necessary. If a guy told me he loved me, I found a way to rationalize anything: that he was overly critical and hyper-jealous, that he cheated, that he hit me, that we had nothing in common but cocaine or rock music, that he was not my intellectual equal, that I didn’t love him. I remember long conversations with girlfriends and long, maudlin diary entries lamenting these relationships, rationalizing either his behavior or mine, putting off yet another inevitable breakup.

By my mid-thirties, I was sober, but my relationship pattern continued. By this time, I’d heard numerous times that behavior, not words, was what mattered, but I still wasn’t able to apply it to my life in any significant way. Then one day, something clicked for me.

I was at work, having a conversation with my supervisor, a chemist, about the objectivity of science. I thought how neat and uncomplicated science was because of these objective standards of measure, and I wondered why it couldn’t be that way in the personal realm. Then I thought, why not? Why can’t it be that way, at least to some degree? There are objective standards of love, respect, and communication that I can use to evaluate relationships.

Well, this was the beginning of a wonderful new adventure for me. With this one little thought, everything changed. I was able to step back and look at all my relationships using objective criteria culled from the disciplines that mattered to me: psychology, philosophy, spirituality. I already possessed most of the knowledge I needed as I’d read extensively in all these fields. All I had to do was learn to apply it to my own life, which is exactly what this one little thought made possible. It was the missing link, the connection I’d been trying to make for as long as I could remember.

So simple, and yet, like most great truths in life, so profound. In retrospect, it seems so obvious that it can be difficult not to feel a bit foolish. But having grown up the way I did, it makes all the sense in the world that I would struggle with this concept. I had to ignore my senses and doubt my internal compass to survive my family. When such doubt blossoms into an adult worldview, unsatisfying relationships and chronic poor decision-making seem inevitable, as these are what best fit with the past and keep the cognitive dissonance to a minimum. How could it have been any other way?

One of the first truths I had to come to terms with was that, by this objective standard of love I was now using (one based on respect, kindness, and support), my parents did not love me. The pain of this was real, but it was overshadowed by the sense of relief that came from, finally and at long last, facing the truth. Surprisingly, I found that I didn’t hate them for it, and my residual anger actually dissipated somewhat. I was able to accept them for the broken, unhappy people they were, and feel compassion for them—and for the little girl who’d lived with them for the first eighteen years of her life. In the emotional realm, I discovered, truth is always, always, always the better way, even though it’s complicated and messy and rarely easy to get at.

People talk about falling in love with potential, and while that was true for me more times than I can count, I think the underlying motivator was the cognitive dissonance of my childhood. I made bad choices because they made the most sense to me. What would I have done with someone whose words matched his behavior? How could I make sense of that? The answer was that I couldn’t, I didn’t know how, and trying made me edgy and uncomfortable. “Nice guy” wasn’t a euphemism for loser; it was a euphemism for behavior that didn’t fit my worldview.

It was a crazy way to go through life, and I’m so glad I had the epiphany I did. I still struggle with cognitive dissonance; I still work at not seeing the world the way I learned to as a child. But it’s far less painful than it once was, and now that I have the tool of objective criteria to evaluate words and behavior, I can usually make decent choices, even if I take a roundabout path to get there.

Being present for other people can be scary. If you’re like me, you probably fret about if you’re any good at it. You might secretly believe you don’t much to offer, don’t have anything profound or even helpful to say, or aren’t very good at being comforting and supportive. Sometimes, you may even get annoyed thinking about the other things you could be doing. Put it all together, and you might decide it’s easier to just keep yourself out of intimate entanglements. But while it may be easier, it is infinitely less rewarding.

It’s true there is a responsibility involved in personal relationships. That responsibility involves being vulnerable, and that vulnerability causes anxiety. The anxiety is what makes connecting in a meaningful way— sharing intimate pieces of ourselves and listening to others share theirs—a burden.

From the outside, it might look like other people don’t get anxious, but they do. Extroverts are often people who’ve learned that if they’re the life of the party, they won’t be expected to have any heart-to-heart type conversations. They’ve created a camouflage that makes them appear as if they’ve mastered connecting, but if you observe them carefully, what you will probably see is that they have lots of acquaintances, but few, if any, close friends. Sometimes even their most intimate relationship, their marriage, is not a terribly deep connection. By keeping themselves always talking and always interacting, they cleverly avoid anxiety-provoking intimacy.

The introverts among us also often look more poised and self-assured about their relationships than they really are. Since introverts tend to be reserved, it can be difficult to know what they’re really thinking or feeling. Sometimes this is because they’re careful who they share themselves with, but often it’s because they don’t share themselves with anybody. Their cool facade hides quaking insides that they would never dare to reveal. They, too, might have primarily superficial connections, and for the same reasons as the boisterous extrovert.

