Archive for the ‘Risk’ category

Cut Loose

October 15, 2010

Today I got some of the worst news I can ever remember getting–not the worst–and it’s a job thing not something more.  But it’s kind of a whole career possibly ending kind of thing.  And the decision process is not exactly sharp and fair-seeming.  Tenure, or the lack thereof.

So it sucks, and I am so sad for the loss it means.  Loss of how I pictured the future, and maybe things’ll turn out well somehow but it feels like a big ending, which it kind of is.  Not right this second at least, not so soon that I won’t have time to figure out a new plan or not be able to pay the bills.  But still.  And a loss of a group I thought I’d be joining, and of hopes that I had.

Maybe things will open up in some other way but it surely doesn’t feel good now.

But you know waiting was worse.

And I guess the thing now is not to make thing far worse than they in fact are, because I could you know, I could so easily.  So much worse.

I’ve been sober now for 9 years and a month.  This is the kind of time an escape would be really appealling.  I’m sure I’ll find plenty of little escapes, not all of them dazzlingly healthy, and I can live with those.  But not this one, alcohol, that’s an escape I can’t live with.  Not for much more than a day or two if last time was any measure.  And that’s if I’m lucky enough to get help right away or die quickly, without something terrible happening or a slow excruciating slide.

It would be so easy to forget all of that, to let myself go.

And these people are so not worth it.

The people that aren’t my fans, I mean–there are those who are and they’re the ones I’m so sad I can’t stay with.

I have no idea what the future holds.  I guess that’s really  always the way though, and this tenure track business has been making it seem some other way, and maybe it would have locked me in to tight.

Uncertainties, and Whining about Them

October 8, 2010

No like.  I guess certainty would be dull, but right now I’m a little miffed at not knowing if I’ll have a future in the career I’m in.  I will know a lot more soon.  For all I know I’ll be upset and nostalgically looking back from there to here, when it was uncertain.

It’s just not a very nice patch any way you spin it.  Not nice to have a process that seems distressingly similar to Survivor-style voting-off.  At least I don’t have to be there at some ceremony with fake tiki torches, not that I know of anyway.

So how does one wait patiently?  I used to drink through waiting but that kind of didn’t work out.

A Woman of Many Designs

August 12, 2010

Being back home after two trips with relatives in the last month makes me notice that it’s not just the challenges of who I’m with but also who I’m not with.  These people I have to be with me are amazing, and of course it’s hard to handle stress without them.  Brilliant insight, I know, but I’m obtuse sometimes.

Actually I did feel icky once while telling about the travels and not being able to explain the weirdness adequately so it didn’t sound like anything, but it was.  I may make up negative things about people’s view of me and about myself, but these are the folks that taught me how to do that.  So I don’t know that I’m imagining things when it’s to do with them.  Unless I just imagine it all, but I don’t buy that.  I guess I wouldn’t know though.

But mostly I’ve been feeling replenished and stabilized.  I realized at lunch today that I was sitting with over 75 years of sobriety combined–the three women I was with.  That’s pretty fucking amazing, given how rare those kinds of “outcomes” as they say are.  And we had a new person with us earlier, which was just as wonderful in its own way.

And of course I’m still ever-heartbroken about the old therapist, and the way that ended tainted the new one in some ways and of course I’m just easily distressed by therapists (as well as helped) at times, so I’m not exactly delighted with any of that, but on the other hand– today I’d switched my clothes for some odds and ends of cooler outfits (to brave the 100+ temps) I had with me and ended up with a hodgepodge outfit and as i went to therapy i acknowledged that I had an odd mixture of designs.  She said that that describes me all around–that I’m a woman of many designs.  So maybe that bodes well (I like it anyway).

No Talking.

July 16, 2010

Going to visit with family tomorrow.  Feel like about to be executed.  No time for extra words except of course for these extra words being used to make the comment about no time for extra words.  Yes.  That’s how it is in here, in our little mind.

But I’ve been given some helpful advice from people who know.  The main one is “No talking” which means no talking about anything serious or that I care about.  I know I can’t totally swing that but it’s been a good aspiration.

