Existential Ennui

~ Searching for Meaning Amid the Chaos

Existential Ennui

Tag Archives: emotions

Marriage 101

20 Friday May 2011

Posted by Sherry in Inspirational, LifeStyle, Overlooking the Fields, Psychology, Sociology

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

emotions, growth, inspiration, lifestyle, marriage, psychology, relationships

First, let’s get this straight. I am not a marriage counselor, and I don’t play one on TV. Still, I think I’ve learned a thing or two in 61 years of which nearly twelve have been lived in fair wedded bliss.

We’ve been watching a show most of you probably haven’t heard of. It’s called Addicted to Food. It revolves around a treatment center and the work of around eight men and women who suffer from extreme eating disorders, ranging from compulsive eaters, bulimics, and purgers. I don’t suffer from any of these, but I do flirt with compulsive eating. Eating emotionally. So I figured I might get a tip or two.

As one might suspect,emotional eating usually stems from issues one has from early childhood, or some other traumatic event in youth or young adulthood. One eats to keep from feeling and then dealing with the underlying issues.

Let’s face it. Most of us come from dysfunctional families to one degree or another. That is the key, here, the degree. For the degree and our personal psychological “givens” determine whether we will suppress our pain through addiction (be in food, alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, or anything that we can dream up), or whether we will grow up, take control and responsibility and build healthy lives. 

We bring  our unresolved issues to the marriage, and whether we believe it or not, realize it or not, we expect the other person, this love of our lives, to fill the hole, making everything all better. They cannot of course, for they come with the same hole, caused by something very different, and expect the same of us.

That is the child we are. Most of us are in fact children no matter our age. Some of us, thankfully are adult about parts of our lives, and those parts allow us to function fairly normally most of the time. Some of us are fully adult and they are our models. We are lucky indeed if we have someone who can model adulthood to us.

We are children, mostly because we, most of us, most of the time, are ego driven. We are out for ourselves, out to protect ourselves at every cost. Taken to an extreme, such narcissism causes us a great deal of trouble. But even if we are empathetic and compassionate to a degree, we still look out for number one most of the time.

As babies, we cried and screamed if we were wet, hungry, or uncomfortable. As young children we began to learn boundaries–that the entire world didn’t revolve around us all of the time. As teens and young adults, we perfected and fine tuned the art of manipulation. We learned to “do for others” to get a reward. We learned to bat our eyes, we learned to laugh at the bosses jokes. We learned how to read the emotional needs of others and use them to get what we wanted.

And mostly we never saw ourselves in this way. We saw ourselves as successfully negotiating the social world. Give and take, befriend and be befriended.

Marriage, because it is based first and foremost on emotion, presents a person with a whole new animal. In the first months and perhaps years, we are all directed to the other person in our lives. We put them first, we think of their needs, we do for them, often without any real conscious thought for ourselves.

But passion fades, and one day one wakes up and finds a very ordinary person beside oneself. This person has bad breath, snores, scratches and burps, and well the list goes on. They vomit and have dirty underwear. They have bad habits, they say the “wrong thing” sometimes. They are all too normal.

This is where one’s level of adulthood becomes important.

For if we are still children, still into blaming others for past events, still victims, still looking and expecting someone to fix us and everything, we are headed for a disaster. For now, we will return to the manipulation game we have come to know so well.

Except now we are manipulating the beloved. We are doing things for them, but now we expect reward. We are choosing the right moment–their time of weakness–to get our way on some issue of the moment. We are “keeping score”.

Unless we have some measure of adulthood. If we have come to this marriage, or during it, arrived at the place where we are responsible for ourselves, then we never get to “keeping score.” We do for the beloved because we still wish to, without expectation of repayment. We take delight in the doing of it.

More especially , we don’t look to play upon our beloved vulnerabilities, rather, we approach serious issues when they are in most control, so they have the ability to make good decisions, negotiate fairly, and arrive at a mutual decision that will stand the test of time. We don’t take advantage, we don’t want to.

We don’t use the other person to shore up our own shortcomings. We can know that we are right on issue A and never have to beat a discussion into the ground until our spouse agrees that we are right. We can let them think they have won, because we know that it’s “not worth a fight”.

