Despair

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  His solution was to please his mother and to make sure that he would disappear from his own life. Jon struggled to engage in life, constantly confronting suicidal thoughts and feeling conflicted about his right to have anything. It was through his daughter’s accident that the traumatized child within him was awakened. He had to get in touch with his deadened self to be able to start the process of living. Jon and I understand that the experience of his early childhood reappeared in his breakdown, and we are determined to go back to that time to find out what that early experience felt like, to live through it so Jon can rejoin the world. WEEKS PASS AND Jon feels a little stronger. We meet every Tuesday at 11:45, and he now arrives exactly on time, sometimes a minute or two late, but never early. He makes sure I am the one who is waiting for him, and not the other way around. When I open the door, Jon walks in and always makes the same joke, “Hey, did you expect me?” he says. We both know that he is referring to the anxiety that knocking on my door might evoke in him, the worry that I won’t remember the session, that I have forgotten about him or maybe even hoped that he wouldn’t show up. But that is never the case. In fact, I look forward to seeing Jon. I’m aware of how protective of him I feel, imagining him as a baby in light of what I know about his past and about the effect of the early interactions between parents and infants on the child’s later life. At the Hampstead Nurseries in London, during the Second World War, Anna Freud was the first-known researcher to initiate careful and systematic observation of infants and children. But only much later did a revolution in understanding infants’ minds begin. In the 1980s, the psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Daniel N. Stern brought contemporary infancy research into psychoanalysis and changed many old assumptions about child development. One of the most important corrections he made was to the mainstream theory from the 1960s that babies initially have an “autistic mind” and are therefore unable to interact with the world around them. Current infant research overturns this assumption; in fact, babies communicate with others right from birth. They are aware of their surroundings; are responsive to gazes, vocalizations, pauses, and facial expressions from the people around them; and engage in a constant dialogue with others.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  Most notably when there is hostility toward the outside world, or hostility toward the cult because of controversies or inquiries about its practices, children's lives can be disrupted in truly uncomfortable ways. Health Problems and Medical NeglectSome cults use a variety of beliefs to justify medical neglect, nutritional deficiencies, and/or keeping children away from public school and public view. Lack of timely treatment for minor illnesses can lead to severe and often fatal complications, particularly in the young. Generally this type of abuse only comes to the attention of authorities when medical professionals, educators, or concerned witnesses call state protective services. Even then, First Amendment protections often shield or delay the discovery of the internal workings and sometimes harmful nature of groups that use religion as a shield to avoid close examination. In a health survey of seventy former cult members, these patterns of child abuse and neglect were noted: • 27 percent reported that children in their groups were not immunized against common childhood diseases • 23 percent reported that children did not get at least eight hours of sleep a night • 6o percent reported that their groups permitted physical punishment of children [image file=img/page0272_0000.svg] • 13 percent reported that the punishment of children was sometimes life threatening or required a physician's care • [only] 37 percent reported that children were seen by a doctor when illl0 Naturally we cannot generalize about living conditions in all cultic groups or families based on this one survey; however, the findings indicate need for further study, and possibly legal intervention. While we do not wish to unjustly criticize groups in which children remain unharmed, the first concern in all cases should be the protection of children from neglect, exploitation, harm, and abuse. Over time, plenty of examples of cultic medical neglect have come to light, among them are the following: Two members of End Time Ministries were convicted of felony child abuse in a Florida court after their four-year-old daughter died of pneumonia. This was the second time members of that group were convicted for failing to get medical treatment for their children.' I Six children of members of the Faith Tabernacle died from complications of measles, which health officials felt could have been prevented by timely medical treatment or avoided entirely by vaccination (this group does not believe in immunizations or medical care).12 Another horrific occurrence of deprivation that led to death can be found in Chapter 5 in the section on family cults. It is common for groups with closed belief systems to refuse medical care or treatment. In one meditation cult, a woman gave birth according to her guru's guidance, which included having no medical personnel in attendance. The child did not breathe for several minutes. The guru, who was present during the labor and delivery, was part of an effort that somehow managed to start the child's breathing. Members of that group are now' convinced their guru has miraculous healing powers.