Sad though, that it’s got to be that way with my mother.  I want her to care.  All this wanting therapists to care seems suspiciously like that wish.  But of course they actually can care, and even with all the difficulties I’ve had with them it’s more than I got at home, so to speak.  Still.  I was feeling a longing to connect with my mother and that’s never wise–a sign of impending disaster unless I can keep that longing well leashed.  Hard though, specially when I don’t like to leash any impulses, and when the impulse is to connect it just seems so reasonable that it should get to be free.  But not there, I am reminded, by my dear friends (and my new therapist)–that is not the place.  Anywhere else is, pretty much, but not there.  My new therapist is getting a chance to be Love’s Executioner with me.  I don’t want it, but I know it’s right.  Not to end all love though, just to come to understand that it’s not going to come back to me in a way that feels real.

Don’t Know.

April 12, 2010

I see that it’s been a long time between posts for a while now.  I think this thing with my old therapist has shut down some things in me and is leaving me quieter.

Sucks.

Not that it would really be a problem to be quieter necessarily, if it were just that, but it’s a sort of squashed quieter.  It’s a look-what-happens-when-I-open-up kind of quieter.  I’ll probably do it again eventually, I can’t ever seem to help it.  But this awfulness with the old therapist isn’t going away.  She doesn’t care I guess.  She certainly doesn’t seem interested in apologizing which i guess isn’t something people do all that often at least it seems so to me, but also she doesn’t seem to wonder how I am or anything.  I don’t understand what changed.  I hope some time she will talk to me–it feels like i need that to release me.  I don’t want to be bound like this forever, I am already bound in enough ways.

My new therapist has said a few times things about my sharing a lot that day, and I wonder if that means it’s something not quite right.  That is what I generally wonder about everything, to some degree.  I also think it’s a little of a the desperation of the person with attachment problems.  I don’t know.

I’ve had a stressful day with my job feeling like one big bunch of scrunity and criticism.  Tenure-track.  The rack.  Publish or perish.

It’ll be over in a year or less really, one way or the other.

But I also did just have an amazing time at a conference.  I’m finding ways to pull the drive and interest I have in the relational/mind things I write about here a little into the work I’m doing, which is cool.  And I got some good responses.  More importantly, I was more able to meet and connect with people.  I still went off on my own plenty, I just seem to need that a certain amount.  But I did more of the other too, and I felt more like I belonged, or at least less like I didn’t.  Then I came back to daily work here  I work and didn’t feel quite so much that way.  What does that mean?  I know part of it is just the ickiness of where I am in the process, and how hideous I find being in a scrutinized situation, but is it just that?

Don’t know.

Two Roads

September 7, 2009

Two roads, diverging, that sort of thing.

We boil the significance of our lives down into one little essence, force it into one little shape.

As if.

As if it’s so simple, or so clear at the time or in retrospect that we did what was best for us, or that one path is necessarily so much more fated or commendable than another.

As if.

Not that I’m dissing Frost–far from it–far, far, from it–because he didn’t really make things so simple as we take him for sometimes.

Irony, dripping with.  Frostiness.

That’s the way I like it.  Sharp, biting, but beautiful.

Good fences don’t really make good neighbors–you didn’t think it was that simple did you?  Because good fences just make cleanly separated people.  Not just in my little opinion supra-added to the poem either.

And two roads, sure, and far hence we might well be saying that it made all the difference.  But that doesn’t mean that it did.  That’s the younger man thinking life is all turning points and obvious courses, and the older man wanting to believe it mattered that much and that he did the right thing.  We all want these things.  That doesn’t make them true.  Not untrue either, not one nor the other.  The poem holds these possibilities.  It’s not some stupid cutesy piece of syrupy copy for a poster.  It’s the real thing–the kind of work that penetrates to the mystifying heart of human life.

Well now that I’m running out of ranting I’ve almost forgotten what I was going to say.

Something about two roads, feeling faced with two ways of being in the world, and not knowing which to choose.  I am told to take the healthy way.  I am drawn to the more exciting and dangerous and wildly energizing and potentially bloody and promising way.  Perhaps neither is really what I think it is.  Perhaps I don’t have to chose.  Perhaps they aren’t really even so distinct from one another as I think.  Perhaps I can’t have it all, or can’t escape anything.  I don’t know how to frame the situation, how to envision the space I’m in.  A clearing in the forest.  Let’s leave it at that, for now.