We don’t care about clothes on the floor, toothpaste squeezed wrongly, or toilet paper placed incorrectly. If there are pliers on the kitchen counter, or the wrappings of a candy bar on the bedroom dresser, we smile, place things where they belong and thank our lucky stars that we have someone who is otherwise so good to wake up next to.

We don’t sweat the small stuff. We work on our own failings and missteps. We know that as we mature, our ability to bring a mature attitude to the partnership of marriage increases. We can ask for help, we can ask for opinion, but in the end, the work is ours. And if we are very lucky, we married someone who pretty much does the same.

If the benefits were only to ourselves, that would be enough. But they redound to the marriage itself, making it stronger, more flexible, more compassionate.

And that is what makes a marriage something to be prized as a most precious possession.

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Peering into the Darkness

20 Saturday Nov 2010

Posted by Sherry in Blog, Editorials, Literature

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

blogging, emotions, meaning, writing

I guess that sounds ominous, but I don’t mean it to be. I’m just being a bit reflective today. Not pensive, no melancholy. I am guilty of that sometimes.

 I once described my mood to the Contrarian as being melancholy with a dash of pensive. It sounded intellectual without being  pedantic, yet appropriately pretentious?

I was pleased to note a couple of days ago that I had hit 1000 posts here. There have been few days when I posted more than once, so it’s a fair accomplishment I guess. I never would have thought that I could find so much to say.

Most of it is utterly forgettable, some is worthy of posterity I think. I’m not sure which ones. I have no desire to dig through them. Occasionally when I get a comment on a very old post, I reread it. I’m sometimes surprised. “Did I say that?”

Pope Benedict XVI has had a say about the Internet. I haven’t seen the substance (I heard about it on Stephen Colbert), but I understand he finds has reservations about it. Probably the porn, but probably also the isolation it can lead to.

Roger Ebert wrote on this subject  and I linked to it. Sorry, but I can’t give it to you because WordPress just upgraded the linking mechanism, and of course now it doesn’t work at all. Sigh…

Anyway he suggested that for many people who might otherwise be utterly isolated, the Internet serves as a means of communicating with the world. Of course, both options are possible. Everyone understands that kids, and many adults substitute online relationships in lieu of real one.

And that’s not really fair. I have a few online friendships that I truly cherish, and if it were not for the Internet, I would not know these people at all. We live hundreds of miles apart. Whether we ever meet or not is not nearly as important it seems to me as what we feel able to share of ourselves.

What we share can be as broad or as narrow as any relationship. We all know people we see regularly and chat with at work, church, or other activities, yet we know little about them, and we share little with them. Others know us in much deeper ways.

The Internet fails in one large area and that is in conveying tone and inflection. Plenty of bad feelings occur for this reason. Said face to face, we would surely know when someone is teasing, or being serious, whether one is acidic in their comment or mildly chiding. Whether one is deadly serious or pulling our leg. Satire is often mistaken for meanness and intentional mockery.

It happens. We are all guilty of misunderstanding from time to time. I guess we’d be better off using more emoticons if they were available.

But then, great fiction seems to always convey emotional meaning. So I guess it’s more in the caliber of the writer. On that standard, I’ve got a long way to go.

I truly wrote my first post not at all sure what I was doing or why. I figured to get a few things off my chest, and then I expected to shrug and stop. I never expected much in the way of anyone reading my prattering. I never expected to learn how to write better. I’m not sure I have. No doubt I’ve deeply embedded some awful practices. I use too many adjectives I know.

I like adjectives. I like words. The Contrarian’s book was named “Ordinary Words,” and I always thought it a good title. I like certain words better than others, though I’d be hard pressed to tell you which ones off the top of my head.

Anyway, writing is part of who I am now, for better or worse. I suppose it’s always for the better, since no one is stuck with me should I become too predictable and too lame. Lame in the teenage sense of being I think old-fashioned or well predictable, and not unstable as one becomes when they limp. Funny words, used in so many ways.

It’s why Christianity  will remain forever divided. Same words, different meanings, different interpretations of the myriad of definitions available. The most dangerous word in the English language is Thesaurus. We learned that lots of words can mean almost the same thing, thus no word means exactly only one. Damn the Eskimos and their dozens of words for snow!

