Introspection, hearing loss, and everyday life.
how can ross be more upset about rachel not saying goodbye to him than the fact that she’s moving to another country and TAKING their child with her? is it just assumed the mother “owns” the baby and it is perfectly ok to take the child away from the father?
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Apr 30th 2004I Peeved When
When I signed on for braces, I thought I was agreeing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for some squares to be permanently glued (how are they ever going to get them off? I don’t want to know) to each tooth and then a wire would run through them. That’s it. My ortho story: “A Wire Runs through it”.
There’s much more to it than that. And each monthly visit is a little adventure. First there was the horrible metal rod (too thick to be a wire) that was lodged on the inside of my lower jaw and was all bent funny and not even symmetrical for god’s sake and tripped my tongue up a lot whenever I talked. Then, a round plastic piece was attached by metal rods to the roof of my mouth. It feels like a piece of hard candy, just stuck to the roof of my mouth for no reason.
Somehow I got used to those things. I was able to talk and eat and even forget that I had such big metal rods and a plastic flavored Werther’s Original stuck to the roof of my mouth. Last month, they took out the bottom row metal rod as an unexpected bonus. I was very happy. They said next time they would take out the Werther’s Original, and also, they were going to file my bottom front teeth. That was the first I heard that my teeth were going to be filed. Not on the tops mind you, on the sides. I can’t even imagine what type of tool has to be used to get in between each tooth and sand it down.
On Tuesday I went in. I sat on a chair island in a big room with all the seventh graders. I’m telling you, when they take the wires out and I can go floss my teeth and brush like a normal person, I’m relishing the freedom. I linger at the sink, flossing and brushing and using mouth wash, until finally they can’t stand it anymore, they’re so excited to tell me what crazy thing they’re going to ask me to do next.
On Tuesday they decided to keep the Werther’s Original in and hold on the filing until the next visit. I was disappointed with this setback, but fortunately they did decide that it was time for my top teeth to really start moving and close up the ‘Hi I’m from West Virginia’ spaces left from pulling a couple teeth. So they introduced me to a new wire. This wire looks exactly like an ordinary wire, but apparently it’s not because it has a “memory” which can only be “activated” by the orthodontist himself. The wire also shaped so that it points out into a rectangular shape in two places. This shape is expanded when it is put over the teeth and it pulls teeth together.
So this part of the wire sticks out and up across my front gums. If I’m not careful when I smile, my upper lips will hook on this wire and I’ll look a lot like Dana Carvey in Wayne’s World. Despite this unfortunate side effect, the wire is a good thing because my teeth are really hauling ass now. They fit together differently and spaces are finally beginning to close. It aches a lot though and I’ve had to take aspirin.
None of this is probably necessary. I think it’s a big practical joke concocted by orthodontists everywhere. They invent crazy things they can do to people and then see how much of it they will actually do before they have a nervous breakdown in their chair. They probably laughed and called each other up after I left “She went for it! She’s actually wearing the ‘Dana Carvey as Garth’ wire!”
It’s an adventure, I never know what contraption they’re going to pull out next when I go. All I can say is, it better be worth it!
Apr 29th 2004Uncategorized
Last Sunday, nine hundred and eleven people viewed my website. Typically I average about 20 views. I was so perplexed by this that I decided to do some research. I found that another blog did link me, and I thought perhaps that was why. Then I thought maybe it had something to do with the “Bitch in the house” entry that was touching chords with women everywhere, and wives were emailing their friends, telling them to read this entry and it was going to be the beginning of a revolution in gender equality. But then I looked at the number 911 and thought that maybe I was being targeted by terrorists because I had written that they had very bad childhoods. Maybe that was their new thing- looking up bloggers who wrote bad things about them on the internet and then terrorizing them by viewing their blog 911 times. That, of course, would only be the beginning as the terrorists closed in.
Steve did some more researching for me, as he is much savvier with this stuff and somehow he traced it back to some popdex website that was pulling up the link for my website in response to the search for “Sarah Kozer”. I don’t know who Sarah Kozer is but apparently she posed naked in something, and on Sunday about nine hundred people had the strong urge to see her naked. So the truth is, the response to my website surely must have been disappointment, aggravation and sexual frustration, not chord touching.
