Site Presented By
Friday, Jul 10, 2009
Since you asked ...
I don't know if this is just typical midlife stuff, or if I'm in serious psychological trouble.
By Cary Tennis
Read more: Suburban Sprawl, Advice, Depression, Husbands, Cary Tennis, Since You Asked, Life
Jan. 11, 2008 | Dear Reader,
Before we get to today's letter, I wanted to address you directly.
You know, when I started writing this column in 2001, I did so with a very clear heart; all I did was respond to individuals one to one, as though they were standing in front of me; I wrote as one ordinary person with no special knowledge but my daily experience working as a layman with other troubled individuals. It was an aesthetic adventure, a journalistic experiment and a personal mission.
I am still doing it six years later. I have enjoyed it very much and of course I am going to continue. But I find, as in a long relationship, it is useful from time to time to sum up and take stock, to see where we are so that we can catch our breath and continue.
I write this column five days a week. Every morning I can be found at home reading letters and thinking about them and writing. I try to read the remarks that others make about the column. I have been greatly, profoundly affected by the many positive responses I have received. But I also read the negative remarks, including the rather nasty ones. I am affected by them. I do not think that is a bad thing. I try to be affected by them, in fact. As a writer, I try to be affected by everything. I do not believe it is the privilege of the writer, as it is the privilege of other people, to say, Oh, they don't get it. I think it is the duty of the writer to consider all voices of criticism, including the outraged, insulting voices -- as it is also the duty of the politician to consider such voices, even if they are unhelpful. He ought to ask, what is going on with that?
There are various standard complaints -- that the column is too long, that I am self-involved, that I don't answer the question clearly. Some of these I do brush off as a painter might brush off such complaints about his painting -- that his canvases are too big, that they do not portray reality realistically and recognizably, that he seems to be working out some personal vision rather than expressing the will of the nation or the prevailing aesthetic.
But there are others that seem to come from pure disgust, hatred and outrage, that seem to be directed at me, personally, the actual person writing the column. I draw lines between who I am and the column I write; but I draw a great deal on inner work, the calling up of emotion based on similar experience, the attempt to inhabit other feelings, so I suppose it seems as though I myself had sometimes appeared on the page.
So in considering such comments, I came to think about my own dislikes, fervid and legion. I am brimming with dislike. I dislike so many people, so many writers, so many institutions! If I found pleasure in it, I might make a career of publicizing my dislike of others. But while I dislike thousands of people, both people I know and people I have never met, while I dislike hundreds of institutions, hundreds of products, so many books and magazines, so many movies and so many snack foods, so many pets and so many shoes, so many cars and so many swizzle sticks, so many fast-food menu items and so many cash register receipt slogans, so many faces and habits and mannerisms and clothing styles, so many oddly colored shoes and hand gestures, so many house colors and vegetable displays, so many driving styles and parking styles and telephone voices, so many political clichés and sayings, while I dislike so many thousands of things with great and vivid intensity, I do not consider my dislike of these things to be a source of wisdom, or a cause of action, or a premise for public expression, or evidence of critical acumen, or a guide to living, or an emotion I wish to impart to you so you can share in it, or an admirable fact about which people will say, at my funeral, "He disliked a great many things, and for this we will remember him always." To the contrary, I consider my dislike of many thousands of things mineral, plant and animal to be my own problem that perhaps by the end of my life will no longer be so all-encompassing. I would like to pierce the veil of reality and see how fruitless and misguided are my multifarious episodes of automatic disapproval and scorn. I wonder frequently at my own vast and cruel arsenal of put-down. I marvel at my ability to seize on the tiniest aspect of a person as representative of their worth. I am appalled at my own irritability. I see myself hurrying by a crowd standing in a corridor and I hear my own voice asking why they don't move aside more quickly for me; someone brushes against me and I think why is he so clumsy and thoughtless; I see young people in a group and I ... on and on and on.