The truth is, everybody has anxiety around connecting. The reason is simple: connections are vital to a satisfying life. The higher the quality of your connections, the richer, happier, and more fulfilling your time on this planet will be. No one is exempt from this desire. Real connections are what we all want. We want to be seen and heard and understood for who we really are, and we want to experience the joy of validating another person in the same way. So it would make sense that there’s a lot at stake, and that we would have anxiety about it.

It’s actually about more than relationships, though. Connection is the main component of spirituality. Most often spirituality is characterized by having a relationship with a higher power of some sort, but it’s really just about understanding the connected nature of everybody and everything in the Universe. Knowing that we’re part of something greater than ourselves is essential to our sense of well-being. We yearn for it and move toward it instinctively, or feel there’s something terribly wrong with us if we don’t.

Thus, feeling connected is one of the most basic components of humanity, consciousness, and existence.

Why then, can it be so difficult to connect? Why is it so scary? Why can it feel like such a burden? The reasons are many and varied, from disappointment to a profound sense of inferiority, but they mostly have to do with anxiety, or more accurately, avoiding anxiety. And once again, our childhoods come into play. If you had a loving, supportive family, then your anxiety level around connecting is probably manageable. But if you grew up in an invalidating environment—one in which you weren’t appreciated for who you were, in whatever form that took, from disinterest to overt abuse—then your anxiety level around connecting is probably pretty high. The degree of anxiety is strongly related to the degree of invalidation you endured as a child. It’s only logical: if you felt valued as a child then you would feel confident about connecting, and if you felt un-valued as a child, then you would feel un-confident.

Your degree of anxiety may also have something to do with modeling. If the early relationships modeled to you were not very loving or contained an unequal balance of power, then of course you would have a default negative view of what connection means and what it demands of you. This is particularly true for females, who, in invalidating families, tend to be on the bottom end of power struggles and not learn effective ways to set boundaries and take care of themselves.

If you aren’t happy with the quality of the relationships and connections in your life, you have to ask yourself what’s going on. It might be as simple as being so busy in your own life that you don’t have time to devote to relationships, but that’s far more likely to be an excuse. You have to dig deeper than that. Are you afraid of people not living up to your expectations? (They never do, by the way.) Afraid you don’t know how to “be there” for someone? Afraid of exposure, of looking vulnerable or weak? Afraid of being swallowed up and losing yourself? Or is your sense of inferiority so big it holds you back from making the effort?

Whatever your issues, you should try to work through them, because living in an isolated but safe little box is not living at all. The work is not as difficult as you might think. The challenge is to put yourself out there, outcomes be damned. Accept that sometimes you will get hurt, laughed at, rejected, scorned, spurned, teased, tossed aside, tossed over, and used. Accept these as an inevitable part of life. You aren’t perfect, and neither is anybody else. The best we can do is move towards what we love and hope to meet some fellow travelers along the way. Sometimes these connections develop into something great, deep and lasting.

Usually, however, they don’t. Part of the wisdom we must strive to develop is about having low expectations. A wise woman once told me that a person could count herself lucky if she has one really close friend in a whole lifetime. And if you have more than one, then you are fortunate indeed. If you think you’re doing something wrong because you’re not surrounded by adoring, beautiful people as depicted on television, I have news for you: you’re not. Nor should that be the goal.

What is the goal then? Well, I think the goal is to be present with everyone to the best of our ability. Really listen to what a person is saying; really make an effort to understand how a person is feeling. This doesn’t mean we’ll always form satisfying long-term connections, but it does mean we’ve done our part so that it could happen.

So whether you are the boisterous extrovert or the reserved introvert, always remember your innate desire to connect and try to act accordingly; you’ll never be perfect at it as no one is, but in this case, it’s the effort that matters. Whatever your given nature, use it to build bridges, not walls. Start by learning to tolerate your own vulnerability. When you are able to risk throwing pieces of yourself out into the world, outcomes be damned, you will find the burden of connecting one you can carry with lightness and gratitude.

Have you ever received a well-deserved apology but for some reason felt worse afterwards? Maybe like you did something wrong or were undeserving of it in the first place? If you feel this way after an apology, then it’s likely you got a blanket apology, which is as meaningless as no apology at all, made worse by the fact that by all social contracts, we’re supposed to accept any apology simply because it is offered, no matter how crummy it feels.