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Diana and Zena between them had made an outcast of me; but Mrs Milne - I was sure of it! - was bound to take me in.And so I walked, from Maida Vale to Green Street - walked creepingly, in my misery and my shame and my pinching boots, as if every step were taken barefoot on open swords. The house, when I reached it at last, seemed shabby - but then, I knew what it was, to leave a place for something grand, and come back to find it humbler than you knew. There was no flower before the door, and no three-legged cat - but then again, it was winter, and the street very cold and bleak. I could think only of my own sorry plight; and when I rang the bell and no one came, I thought: Well, I will sit upon the step, Mrs Milne is never out for long; and if I grow numb from the cold, it will serve me right...But then I pressed my face to the glass beside the door and peered into the hall beyond, and I saw that the walls - that used to have Gracie’s pictures on them, the Light of the World and the Hindoo idol, and the others - I saw that they were bare; that there were only marks upon them, where the pictures had been fastened. And at that, I trembled. I caught hold of the door-knocker and banged it, in a kind of panic; and I called into the letter-box: ‘Mrs Milne! Mrs Milne!’ and ‘Gracie! Grace Milne!’ But my voice sounded hollow, and the hall stayed dark.Then there came a shout, from the tenement behind.‘Are you looking for the old lady and her daughter? They have gone, dear - gone a month ago!’I turned, and looked up. From a balcony above the street a man was calling to me, and nodding to the house. I went out, and gazed miserably up at him, and said, Where had they gone to?He shrugged. ‘Gone to her sister’s, is what I heard. The lady was took very bad, in the autumn; and the girl being a simpleton - you knew that, did you? - they didn’t think it clever to leave the pair of them alone. They have took all the furniture; I daresay that the house will come up for sale ...’ He looked at my cheek. ‘That’s a lovely black eye you have,’ he said, as if I might not have noticed. ‘Just like in the song - ain’t it? Except you only have one of ‘em!’I stared at him, and shivered while he laughed.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Butler and Bliss, the column was headed, Theatreland’s Happiest Newly-Weds! The photograph was of Kitty and Walter in their wedding-suits. I gazed at it in stupefaction for a moment, then I placed my hand over the page and gave a cry - a quick, sharp, agonised cry, as if the paper was hot and had burned me. The cry became a low, ragged moan that went on, and on, until I wondered that I had breath enough left to make it. Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs: Mrs Best was at the door, calling my name in curiosity and fear. At that I ceased my racket, and became a little calmer: I did not want her in my room, prying into my grief or offering useless words of comfort. I called to her that I was quite all right - that I had had a dream, merely, which had upset me; and after a moment I heard her take her leave. I looked again at the paper on my knee, and read the story which accompanied the photograph. It said that Walter and Kitty had married at the end of March, and honeymooned on the Continent; that Kitty was currently resting from the stage, but was expected to return to the halls - in an entirely new act, and with Walter as her partner - in the autumn. Her old partner, it said, Miss Nan King, who had been taken ill whilst playing at the Britannia Theatre, Hoxton, was busy with plans for a new career of her own... Reading this I felt a sudden, sickening desire not to moan, or weep - but to laugh. I put my fingers to my lips and held them shut, as if to stem a tide of rising vomit. I had not laughed in what seemed to be a hundred years or more; I feared more than anything to hear the sound of my own mirth now, for I knew it would be terrible. When this fit had passed, I turned again to the paper. I had wanted at first to destroy it, to tear or crumple it and cast it on the fire. Now, however, I felt I could not let it from my sight. I ran a finger-nail around the edge of the article, then tore, slowly and neatly, where I had scored. The paper that was left over I did cast into the grate; but the slip of newsprint that bore Kitty and Walter’s wedding-portrait I held carefully, in the palm of my hand - as carefully as if it were a moth’s wing that might tarnish with too much fingering. After a moment’s thought I stepped to the looking-glass. There was a gap between the glass itself and the frame which held it, and into this I placed one edge of the piece of paper.