Wild Brain

August 6, 2009

I miss the high Rockies (where I was a week ago).  It’s hard to come down from that.  But I do like my little house–my garden especially–it stills the craziness in my brain when I’m working in it.

Something’s been a little wrong with my brain lately.  I was feeling some lowness.  Also some “die die die” which is still there along with a feeling of wildness–not all unpleasurable but I think it’s a little off, too intense maybe.  My temporal lobe is a little fucked up so maybe it’s that.  Of course the whole things kind of fucked up really, but the neurologists don’t really seem to have that as a category or thing they can treat.  Who knows.

The thing is I like feeling a little wild and reckless which might be a problem.  Who knows what the next moment might bring.

“Why the Imp in Your Brain Gets Out” in NYT

July 7, 2009

Fascinating article on impulses in the NYT:  Why the Imp in Your Brain Gets Out

Impulses, perverseness, Poe. . .what better set of topics could there be?

Here’s the article text:

By BENEDICT CAREY

Published: July 6, 2009

The visions seem to swirl up from the brain’s sewage system at the worst possible times — during a job interview, a meeting with the boss, an apprehensive first date, an important dinner party. What if I started a food fight with these hors d’oeuvres? Mocked the host’s stammer? Cut loose with a racial slur?

“That single thought is enough,” wrote Edgar Allan Poe in “The Imp of the Perverse,” an essay on unwanted impulses. “The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing.”

He added, “There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge.”

Or meditates on the question: Am I sick?

In a few cases, the answer may be yes. But a vast majority of people rarely, if ever, act on such urges, and their susceptibility to rude fantasies in fact reflects the workings of a normally sensitive, social brain, argues a paper published last week in the journal Science.

“There are all kinds of pitfalls in social life, everywhere we look; not just errors but worst possible errors come to mind, and they come to mind easily,” said the paper’s author, Daniel M. Wegner, a psychologist at Harvard. “And having the worst thing come to mind, in some circumstances, might increase the likelihood that it will happen.”

The exploration of perverse urges has a rich history (how could it not?), running through the stories of Poe and the Marquis de Sade to Freud’s repressed desires and Darwin’s observation that many actions are performed “in direct opposition to our conscious will.” In the past decade, social psychologists have documented how common such contrary urges are — and when they are most likely to alter people’s behavior.

At a fundamental level, functioning socially means mastering one’s impulses. The adult brain expends at least as much energy on inhibition as on action, some studies suggest, and mental health relies on abiding strategies to ignore or suppress deeply disturbing thoughts — of one’s own inevitable death, for example. These strategies are general, subconscious or semiconscious psychological programs that usually run on automatic pilot.

Perverse impulses seem to arise when people focus intensely on avoiding specific errors or taboos. The theory is straightforward: to avoid blurting out that a colleague is a raging hypocrite, the brain must first imagine just that; the very presence of that catastrophic insult, in turn, increases the odds that the brain will spit it out.

“We know that what’s accessible in our minds can exert an influence on judgment and behavior simply because it’s there, it’s floating on the surface of consciousness,” said Jamie Arndt, a psychologist at the University of Missouri.

The empirical evidence of this influence has been piling up in recent years, as Dr. Wegner documents in the new paper. In the lab, psychologists have people try to banish a thought from their minds — of a white bear, for example — and find that the thought keeps returning, about once a minute. Likewise, people trying not to think of a specific word continually blurt it out during rapid-fire word-association tests.

The same “ironic errors,” as Dr. Wegner calls them, are just easy to evoke in the real world. Golfers instructed to avoid a specific mistake, like overshooting, do it more often when under pressure, studies find. Soccer players told to shoot a penalty kick anywhere but at a certain spot of the net, like the lower right corner, look at that spot more often than any other.

Efforts to be politically correct can be particularly treacherous. In one study, researchers at Northwestern and Lehigh Universities had 73 students read a vignette about a fictional peer, Donald, a black male. The students saw a picture of him and read a narrative about his visit to a mall with a friend.