Better than terrorists deciding to target me as their next attack on America though.
My semester is coming to an end, my last class is on Thursday. Surprisingly, there has not been a whole lot of stress this semester. No late nighters, no frantic last minute compilation. Everything got done and I just have one last assessment left.
My job ends in eight weeks. I feel a sense of freedom and possibility. For the next year, my existence will not be defined by work or by the daily grind. It will however be defined by much smaller paychecks, but I’m so happy about the freedom that I don’t care. I want to do something different. A job that does not involve sitting at a desk whatsover. Something active, where I can move. I want to do something I love, something energizing. That, in addition to the internship, is going to make for a wonderful, if not poverty stricken, year.
Apr 27th 2004Uncategorized
Have you ever asked yourself “Why does this always happen to me?” or “Why does this keep happening?” If you struggle with a feeling or experience that keeps coming back and refuses to die, then you’re playing a game.
My research on transactional analysis (TA) has created a lot of thought provoking thinking, so to speak. One basic tenant of TA is that as a child, we react to our environment and family and often we must adapt physically and psychologically in order to survive. Our adaptations or defense mechanisms serve us as children, and grants us the conditional recognition and approval (or disapproval) we need. However, the adaptations can be even more painful and particularly dysfunctional beyond childhood. Unfortunately the defenses are ingrained and we are driven to play them out, even when they no longer serve us.
We pick up subtle, unconscious messages from our parents (more specifically, from the child in our parents, who adapted to their parents) and we may have received negative injunctions- a “don’t” message- Don’t be close, Don’t feel, Don’t make it, etc. We may receive these messages even when, verbally, our parents say and encourage just the opposite. Our parents can be wonderful, loving parents with the best intentions in the world. Unfortunately their negative injunctions are unconscious, it was what they learned, and it is the only way they know how to be, it is like the air they breathe in. In addition, the child responds to the injunctions, real or imagined, and makes his or her own decision.
Another basic tenant concerns one of the ways we structure time in social interaction- by playing a game. When a game is being played, the person unconsciously initiates and plays out an interaction with an ulterior motive. The ulterior motive is a payoff- a negative feeling. This negative feeling is a payoff on many levels. The feeling confirms the injunction that we learned as children, confirms the existential position we chose early in life, confirms prejudices or expectations (i.e. “All men/women are manipulative and hurtful”), allows us to avoid situations that are secretly dangerous or frightening to us (i.e. anger that “If it weren’t for my husband, I would have had a career” - when the husband is in fact a safe barrier against going out and having one), and gives us social benefits- something to talk or commiserate about with others or to present ourselves in certain ways to others.
The creativity and social savvy or manipulation of our unconscious is incredible.
There are many, many games- some entirely unique and others quite common. Games exist on many levels of helpfulness and destructiveness. It is amazing to me how we can be compelled to live out painful and destructive feelings (Freud’s theory on “repetitive compulsion” comes to mind). It may be what we lived as children.
The goal of TA is to recognize your game(s) and to make a decision, while in touch with the feelings involved, to no longer play the game. The goal is to interact with others in a positive way without any unconscious motives that work against you. The goal is to take responsibility and ownership for your feelings and experiences. No one else is creating or is responsible for what you feel (which can be quite hard to accept, I certainly haven’t yet).
My game is to not belong and to not feel included. My game is to feel not quite good enough. It is about not being able to “be myself”.
It seems if I cannot shape myself to the group norm or individual expectation, then I am unable to “be” at all (this is a new insight as I sit here typing this). In high school, I was unable to shape myself to be part of the social hierarchy– mainly because I could not hear in the crowded, noisy hallways and cafeterias. I could not even interact. So I shut down completely. I was the nice, smiling and very quiet girl that no one knew. Even though it was extremely painful, I felt safer not being included. It seemed to confirm something about me- it is the existential position I have chosen. I am still trying to understand why.