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  Now she is a psychotherapist and sits on the national board of the reFOCUS support network for former cult members. I walked out of the Emissaries of Divine Light after having been involved for thirteen years, from age nineteen to thirty-two. I was fortunate to have a lot of able, immediate support, in friends, as well as in a therapist who had a little knowledge of cults. The biggest single factor was that they were all willing to be educated. They believed me, and they listened endlessly. Information was extremely important. I couldn't get my hands on enough of it-to educate myself and to start my mind working again. It felt so good to be thinking! Talking to other former cult members was-and still is-particularly valuable and helpful to me, to understand what happened, grieve, laugh, and find the value in it all. It has felt safest to share my pain with them. I can remember intense moments of despair over having been had, and for losing my elaborate and all-consuming belief system. I had been so dedicated, with such a sense of purpose. After I left, I didn't know what I thought or felt, or what I could trust in others or myself. I was desperate for direction, yet didn't trust any from outside me and could find none within me. One day, I reacted to a man's shirt. It was chartreuse in color, and I remember saying to myself what an ugly color it was. Almost immediately, I realized I had just expressed an opinion. I knew something about myself: I didn't like that color. It was a little thing, but it felt so important to finally get a handle on a real feeling that was my own. It was also extremely important for me to redefine the language I'd come to use. I strongly recommend making lists of words, looking the words up in the dictionary, and reestablishing their actual use and meaning. It was important to do this with feelings, too. It was a struggle to identify emotions beyond good and bad. It was important to feel pain, to feel anxious, to feel confused, to feel melancholy, and to specifically name each feeling. This process helped me reclaim all of myself. Learning how to relate in healthy ways was also a big deal. Relearning trust, both in others and myself, is only,now becoming less of an issue for me. I am also learningto be comfortable with ambiguity, instead of demanding (or at least longing for) solid, black-and-white answers. About two years after I exited the group, I went to an Al-Anon meeting (a 12step program for loved ones, friends, and families of alcoholics). It was quite helpful to learn that others could understand my experience even if they had not been there themselves. This helped me avoid becoming elitist or isolated in my selfpity. Interestingly enough, the person who had the easiest time understanding my cult experience was a Vietnam vet.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  He elevates those who attend the meeting while at the same time demanding that they shape up or face the fate of the rejected group. Expulsions from this group are frequent and arbitrary, often forgiven, and then threatened again for some trumped-up act of noncompliance. Likewise, in abusive relationships or family cults, the threat of abandonment or rejection is a powerful means of manipulation. Unless castaways receive counseling or at least some education about cults and the social psychology of influence, many are prone to suffer an extreme sense of loss and isolation, such as that portrayed here: George 0., a high-ranking member of a small political cult, was encouraged to sell drugs to raise money for the group. When arrested, he found himself alone to shoulder the consequences, which included lack of financial support for legal expenses and a hefty jail term. Later when he returned to the group, he was ejected because he dared to voice disappointment with the group's lack of support. Shunned and on his own, George yearned for the political "highs" he felt while in the group, the warmth and solidarity of his comrades, and the sense of elitism. George went into a deep depression. He felt he was a total failure and politically useless. Finally, allowed back after months of pleading and apologizing, he was placed on probation and given menial tasks. Shortly afterward, George was commanded by the leader to perform sexual acts on him. Totally demoralized, George was asked to leave the group again, with no explanation offered. Embittered and confused, he felt a combined sense of failure and loss, which led to an even deeper depression than before, pushing him to the brink of suicide. While in the cult, George found it impossible to question his superior's behavior or disobey orders. Only after leaving could he begin to analyze and question. His despair eventually led him to seek answers and see the group in a clear light. With this insight, he was able to mourn his losses and rebuild his life. Loss of the LeaderThe loss of the leader may cause a group to disband, unless there is a member with similar emotional characteristics and leadership qualities who can convince the group to follow him. Often there is a struggle for leadership, which may result in some groups becoming less authoritarian while others become even more restrictive and abusive. Whether the leader "retires" to a warmer climate, gets arrested, is overthrown by his followers, or dies, the initial effect of his absence is disorienting to the group. Members react in various ways: they may rationalize the loss, blame society, wait for the return or rebirth of their leader or for their promised salvation, blame themselves, or simply drift apart. This rationalization, or making excuses, is an emotional defense against anxiety. It is typically used in cults to explain behaviors that contradict or violate the teachings. Rationalization stops analytical thinking and reinforces dependency.

