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strokes and mirrors
Oct. 21st, 2005 09:32 amI've been doing a lot of thinking lately.
Along the lines of my earlier post, about the decisions we make in terms of self-perception, a friend brought to my attention last night the question of whose perspective of us is generally more accurate--that of our friends or our enemies?
My interpretation of what my friend said is as follows (and I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies in my recall): friends are going to always provide the best possible reflection, ignoring the flaws and ooohing and ahhing over the good points, much as a newborn baby's parents point with pride to tiny fingernails and bright eyes, while ignoring the pointy conehead and blotchy, blemished (& in the case of my jaundiced babies, bright yellow) skin. On the other hand, enemies, not being constrained by politeness or undue tenderness, will paint a vivid picture. Even if it's more caricature than snapshot, it lacks the blurry soft focus of whatever filter the friends have placed over the lens.
I know that I disagree with this viewpoint in some fundamental way, but it's taking me a while to work through the details of how or why.
I tend to think that my close friends (and many of you fall into this category, for good or for ill) are the ones who really see me at my worst. The circular thoughts turning in upon themselves, the hyperanalysis of everything in minute detail, the what-ifs, the depressive 'I hate my life'....see the light of day both here and more personally with both my spouse and a few close friends (most of them on this journal) who hear these bits and pieces even more frequently, in more detail. (*giggle* You are all saints, truly. & I'm being honest.)
I'm, frankly, amazed at how much of the shit in my headspace my friends can be exposed to and still want to be friends with me. *wry grin* I think that's where my ongoing fear comes in. I worry that eventually the people who are important to me, the ones whom I truly cherish, will decide that the signal-to-noise ratio doesn't measure as worth the time it takes to listen quietly, piecing together the truth from rambling, broken bits and pieces.
But it's also worth noting that I don't show this dark side much to either my enemies or my casual acquaintances, barring those of you who choose to listen here for your own masochistic purposes. ;-) Actually, I think that I tend to live my life a bit like a turtle or the fabled ostrich, hiding most of the time and only peeking out for occasional interactions with those whom I trust intensely.
My friend, in contrast, chooses to confront the demons, both those within and those without. She wants to shake them up, to play devil's advocate in so many different ways that it makes my head spin. I envy her the courage it takes to do that, as well as fearing for her survival, as overstated and melodramatic as that sounds. Because I think there's a cost for that, a cost that she manages to continue to pay, but it hurts me to see her pay it, hurts me to witness the difficulty involved in continually fighting against both the voices within and without that say, "You're no good. I wish you were dead. I wish you would just go away."
There's a poem that I really like by Marge Piercy; I think I may have posted it here before, but I'd like to post it again in honor of my friend and those like her. It's written for women, but I mentally expand it to include any and everyone who sometimes gets a little out of hand, to include any of those who refuse to play by enemy rules.
And me? I'm quietly off doing my own thing, thinking my own thoughts, trying hard to see myself and others in the best possible light. Perhaps I've become inured to emotional cruelty, or simply walled-away...most certainly I am the latter, and maybe it contributes to my ongoing feelings of entrapment. But if the alternative is casting all that is good and beautiful in me before people who want to rip it to shreds...meh. I'll take my self-imposed exile.
I don't know how to change the world, or if I have the courage that it takes to try. But I guess my way of trying, for right or wrong, is to write for those of you who are reading this, hoping that you'll see some measure of truth here that you can take and use to make your own life a little brighter during the times when the black dog's waiting outside the door. No doubt it's pretentious (god what a loaded word THAT'S become) for me to want that, but it's what I aspire to, and if my reach exceeds my grasp than no doubt I'm also in good company. With my friend. With the whole human race, for that matter.
At any rate, I've said it before and I'll say it many times again, I hope: I'm exceedingly grateful for all of you here, in this bright space. Thank you for listening and letting me be myself. Thanks for giving me glimpses of yourselves. Real, unreal...in the end all that matters is the love, and know that it's there...along with my shoulder, my ears, my heart. For you. Always.