People who are playing similar or complementary games (negative payoff happens for both) often become friends or get involved in a relationship out of this mutual, unconscious recognition. When I encounter social cliques, or someone who is also playing a complementary game, my game plays out and can be quite compelling and destructive. Sometimes for years.
Games can be rampant in marriages, however, I am very fortunate and relieved that I married someone I do not play games with. My recognition of genuine intimacy and acceptance won out over my need to play this game.
What’s your game?
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Apr 21st 2004Uncategorized
how’s your small vermont town, part II. Maureen writes “I vividly remember a guy from the Lyon’s club or something selling tootsie rolls and wearing a pin that said “Help The Retards”. I almost flipped out, I was so pissed. But he only had three teeth, so I kept my distance.”
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Apr 19th 2004I Laughed When
Stop pooping and walking all over it and covering it up with gravel and then jumping up and walking all over the bathroom counter and sink. Just stop. Why can’t you be more like your sister?
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Apr 19th 2004I Peeved When
A busy weekend, most of which was spent writing an assessment that included a multitude of surveys, questionnaires, interviews and projective testing. Still not done…
Sarah came down from Johnson and we went out to dinner at Sweetwater’s, then we had a pajama party and rented Sex and the City and drank wine spritzers. Sarah had not seen it before and decided that it was her new addiction too.
My last entry has triggered quite a bit of discussion among the different generations of women in my family. There is much to say on the topic. A few more questions have popped into mind. What role does the different levels of neatness and organization inherent in each personality play in this situation? More harmonious balances may be achieved, for example, if a woman who is fairly messy marries a man who is a neat freak. In this way, gender expectation and awareness may achieve a common ground.
Steve and I are equally messy and both procrastinators when it comes to household tasks, the main difference being that I carry a certain level of heightened awareness about who does what, when we actually DO get around to doing it. I am also much more frantic to clean the house when company is coming, whereas Steve does not give a flying hoot.
Also, does this situation exist among lesbian or homosexual couples? Is it a gender/role thing or a personality thing? Or a mixture of both? I wonder if studies have been done on this.
Steve will be home in 48 hours. I simply cannot wait.
Another sign of spring in my yard today:
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Apr 18th 2004Uncategorized
This entry is inspired by the first chapter of The Bitch in the House, entitled “Excuse Me While I Explode: My Mother, Myself, My Anger” by E.S. Maduro. She was 24 years old when she wrote it, and it captures the situation so perfectly. Her experience and feelings are so similar to my own that I hope I’m not plagiarizing just by writing about my own situation.
This “bitchiness” is the curse of the 20-something female generation, most of whose parents fulfilled the typical gender roles in the home and most of whose moms began to work full-time while continuing to do the vast majority of domestic tasks and child rearing.
My mother worked full time, in addition to doing all of the cooking, cleaning, dishes, laundry, ironing, and grocery shopping. As a child, I took this for granted and did not notice, although I do remember one time when my Dad made toast for me. Somehow this was very significant to me, my Dad making toast that came out so nicely brown and he spread it with butter that melted into it. I ate it with a sense of awe. It even tasted differently. I think I really wanted to frame this piece of toast to put on the wall, this motherly act of my father.
Anyway, by the time I reached high school I began to notice how much my Mom did around the house and how she never asked for any help with it. I was filled with righteous fury. Numerous times, I told my parents with determination and resolve, with opinionated confidence and boldness that I had about very few other things in my teenage life, that when I married, my husband and I would split the household chores equally. Everything would be perfectly balanced. I told my parents that when my future boyfriend proposed to me, the first thing I would say, before saying yes or no, would be “Will you do the cooking and cleaning and laundry?” If he said he would, then I would marry him. My god, this balance would happen or I would die trying.
Eventually, near the end of high school, my Dad took on the task of doing all the dishes after dinner. Maybe it was partly to get me to shut up a bit.
Steve and I have been living together for four years. Most of the time our house is pretty messy. This irks me all the time, I cannot truly relax when my place is cluttered. However, I refuse to spend significant amounts of time cleaning and straightening up. Once I do that, I’m done for. I’ve fallen into the trap, into the doomed line of drudgery that has befallen every woman before me.