• From Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge (2004)

  As her madness seized control, Virginie refused to allow the servants in to clean and sat alone in her black rooms, filled with rats and trash, contemplating her lost beauty and the vanished days of splendor. Virginie was sixty-two when her servants, after seven days of trying to gain access to her room, forced their way in and found her decomposing body being gnawed by rats. Her will stipulated that two of her dead dogs, which had been stuffed, should be adorned with jeweled collars and keep a vigil at her coffin during her wake. Before the coffin was closed, the two dogs were to be put inside and serve as cushions for her feet. She wanted to enter eternity in the gown that she had worn when she first slept with the emperor, the gray batiste edged with fine lace, adorned with her famous nine-string black and white pearl necklace and two bracelets. But Virginie’s wishes were not carried out. Her jewels were sold to pay her debts at a well-attended auction, fetching some two million francs. No one knows what happened to the stuffed dogs. Only one curious visitor attended her funeral. Unlike Virginie, Edward VII’s mistress Daisy Warwick didn’t mind the loss of her beauty, but she was shocked to find her predecessor in the royal bed, Lillie Langtry, still waging the fruitless fight. During World War I, there was a curious meeting of these two aging mistresses of a dead king—Lillie in her sixties, Daisy in her mid-fifties. “Whatever happens, I do not intend to grow old!” Lillie protested. “Why shouldn’t beauty vanquish time?”51 “I forgot what I answered,” Daisy reported, “for I was busy analyzing what she had said. I stole a glance at her, and certainly Time’s ravages, although perceptible to the discerning eye of one who had known her at the zenith of her beauty, were disguised with consummate artistry, while her figure was still lovely. But it came to me then that there was tragedy in the life of this woman whose beauty had once been world-famous, for she had found no time in the intervals of pursuing pleasure to secure contentment for the evening of her day. Now that she saw the evening approach, Lillie Langtry could only protest that it was not evening at all, but just the prolongation of a day that was, in truth, already dead.”52

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I mean, I can’t even tell you how I found the strength to get up every morning. And yet, every morning, I did get up and go to school. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. I was so depressed that I thought about dropping out of Reardan. I thought about going back to Wellpinit. I blamed myself for all of the deaths. I had cursed my family. I had left the tribe, and had broken something inside all of us, and I was now being punished for that. No, my family was being punished. I was healthy and alive. Then, after my fifteenth or twentieth missed day of school, I sat in my social studies classroom with Mrs. Jeremy. Mrs. Jeremy was an old bird who’d taught at Reardan for thirty-five years. [image "Comic strip titled ‘Why I Did Actually Miss a Lot of School’ with five panels illustrating various reasons for missing school, including funerals, transportation issues, and family concerns." file=image_rsrc4T8.jpg] I slumped into her class and sat in the back of the room. “Oh, class,” she said. “We have a special guest today. It’s Arnold Spirit. I didn’t realize you still went to this school, Mr. Spirit.” The classroom was quiet. They all knew my family had been living inside a grief-storm. And had this teacher just mocked me for that? “What did you just say?” I asked her. “You really shouldn’t be missing class this much,” she said. If I’d been stronger, I would have stood up to her. I would have called her names. I would have walked across the room and slapped her. But I was too broken. Instead, it was Gordy who defended me. He stood with his textbook and dropped it. Whomp! He looked so strong. He looked like a warrior. He was protecting me like Rowdy used to protect me. Of course, Rowdy would have thrown the book at the teacher and then punched her. Gordy showed a lot of courage in standing up to a teacher like that. And his courage inspired the others. Penelope stood and dropped her textbook. And then Roger stood and dropped his textbook. Whomp! Then the other basketball players did the same. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! And Mrs. Jeremy flinched each and every time, as if she’d been kicked in the crotch. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Then all of my classmates walked out of the room. A spontaneous demonstration. Of course, I probably should have walked out with them. It would have been more poetic. It would have made more sense. Or perhaps my friends should have realized that they shouldn’t have left behind the FRICKING REASON FOR THEIR PROTEST! And that thought just cracked me up. It was like my friends had walked over the backs of baby seals in order to get to the beach where they could protest against the slaughter of baby seals. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that bad. But it was sure funny.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The shoes were placed upon my feet, and laced. ‘Stand up!’ said Diana; and when I had done so she caught me by the shoulder and propelled me from her bedroom, through the parlour, and out into the darkened hall beyond. Behind me, the ladies followed, Mrs Hooper and Maria with Zena gripped between them. When I hesitated, Diana prodded me forwards, so that I almost stumbled and fell. Now, at last, I began to weep. I said, ‘Diana, you cannot mean this -!’ But her gaze was cold. She seized me, and pinched me, and made me walk faster. Down we went - all flushed and panting and fantastically costumed as we were - down through the centre of that tall house, in a great jagged spiral, like a tableau of the damned heading for hell. We passed the drawing-room: there were some ladies there still, lolling upon the cushions, and when they saw us they called, What were we doing? And a lady in our party answered, that Diana had caught her boy and her maid in her own bed, and was throwing them out - they must be sure to come and watch it. And so, the lower we went, the greater came the press of ladies at my back, and the louder the laughter and the ribald cries. We reached the basement, and it grew colder; when Diana opened the door that led from the kitchen to the garden at the rear of the house, the wind blew hard upon my weeping eyes, and made them sting. I said, ‘You cannot, you cannot!’ The cold was sobering me. I had had a vision, of my chamber, my closet, my dressing-table, my linen; my cigarette case, my cuff-links, my walking-cane with the silver tip; my suit of bone-coloured linen; my shoes, with the leather so handsome and fine I had once put out my tongue and licked it. My watch, with the strap that secured it to my wrist. Diana pushed me forward, and I turned and grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t cast me from you, Diana!’ I said. ‘Let me stay! I’ll be good! Let me stay, and I’ll pleasure you!’ But as I begged, she kept me marching, backwards; until at last we reached the high wooden gate, beside the carriage-house, at the far end of the garden. There was a smaller door set into the gate, and now Diana stepped to pull it open; beyond seemed perfect blackness. She took Zena from Mrs Hooper, and held her by the neck. ‘Show your face in Felicity Place again,’ she said, ‘or remind me of your creeping, miserable little existence by any word or deed, and I shall keep my promise, and return you to that gaol, and make sure you stay there, till you rot. Do you understand?’ Zena nodded. She was thrust into the square of darkness, and swallowed by it. Then Diana turned for me. She said: ‘The same applies to you, you trollop.’

• From Less (2017)

  Arthur Less is the first homosexual ever to grow old. That is, at least, how he feels at times like these. Here, in this tub, he should be twenty-five or thirty, a beautiful young man naked in a bathtub. Enjoying the pleasures of life. How dreadful if someone came upon naked Less today: pink to his middle, gray to his scalp, like those old double erasers for pencil and ink. He has never seen another gay man age past fifty, none except Robert. He met them all at forty or so but never saw them make it much beyond; they died of AIDS, that generation. Less’s generation often feels like the first to explore the land beyond fifty. How are they meant to do it? Do you stay a boy forever, and dye your hair and diet to stay lean and wear tight shirts and jeans and go out dancing until you drop dead at eighty? Or do you do the opposite—do you forswear all that, and let your hair go gray, and wear elegant sweaters that cover your belly, and smile on past pleasures that will never come again? Do you marry and adopt a child? In a couple, do you each take a lover, like matching nightstands by the bed, so that sex will not vanish entirely? Or do you let sex vanish entirely, as heterosexuals do? Do you experience the relief of letting go of all that vanity, anxiety, desire, and pain? Do you become a Buddhist? One thing you certainly do not do. You do not take on a lover for nine years, thinking it is easy and casual, and, once he leaves you, disappear and end up alone in a hotel bathtub, wondering what now. From nowhere, Robert’s voice: I’m going to grow too old for you. When you’re thirty-five I’ll be sixty. When you’re fifty I’ll be seventy-five. And then what will we do? It was in the early days; he was so young, maybe twenty-two. Having one of their serious conversations after sex. I’m going to grow too old for you. Of course Less said this was ridiculous, the age difference meant nothing to him. Robert was hotter than those stupid boys, surely he knew that. Men in their forties were so sexy: the calm assurance of what a man liked and didn’t, where he set limits and where he set none, experience and a sense of adventure. It made the sex so much better. Robert lit another cigarette and smiled. And then what will we do? And then comes Freddy, twenty years later, standing in Less’s bedroom: “I don’t think of you as old.”