Now, it is a fact that many writings about me are unoriginal and stupid. But I do not take pleasure in publicly identifying them as stupid. No compassionate person wants to draw attention to someone's stupidity, any more than he would call attention to a deformity. Stupidity is often genetic and otherwise unavoidable; no one asks to be stupid. Moreover, even the stupid take pleasure in speaking stupidly. Why should we deny pleasure to the obviously disadvantaged? When one is attacked stupidly in the open, one simply wants to point out to the assembled crowd, Everyone, take notice: This is a stupid attack and therefore without force. Whatever you may have observed here: It is meaningless and of no consequence!
But even doing that is sort of mean.
As a younger person I was rather cruel. I thought I had a special gift. I could see the faults of others. I took pride in saying what I found to be wrong. I also took a sophomoric delight in insult. I lacked in human feeling; I lacked in compassion; all I had was arid insight; I was overly dependent on thinking and underdeveloped in feeling. So I can understand, to a degree, the delight others take in attacking innocent and unsuspecting people on the Internet.
So what is it that prevents me from acting in this way? And what is it that opens me up to such attacks from others, as though I were a ninth grader with a briefcase and a bow tie, getting secretly kicked in the hall? What prevents me from unleashing my own voluminous set of grievances against individuals and institutions? What keeps me from engaging in pointless public self-defense? Well, through long practice it has become clear to me that writing is a contemplative act; it is not done well in a heated state; it is a dish prepared for the mind of another, not the emotions. The mind is the portal of readerly emotions, as it were. The pleasure of reading is the pleasure of receiving a full and developed thought from another, and thoughts can best be developed fully in tranquility. While enraged, it is hard to think straight. That is definitional. So naturally as a craftsperson I try to arrange my working methods in order to produce a certain cadence that comes from a settled mind. But why does this cadence irritate certain people?
I have no good answers, only speculation -- and any speculation could only involve characterizations that are not flattering. So I hesitate.
But let me say this. I know a certain person who flies into a rage when I try to talk to her. I think it is because she feels that in some way she owns me and has a right to dictate how I should be, and because of a certain bond it must also be said that she loves me although she is angry at me. She wants me to be a certain way and when I refuse to be that way she becomes angry, and nothing I can do can stop it.
It seems that many people who delight in insulting me and saying that I am a bad writer feel in some way that they own me, as an angry parent owns a child, or as a citizen owns an official even though he also detests him; being emotionally bound up with me, they seem to feel an infuriating frustration that I will not become their amanuensis, that I will not reflect back to them what they want reflected, that I am not their servant or their mirror ... and even that I am sitting in their chair! There are those who feel they know who should sit in what chairs. Perhaps they are accustomed to owning the world and naming the chairs. They see a person sitting in the advice giver's chair who is not doing it the way it has always been done, and they are infuriated, and they believe that they own that chair and they know who should be sitting there. It's as if they want to call the club membership to a vote.
It may be presumptuous of me to mention it, but there is a class system in America, and there is a system of brutal power relations, and a system of repression and of hateful discourse, and this system is not benign, but has a purpose, which is to make sure that no one sits in the owner's booth but the owner and his friends. Lack of self-knowledge is truly a luxury of the self-absorbed, and the truly self-absorbed are not those who reveal themselves in publication but those who hold all the cards and yet reveal nothing. It is a luxury of power to avoid introspection, to merrily skip out on the self-interrogation that leads to humility.
This has been on my mind. Writing this column every day makes it necessary to occasionally sum up and reexamine. I must every now and then try to remember why I am sitting in this chair.
And now to the letter:
Dear Cary: I am a suburban husband in my 40s with two wonderful kids, a good marriage, a secure job and financial situation, no medical problems, no substance problems, or anything like that. I work in a technical field, but harbor pretensions of being a creative person. My emotional state has always been somewhat up and down, but in the past six months or so, it has moved more decisively into the negative territory than it has since high school, if ever. I'm always tense, and frequently feel hunted, like I'm barely holding on by my fingernails, just holding my life together. I feel as though it's all I can do to keep my head above water.
Submit