A blanket apology is one in which a person says they’re sorry, but doesn’t really own their wrongdoing, so the sorry doesn’t feel sincere. Often, the sorry feels more like “I’m sorry you’re so oversensitive” or “I’m sorry I ever got hooked up with you,” and you end up feeling at fault or second-guessing yourself for wanting an apology in the first place. If an apology is of the blanket variety, you’ll feel more distant, not closer, to the person afterward; this is, of course, the exact opposite of what an apology is supposed to accomplish.

In the 2008 presidential campaign, there was a great example of a blanket apology from John McCain to David Letterman. McCain cancelled an appearance on Letterman’s show at the last minute, saying he had to rush back to Washington for an emergency session of Congress to deal with the financial crisis. Letterman later found out that McCain didn’t rush back to Washington at all; instead, he did an interview with another journalist, went to dinner, and stayed overnight in New York before leaving for Washington in the morning. Essentially, he ditched Letterman for what he thought was a better gig.

Letterman was incensed. For weeks, he attacked McCain on his show, building the drama and tension in that way he does so well. Finally, just a few days before the election, McCain came on the show to talk about what happened and presumably to apologize. His apology? “I screwed up.”

He said it laughingly, shrugging like a naughty little boy who didn’t take the whole thing very seriously. I thought it was disrespectful, and I was disappointed that Letterman seemed to accept it in stride and not challenge McCain for a deeper, more meaningful account of what had happened and why. But after Obama won the election, Letterman brought the incident up again briefly, saying, “That’s what happens when you mess with me” or something to that effect. Which I’d like to believe was his way of saying McCain’s offer of “I screwed up” wasn’t good enough and didn’t begin to address his bad behavior or how it affected the person on the other end of it.

Most often, blanket apologies come from family members or other people we’re close to. I’ve had this experience numerous times with my siblings, and once or twice with my parents, and it took me a long time to figure out why I felt so empty when I got what I’d wanted for so long. I just assumed there was something wrong with me. Was I still too resentful, or too distrusting, or too unwilling to believe this person was sincere?

I was none of those things. The truth was, the person wasn’t sincere, and the apology offered was a cursory one, with very little awareness about where I fit in to the picture or what the true purpose of the apology was. Usually these apologies came after I forced them into a corner, defending myself against attacks in a way they didn’t expect and weren’t used to dealing with (after a lot of personal development work on my part). If I hadn’t defended myself, the apologies would probably have never come at all, so I suppose it makes sense that they were given grudgingly, and without sincerity.

But that isn’t always the case. In another instance, a sober friend made an amends to me while doing her 9th Step that went as follows: She invited me to lunch and said, “I need to make an amends to you.” This came as a shock. I said, “What for?” She said, “I’ve judged you, and I’m sorry.” I said, “Judged me about what?” And she replied, “My sponsor said I don’t have to tell you that. Just that I’m sorry.” I tried a few more times to get her to tell me what she was talking about, but she refused. I left the lunch feeling empty and hurt, and it was the beginning of the end of our relationship; I found I just didn’t want to be around her anymore.

This time, the apologizer was acting on her own authority, but the apology was nevertheless empty and meaningless to the person she’d hurt (in fact, there was no hurt until the amends). I’ve often wondered since that day if the apology was actually meant to create distance between us, since she could not have devised a more effective way to do that. Once again, at the time I thought I’d done something wrong to expect an explanation, but I know now that without the willingness to discuss the issues involved, such an apology (or amends) isn’t going to serve the relationship’s well being whatsoever.

In all of these cases is the defining trait of the blanket apology: the apology was more for the apologizer than the apologizee. They were either forced by circumstances into giving an apology or did so without understanding the underlying purpose of an apology (or an amends), which is, essentially, to let the person know that they’re important and that you sincerely desire to have a good relationship with them. Usually, a person’s narcissism is behind a self-serving apology. They see themselves as a person big enough to apologize, but really aren’t, and this comes through loud and clear. We need only pay attention to it and decide accordingly how we want to deal with it.

If you get a blanket apology from someone, one that doesn’t really address the significant issue in a way meaningful to you, it doesn’t really count, and you don’t have to accept it. You can ask for more. You don’t have to be confrontational about it. You can politely say you want to understand clearly what the person is saying and ask for more information or details. If they’re sincere, they’ll take another run at it; sometimes people just aren’t good at these things. But if they’re not, they’ll get annoyed, blaming you or acting appalled at your lack of graciousness. Either way, you’ve taken care of yourself, and you’ve gotten a much more focused picture of what your relationship with the person is, and what direction it’s moving in.