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  But I cannot really give that sort of detail out, you know, to strangers.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Could you not write her a letter, and let us forward it ... ?’ I shook my head, and felt my eyes begin to prick. She must have seen, and misunderstood, for she said then, rather gently: ‘Ah - perhaps you’re not very handy with a pen ... ?’ I would have admitted to anything, for the sake of a kind word. I shook my head again: ‘Not very, no.’ She was silent for a moment. Perhaps she thought, that there could be nothing very sinister about my quest, if I could not even read or write. At any rate, she rose at last and said, ‘Wait here.’ Then she left the room and entered another, across the hall. The sound of the typewriter grew louder for a second, then ceased altogether; in its place I heard the murmur of voices, the prolonged rustling of paper, and finally the slam of a cabinet drawer. The lady reappeared, bearing a white page - a letter, by the look of it - in her hand. ‘Success! Thanks to Miss Derby’s beautiful clerking system we have tracked your Florence - or, at least, a Florence - down; she left here just before both Miss Bennet and I began, in 1892. However’ - she grew grave -‘we really do not think that we can give you her own address; but she left here to work at a home for friendless girls, and we can tell you where that is. It’s a place called Freemantle House, on the Stratford Road.’ A home for friendless girls! The very idea of it made me tremble and grow weak. ‘That must be her,’ I said. ‘But - Stratford ? So far?’ I shifted my feet beneath my chair, and felt the leather slide against my bleeding heels. The boots themselves were thick with mud; my skirt had gained a frill of filth, six inches deep, at the hem. Against the window there came the spatter of rain. ‘Stratford,’ I said again, so miserably that the woman drew near and put her hand upon my arm. ‘Have you not the fare?’ she asked gently. I shook my head. ‘I have lost all my money. I have lost everything!’ I placed a hand over my eyes, and leaned in utter weariness against the desk. As I did so, I saw what lay upon it. It was the letter. The lady had placed it there, face upwards, knowing - thinking - that I could not read it. It was very brief; it was signed by Florence herself - Florence Banner, I now saw her full name to be - and was addressed to Miss Derby.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  My knock was answered by a pale little girl who stared hard at me while I enquired after the vacant rooms, then turned and called into the darkness behind her. After a second, a lady came; and she, too, looked me over. I thought then of how I must appear, in my expensive dress but hatless and gloveless, and with red eyes and a running nose. But I considered this image of myself rather listlessly, as if it did not much concern me; and the lady at last must have thought me harmless enough. She said her name was Mrs Best, that she had one room left for rent; that the charge was five shillings a week - or seven, with attendance; and that she liked her rent in advance. Would the terms suit me? I gave a quick, half-hearted show of calculation - I felt quite incapable of serious thought - then said that they would. The room to which she led me was cramped and mean and perfectly colourless; everything in it - the wallpaper, the carpets, even the tiles beside the hearth - having been rubbed or bleached or grimed to some variety of grey. There was no gas, only two oil-lamps with cracked and sooty chimneys. Above the mantel there was one small looking-glass, as cloudy and as speckled as the back of an old man’s hand. The window faced the Market. It was all about as different from our house at Stamford Hill as it was possible for any room to be: that, at least, gave me a dreary kind of satisfaction and relief. All I really saw, however, was the bed - a horrible old down mattress, yellow at the edges and blackened in the middle with an ancient bloodstain the size of a saucer - and the door. The bed, for all its rankness, seemed at that moment wonderfully inviting. The door was solid, and had a key in it. I told Mrs Best therefore that I should like to take the room at once, and drew out the envelope that held my money. When she saw that, she sniffed - I think she took me for a gay girl. ‘It is only fair to tell you now,’ she said, ‘that the house I keep here is a tidy one; and I like my lodgers ditto. I have had trouble with single ladies in the past. I don’t care what you do or who you see outside my house; but one thing I won’t have, that’s men-friends in a single lady’s room ...’ I said that I would give her no trouble on that score.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  After a while I started fucking men again—one by one. No longer obedient, I started telling them how to do it—“like this,” “like that”—and they obliged. Having been slave to the King, I was all Queen with them, spreading the word to my jesters, even as I closed my eyes and pretended they were him. Every now and then it worked. And when it worked, it was worst of all: the tears streamed down my cheeks while they thought I was in ecstasy. Is not every affair after the Great One just another state of mourning, prolonged and disguised as some form of continuity or bravery when there is neither? But I didn’t let anyone else—and a few tried—into my sacred backyard. Now a tunnel of despair, it had become hallowed ground, a battlefield, now quiet, but filled with ghosts. If those walls could talk . . . I figured no one else would ever get in there. How could they possibly earn the right? Who could ever be worthy? Who, in their right mind, would even dare? BACKDOOR