Then, finally I can’t take the mess anymore and I am overcome with manic resolve and energy. I go around the entire house and do everything in a day long marathon until it is clean. All the while, I am quiet. I am grim. The counter, the household chore abacus of my brain, is clicking away. I can give you a very accurate estimate of exactly how many times, in four years, Steve has gone to the grocery store, exactly how many times he has made the bed, how many times he has put his clothes in the hamper, how many times he has vacuumed or done the laundry. The counter counts and the resentment builds. I try to even things out. When I do the laundry, I fold Steve’s clothes and put them all on the bed or the floor and he has to put them away.
I allow the sheets to stay on the bed longer than they rightfully should, and feel the flicker of annoyance each time I get under the covers over their due date. I override my instinctive domesticity daily, all the while annoyed that I have to do so.
Then I start doing passive aggressive things. I make veiled little comments about the state of the house and whether or not Steve has done anything about it. Steve starts to quietly fume, he ignores me. I go about my monthly cleaning marathon and then when everything is spic and span, I go find Steve and manage some sort of more pointed, barbed comment. Then we argue about something stupid and irrelevant and I still feel frustrated because there is no satisfactory outlet for this anger. Finally one day we had an out and out fight and Steve accused me of my passive aggressiveness, of my insinuations that attempt to make him feel guilty.
“Why don’t you just ask me to do it?” he says. He says that he will do it gladly, whatever I need done. I just need to be mature about it.
And it is true. Steve has never expressed unwillingness to help out. He always demonstrated understanding of my determination to have things be balanced. He is not sexist or demanding.
I have difficulty explaining why I cannot ask. Somehow it doesn’t feel right. I feel guilty. “I feel like I’m nagging,” I tell Steve.
Besides, I don’t want to have to ask, godammit.
As E.S. Madura wrote, I would be asking for something my mother never asked of my father. It doesn’t feel right. Which is just plain wrong.
Then finally I couldn’t take it anymore and approached Steve with a proposal. I decided that things weren’t getting done around the house because nothing was assigned and each person kept thinking that the other will take care of it. Because I have classes a lot of nights, I told Steve that if he would do all the dishes every day and generally straighten up, I would do all the laundry and bigger cleaning tasks on weekends. We would still alternate cooking.
Still, somehow, nothing changed. I could not be at peace. Everything piles up and I am overwhelmed. It’s neverending, but if I give in and do it all, I will be too infuriated.
A lot of the time the abacus of my mind and the inner running commentary on the state of the house and who has done what and who is responsible for what has become automatic, subconscious. Not until Steve goes away and it falls silent do I realize how ongoing it is. I don’t want to have an ongoing tally. I don’t want to feel mad everytime I see the clutter around me. The junk mail, oh god, the junk mail will never go away and leave me alone.
E.S. Madura writes:
So there it is. In trying to avoid a life of an overworked housewife that I see my mother as having occupied for more than thirty years now, in choosing a boyfriend partly for his willingness and readiness to share the “woman’s work,” I am freely walking closer and closer to everything I had wanted to escape, enraged with every step I take. Somehow, some part of this cycle seems unavoidable, unchangeable. Paul will read what I’ve written here and ask me, so earnestly, “What can we do to solve this problem?” and already I know that I will shrug him off. “It’s just me,” I’ll respond, “this is something I need to deal with.”
Rather than trying to impart to him some of the domestic knowledge and sense of responsibility that I have, I will, I fear, go on being angry that he wasn’t given it to begin with; angry that, unlike me, he was not closely observing, for his future, his own mother during the many hours she spent taking care of everyone in the family, and therefore now doesn’t have the voice in his head telling him he should be constantly aware of tasks that need to be done, of meeting everyone else’s needs before his own.
I will, I fear, go on doing as much as I can, caught between pride and anger. At twenty four, living in this day and age, I still have years to figure things out; to try to learn how to feel pride and even power without running myself ragged; to be with a man without being angry for the rest of my life. I hope I can”
(p 11-12, The Bitch in the House edited by Cathi Hanauer, 2002).
Apr 14th 2004Uncategorized