When you apologize or make amends for some wrongdoing, it’s important to be specific and sincere. Own your part clearly and be as detailed as possible. Let the person know that your intentions are to improve your relationship and become closer. And if these aren’t your intentions, then don’t apologize. You haven’t worked through your feelings yet, and the apology won’t be sincere.

If you want to have good relationships with people, it’s important to have good apology skills. Don’t take the John McCain route. Give people your respect, and they’ll respond in kind.

When you grow up in an invalidating environment—that is, one in which you aren’t valued and appreciated, whatever form that may take—it’s likely you struggle to “feel heard.” Furthermore, it’s likely you struggle with it without even knowing what it is. But feeling heard is one of the most important things a person needs to feel safe, nurtured, respected, and loved. It’s the very cornerstone of connection and the basis of all meaningful human interaction.

Actually, you don’t need to come from an invalidating background to not understand this concept; feeling heard is a precious commodity in most circles. But people who’ve had invalidating childhoods are likely to have a harder time identifying the issue and doing something about it than those with more supportive backgrounds.

What is feeling heard? Feeling heard is pretty much what it sounds like: somebody makes the effort to really hear what you’re saying, with no agenda other than understanding what you’re about. Feeling heard is just another way of saying feeling valued, appreciated, and respected, of feeling like you really matter. Hearing and feeling heard means we are fully present with another person.

So simple, yet so rare.

The world is full of people interacting, conversing, and having relationships, but not really seeing and hearing each other the way we all desire—it’s innate—to be seen and heard and appreciated for who we are. So full, in fact, it’s an epidemic: many people go through their entire lives without feeling heard or trying to hear others. It’s a tragic vicious cycle: they don’t know what a real connection feels like, so it’s never occurred to them to find out. Their conversations rarely leave the superficial realm, and strong feelings are comfortably expressed only during professional sports and Hollywood movies. They might sense there’s something missing, but they don’t know what. They may label it depression, and go on medication; they may call it a mid-life crisis, and get a divorce or have another baby; they may think they need an adventure, and have an affair; they may become addicts, to numb away the emptiness. All of these “cures” miss the point, which is that it is our own narcissism we must challenge, to the best of our ability, if we are to ever find joy and satisfaction. Because one of the classic symptoms of narcissism (which really just means “undeveloped”) is the inability to be present, not only with other people, but also with ourselves.

The noise in most people’s heads is so loud, you see, it prevents us from really hearing each other. We’re all so concerned with what other people are thinking about us—that’s our narcissism—that we aren’t able to hear what they’re really saying, which is almost always some version of wondering what we’re thinking about them. We can’t quiet our thoughts down enough to truly pay attention, most likely because we never learned how. If you grew up in an invalidating environment, then this was true for your parents, and your parents’ parents, and it’s true for you, too. In this sense, you can learn not to take your parents’ lack of positive attention (whatever form it took) too personally; it’s a human fallibility with which almost all of us are afflicted unless we seek actively to change it. That said, not making the effort to hear is the most fundamental way parents are disrespectful to their children and human beings are disrespectful to each other in general; it causes more pain, with its subtlety and intangibility, than all other cruelties and abuses combined. If people made the effort to hear each other, the world would be a much, much, much happier place.

Not feeling heard is so ubiquitous that, as I said, you may not even know what it is you’re struggling with. When spouses are locked in a power struggle, it’s never about the bills or the sex or the kids. It’s about trying to make your partner hear you. Actually, it’s really about trying to make your parents hear you. There is a direct correlation between the amount of invalidation you grew up with and how much you struggle with being heard as an adult. Not feeling heard is one of the core issues, if not the core issue, that compels us to re-create bad childhood situations so we can solve them in our adulthood; the worse the childhood situation, the greater the adult struggle. These struggles usually occur below the level of conscious awareness, or at least, they do until we identify their true nature.

Because feeling heard can be such an intangible thing, sort of like oxygen, it can be hard to identify. Chances are you got all the way through childhood without feeling heard by your family or even having an inkling what that means or what it would feel like (in fact, chances are if they didn’t hear you as a child, they still don’t hear you today). If that were the case, then of course it would be intangible and hard to identify! The first time you really notice it, perhaps with a therapist, it may evoke all sorts of weird feelings: sadness, grief, shame, anger, joy, attachment (feeling heard is such a powerful experience, it’s one of the reasons people become attracted to their therapists). I would even say that therapy’s greatest value is the modeling of a validating relationship. By spending time with somebody who truly hears you, you learn what it feels like, and two things start to happen. First, you start seeking out people who hear you while slowly weeding out those who don’t. Second, you start hearing other people. Both will increase your ability to stay present not only with others but also with yourself, and both will dramatically improve your quality of life.