In the crowded parking lot, Donald would not park in a handicap space, even though he was driving his grandmother’s car, which had a pass, but he did butt in front of another driver to snag a nonhandicap space. He snubbed a person collecting money for a heart fund, while his friend contributed some change. And so on. The story purposely portrayed the protagonist in an ambiguous way.

The researchers had about half the students try to suppress bad stereotypes of black males as they read and, later, judged Donald’s character on measures like honesty, hostility and laziness. These students rated Donald as significantly more hostile — but also more honest — than did students who were not trying to suppress stereotypes.

In short, the attempt to banish biased thoughts worked, to some extent. But the study also provided “a strong demonstration that stereotype suppression leads stereotypes to become hyperaccessible,” the authors concluded.

Smokers, heavy drinkers and other habitual substance users know this confusion too well: the effort to squelch a longing for a smoke or a drink can bring to mind all the reasons to break the habit; at the same time, the desire seemingly gets stronger.

The risk that people will slip or “lose it” depends in part on the level of stress they are undergoing, Dr. Wegner argues. Concentrating intensely on not staring at a prominent mole on a new acquaintance’s face, while also texting and trying to follow a conversation, heightens the risk of saying: “We went to the mole — I mean, mall. Mall!”

“A certain relief can come from just getting it over with, having that worst thing happen, so you don’t have to worry about monitoring in anymore,” Dr. Wegner said.

All of which might be hard to explain, of course, if you’ve just mooned the dinner party.

Switchboard Junctionbox

June 14, 2009

I’m feeling so ambivalent, or really “ambivalent” doesn’t capture it because it suggests two pulls and I feel pulled in more directions than just two.  

Hence “Switchboard Junctionbox,” to convey the maining crossing wires and currents and directions and energies with me plunked right there in the middle where they all intersect.  

Maybe all this is simply to say (though not to say simply) that I’m a little confused.  I want a singular direction, a strong and clear path.  But I tried that and nearly drank myself into a coffin.  And I keep trying singular directions (which my brain seems to seek in addictive/compulsive behaviors) and I don’t suppose it’s really much better to just dabble in addictions/compulsions.  

My somewhat fragmented self seems to long for a sense of unity, which it finds momentarily in compulsive pursuits, or seems to.  I’m also trying to find this longed-for wholeness through therapy, but it’s taking a hell of a long time to get anywhere.  

I want to plunge myself headlong, carelessly, in exciting directions, but this can be dangerous and frightening.  I don’t want to sit still.  I prickle.

To roughly quote my beloved Beckett, “we can’t go on”; “we must go on.” 

There is always the reading and the writing.  These are not addictions or compulsions; these are passions.  They don’t take away the pain, but they move it.  So there’s that.

“Just” a Bad Dream

May 29, 2009

Bad dreams this week.  When I was little and woke up terrified from having had “just a bad dream,” my mother would say I must have been sleeping on my back because that causes bad dreams.  I am still uneasy about sleeping on my back because I believed this.  Whether there’s anything to it or not I don’t know–I don’t think so–but anyway, the main difficulty with this theory is that there may in fact be other causes of bad dreams.  Like being afraid.  And there’s nothing out of the realm of the normal in having some fears (I assume; I don’t actually know normal firsthand), creepy icky nightmares might actually point to something being or having been deeply deeply wrong.  But I didn’t really ever learn to listen to what they had to say.  And while not all dreams have deep secret meanings necessarily, some do, I think.  Some I’m not remembering, but I’m waking with a mix of terror, pain, and sometimes a little sexual charge.  Interesting combo, that.  And one last night that I do remember horrified me but also tells me that I really do believe some of the things I worry I’m making up–that the body memories and things are real.  That’s no doubt obvious, and I don’t doubt other people’s experience the way I do mine, but I do doubt mine.  I don’t really want it to be true.  I think that’s a lot of it, maybe all of it.  It’s icky, after all.  But it’s there either way, whether I want to accept that it’s there or not.  And the damage it keeps on doing is worse if I deny that it’s there.  So I guess that’s the key thing.  

Not denying that it’s there is terrifying and sickening, because I have to connect with it more directly.  But that’s what yoga is for, among other things.  And cats and down comforters, and my garden.