( poem to follow behind cut )
Along the lines of my earlier post, about the decisions we make in terms of self-perception, a friend brought to my attention last night the question of whose perspective of us is generally more accurate--that of our friends or our enemies?
My interpretation of what my friend said is as follows (and I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies in my recall): friends are going to always provide the best possible reflection, ignoring the flaws and ooohing and ahhing over the good points, much as a newborn baby's parents point with pride to tiny fingernails and bright eyes, while ignoring the pointy conehead and blotchy, blemished (& in the case of my jaundiced babies, bright yellow) skin. On the other hand, enemies, not being constrained by politeness or undue tenderness, will paint a vivid picture. Even if it's more caricature than snapshot, it lacks the blurry soft focus of whatever filter the friends have placed over the lens.
I know that I disagree with this viewpoint in some fundamental way, but it's taking me a while to work through the details of how or why.
I tend to think that my close friends (and many of you fall into this category, for good or for ill) are the ones who really see me at my worst. The circular thoughts turning in upon themselves, the hyperanalysis of everything in minute detail, the what-ifs, the depressive 'I hate my life'....see the light of day both here and more personally with both my spouse and a few close friends (most of them on this journal) who hear these bits and pieces even more frequently, in more detail. (*giggle* You are all saints, truly. & I'm being honest.)
I'm, frankly, amazed at how much of the shit in my headspace my friends can be exposed to and still want to be friends with me. *wry grin* I think that's where my ongoing fear comes in. I worry that eventually the people who are important to me, the ones whom I truly cherish, will decide that the signal-to-noise ratio doesn't measure as worth the time it takes to listen quietly, piecing together the truth from rambling, broken bits and pieces.
But it's also worth noting that I don't show this dark side much to either my enemies or my casual acquaintances, barring those of you who choose to listen here for your own masochistic purposes. ;-) Actually, I think that I tend to live my life a bit like a turtle or the fabled ostrich, hiding most of the time and only peeking out for occasional interactions with those whom I trust intensely.
My friend, in contrast, chooses to confront the demons, both those within and those without. She wants to shake them up, to play devil's advocate in so many different ways that it makes my head spin. I envy her the courage it takes to do that, as well as fearing for her survival, as overstated and melodramatic as that sounds. Because I think there's a cost for that, a cost that she manages to continue to pay, but it hurts me to see her pay it, hurts me to witness the difficulty involved in continually fighting against both the voices within and without that say, "You're no good. I wish you were dead. I wish you would just go away."
There's a poem that I really like by Marge Piercy; I think I may have posted it here before, but I'd like to post it again in honor of my friend and those like her. It's written for women, but I mentally expand it to include any and everyone who sometimes gets a little out of hand, to include any of those who refuse to play by enemy rules.
And me? I'm quietly off doing my own thing, thinking my own thoughts, trying hard to see myself and others in the best possible light. Perhaps I've become inured to emotional cruelty, or simply walled-away...most certainly I am the latter, and maybe it contributes to my ongoing feelings of entrapment. But if the alternative is casting all that is good and beautiful in me before people who want to rip it to shreds...meh. I'll take my self-imposed exile.
I don't know how to change the world, or if I have the courage that it takes to try. But I guess my way of trying, for right or wrong, is to write for those of you who are reading this, hoping that you'll see some measure of truth here that you can take and use to make your own life a little brighter during the times when the black dog's waiting outside the door. No doubt it's pretentious (god what a loaded word THAT'S become) for me to want that, but it's what I aspire to, and if my reach exceeds my grasp than no doubt I'm also in good company. With my friend. With the whole human race, for that matter.
At any rate, I've said it before and I'll say it many times again, I hope: I'm exceedingly grateful for all of you here, in this bright space. Thank you for listening and letting me be myself. Thanks for giving me glimpses of yourselves. Real, unreal...in the end all that matters is the love, and know that it's there...along with my shoulder, my ears, my heart. For you. Always.
( poem to follow behind cut )