It doesn’t have to be a therapist who models feeling heard to you. You may get lucky and have a great boss, friend, support group, or significant other who can teach you the importance of hearing and feeling heard. It doesn’t matter who the messenger is. All that matters is that you get the message so you can start to create the relationships you want for yourself and be present in your own life. And remember, it isn’t possible to become perfect at staying present, with others or with yourself. We all have noise in our heads that prevents this and you must never, ever flagellate yourself when you fall short. All you can do is be aware and try your best.

I’ve gone back and forth here between hearing and feeling heard because generally, they’re a package deal. If you’re prone to having relationships with people who don’t hear you, then you’re likely to be unable to hear other people, as well. This is nothing to despair or feel bad about. It’s simply something to be aware of. It’s your own stuff and as always, that’s good news, because it means you have the power to change it. Yay!

Hearing and feeling heard are simple concepts, but they require a willingness to confront your narcissism that can be daunting. Having the courage to make the effort says a lot about your character.

You hear people talk about inappropriate behavior, inappropriate language, inappropriate this, inappropriate that. It’s become a popular word to use to describe when a person does something out of line under a particular set of circumstances. Telling a joke at a funeral, wearing a revealing dress to a business meeting, telling a person how to discipline their kids—anything that shows poor boundaries or lack of respect for social norms. It’s a fancy word for “wrong,” and it’s powerful because it’s softer, yet implies a superior awareness of the norm not being followed. It’s especially popular among the “I’ve graduated from therapy” crowd.

I’m not knocking this crowd (being one of them). I’ve noticed a disturbing trend, however, and it’s not limited to this group but we tend to be the biggest offenders, to use “inappropriate” to describe behavior we just don’t like. The behavior doesn’t offend a norm, it just offends us. There is a huge difference, and understanding it opens up a good opportunity for increased self-awareness.

First, let’s clarify what inappropriate is and isn’t. If somebody says something mean-spirited or critical, or offers advice where none was asked for or wanted, then he is behaving inappropriately. But if somebody says something that we simply don’t want to hear, he is not being inappropriate, he is just being observant and honest, however insensitive or untactful it may come across. For example, you’re talking about how much work your new job is, and your friend says something along the lines of, “I thought you were looking forward to this work! You’ve wanted this job for more than two years, and you knew what was involved in it.” Or, you’ve had a fight with your boyfriend and you say, “I just don’t know what to do anymore.” To which your friend says, “Yes you do. You need to break up with him because you’re miserable and you know you’re not good for each other.” In both cases, you probably wanted sympathy, but your friend, ever eager to help out, gave honest opinions instead. Because the opinion felt critical, and because you didn’t really want it, you think to yourself (or if you’re really assertive, you say it out loud), “How could she say that to me? That was really inappropriate.”

But just because it annoyed you doesn’t mean it was inappropriate. It wasn’t mean-spirited, didn’t mean to offend, and didn’t break any social norms. It was just honesty, coming at a time when you were looking for something else. Calling this “inappropriate” does a disservice to both the person who said it and yourself.

When you label someone or something, you automatically create a distance between yourself and it. A label dehumanizes. It turns the person or behavior into a category that you can neatly fit into your mental scheme and thus dismiss in any manner you see fit. And herein lies the problem. If you call something inappropriate, but it is really just something that irritated you, you’ve made your problem somebody else’s problem. It’s been said before, many times, many ways, but if you’re bothered, then you’re the one with the problem, regardless of how insensitive the comment might have been. If instead of blaming the messenger, you instead pause and ask yourself why it bothered you so much, you just might come up with some interesting answers. Maybe you’re sensitive because you think you complain too much. Maybe you’re feeling guilty because you hate the job you finally got after wanting it for so long. Maybe you know you have to end your relationship, but you’re afraid to, and it’s the last thing you want to hear about (and dammit, doesn’t she know that?). Whatever the reasons, they’re yours and yours alone, and if you’re bothered, it’s your problem—and your opportunity to do something about it.

If you own your annoyance, then you have an opportunity to take a deeper look at yourself and learn something potentially useful. You also haven’t alienated the other person and may even end up with a deeper intimacy if you’re able to be frank with her about how her comment made you feel and what it made you think about. Instead of being annoyed, you just may be thanking her.

Pay attention to how you use labels. “Inappropriate” is one of many emotionally charged words that people use to label people or behavior they don’t like. They say nothing about who or what you label, and everything about you. They can hinder you from learning important truths, about others, about the world, and most of all, about yourself. If that’s not inappropriate, I don’t know what is.