I wonder if sign language allows for all the nuances of spoken language?

Now you know what melancholy with a dash of pensive means, doncha?

Have as good a day as you can!

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Tripping the Light Fantastic

31 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by Sherry in Art, Essays, Inspirational, Poetry, Psychology, Sociology

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

Art, emotions, life, Music, painting, Poetry, psychology

I’ve been thinking about poetry. In the end that got me to thinking about music and art in general. I’m sure you have found yourself thinking about them too. In case you haven’t, I’ll share.

I have always had a arm’s length kinda thing in regards poetry. I liked some (that which I could easily understand) and didn’t like some (that which I could not understand).  Pretty basic analysis.

I have no idea what poem the phrase “tripping the light fantastic” comes from, but I remember a high school teacher frustrated as all heck because we were bemused by her attempts to get us to “respect” poetry. We thought it all silly, and memorizing any portion of it, a sheer waste of time.

I was troubled by the poetry I didn’t understand, often written by supposed giants of literary ability. Well, no supposed about it, they were such giants, and I was terribly worried at times what I was missing and why. I thought to read it line by line and for all my efforts I still had no idea what was being said half the time.

As I said, some I did get. “By the shores of gitchee gumee, by the shining deep sea waters. . . .” That I get.

I learned that poetry was meant to evoke emotions, yet I still felt there must be actual meaning in the words themselves? Some code I was unable to penetrate. And so mostly I left it alone.

I’m thick headed about some things. Poetry must be one. I mentioned a few days ago, that a poem I read on a site which I linked to had spoken to me powerfully. It felt like someone had dug into my skull and spoke my deepest agonies, fears, sorrows, melancholia. I’m not sure what the poem was meaning, but I finally got it, I think.

It meant what it meant to me. It evoked feelings about my state in the this world. And to him/her it might have evoked feelings about something entirely different. It might have related to an event, a time, an experience quite different from mine, but the emotions were the same.

I’m not sure I’m making much sense, but I hope you are seeing what I mean in some way.

Music is the same. Musical compositions often have names, they define the subject matter of the composer, “The Messiah,” or the “Rodeo.” Now, common sense tells you that if you were unaware of the name and you were hearing it for the first time, you wouldn’t say, oh my he’s composing a piece about Jesus Christ. Yet, we are carried by the sounds with the title, and we reflect on Jesus, knowing that it is about Him, and we FEEL a kinship to the scriptures that talk of him.

Painting and sculpture are no different. Especially the more abstract kinds, but even those dubbed Romanticism and Expressionism also do this. They may depict more identifiable objects, yet they are distorted in some way that allows us to dig deeper, feel deeper, and connect with our spirit-soul.

At least that is what I think. That is why the arts are essential to our humanity. That is why we started to represent things in our own imaginings almost from the start. From the fertility goddesses we fashioned in the stone age to the cave paintings in Lascaux, France, to Monet and Picasso. We seek to speak the unspeakable and we seek to ask the world to understand what we cannot say.

Poetry is that. It speaks of what is not speakable.

And yet, I would not negate the poetry that tells the story. For it has it’s place. It is the journeyman’s way. It is what I write, and so many of us write, some better, some not so. But it is our ungifted attempt to speak of more than what we can utter in declarative sentence.

It is what caused Dorothy Parker to correct anyone who wanted to talk of her “poetry.” “No,” she would say, “not poetry, but my verses. I am no poet.”

Poetry is the Psalmist who cries for Jerusalem, yet, two thousand years later, manages to still speak to our condition as we cry for whatever is holy and seemingly withheld from our hands and hearts.

Camus suggests that true genius is accompanied by a requisite amount of banality. I have said more than once that every decent thought has been thought, we merely come up with them again and again, until such time as the other pieces are available and we can make something of them.

So poetry reminds us, in the end, of that timelessness. That the same hopes, dreams, fears, jealousies, hatreds are ever with us, no matter whether we awaken upon a mammoth robe or on 1200-thread count linen sheets.  It is all the same.

Nothing new here folks. Just an aging woman finally getting something through a puzzling mind. And I have yet to speak of war and scripture and things more marvelous still. But tomorrow is another day, God willing.

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