BUDDHA The loss continued, intolerable and relentless, and the other men only made it worse. I needed help. Badly. Peace of mind was a distant intellectual concept; I was crying every day. I had finally suffered enough. Enough to finally say “enough.” My dignity was shattered. In an effort to wrest myself out of my self-pity, I signed up for a two-week retreat with seventeen hundred Buddhists five thousand miles away in an obscure part of England. To leave where he was. It was like tearing off my own flesh to escape the hold he had on me. Free, I had no skin. Like a burn victim. The Buddhists I met were truly lovely people, welcoming me into their world without judgment despite the fact that I was probably only there for a quick fix in my moment of desperation. But even the wisdom of a quick fix, if it’s Buddhist, can linger long after one’s ego has regained its footing. And so while they all meditated on peace for all, I meditated on peace for me, feeling like the child among them. Everyone I met at the retreat, all strangers, asked me with genuine interest how I was. And so I told them. One after the other smiled broadly at my tale of lost love. “Ah! But you are so fortunate!” said one man, beaming. “So very fortunate!” He almost looked envious. The explanation: any experience of great pain is releasing negative karma, and this release is nothing more than a cleansing, a clearing of the way to nirvana. Well, while nirvana without A-Man in my ass seemed a most unlikely prospect, I had now become the one thing I wasn’t before: willing. Willing to entertain the possibility of sanity without him, just as I had been willing three years earlier to entertain the possibility of giving myself to him for just one afternoon—and look where that had led me.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  These kids grow up. Dr. Martin Smith of the University of British Columbia and distinguished colleagues published a meta-analytic review of twenty-five years of research on perfectionistic personalities. The biggest takeaway? While a lot of people mellow as they age, easing up on themselves and caring less about what others think, something different happens as type As get older: the wheels start to come off. As we fall short of our impossible expectations for ourselves again and again, we feel like failures. Life goes down the path of Walt Disney rather than Fred Rogers. Or we flame out. In the words of Smith and his colleagues, “In a challenging, messy and imperfect world, perfectionists may burn out as they age, leaving them more unstable and less diligent.” Life does not get easier for people with perfectionism. One way that perfectionism does not make life easy is its contribution to actual disorders. Perfectionism itself isn’t a diagnosis, but a meta-analysis of 284 different studies reiterated the link between perfectionism and depression, eating disorders, social anxiety, OCD, and non-suicidal self-injury. It even reaches its tendrils into problems that, on the surface, seem unrelated, like sexual dysfunction, mood swings in bipolar disorder, panic attacks, and migraines. A sobering meta-analysis of forty-five different studies went even further, linking perfectionism to suicide. The Alaska Suicide Follow-Back Study tracked suicides in the state of Alaska from 2003 to 2006. With great care, the researchers interviewed grieving parents who had lost teens and young adults. Without any prompting at all, 62 percent of the bereaved parents described their deceased children as perfectionistic. The most alarming takeaway? Suicide among people with perfectionism comes out of nowhere. Many said they had no idea their children were even suffering. These promising young people hid their distress from everyone. But internally, they agonized to the point of believing the world would be better off without them. Perfectionism isn’t technically a disease, but it can be fatal. * * * Throughout twenty years of working with clients and research participants, I’ve witnessed the effects of this rising tide of perfectionism. I see them in my client Gus, who came to me looking to optimize his performance at work. A tall, mustachioed product designer at a cookware company, Gus either went all out or got stuck. “I have two gears,” he liked to say, “overdrive and park.” His approach was all or nothing, but because it took so much time and energy to reach his “all” standards, he frequently felt stuck at “nothing.” He worked long hours but was embarrassed to tell me that many of them were spent in procrastination. When he did manage to be productive, he found himself focusing on inconsequential tasks he had already mastered rather than novel, high- profile projects where he had to make decisions or figure things out on the fly.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Our crystal ball shows the trend is likely to continue: in a meta-analysis of ten different studies, Flett and Hewitt found that one in three children and teens today deal with some “clearly maladaptive” form of perfectionism, where they grind themselves into the ground like a cigarette butt under a stiletto trying to meet their own standards. And then? These kids grow up. Dr. Martin Smith of the University of British Columbia and distinguished colleagues published a meta-analytic review of twenty-five years of research on perfectionistic personalities. The biggest takeaway? While a lot of people mellow as they age, easing up on themselves and caring less about what others think, something different happens as type As get older: the wheels start to come off. As we fall short of our impossible expectations for ourselves again and again, we feel like failures. Life goes down the path of Walt Disney rather than Fred Rogers. Or we flame out. In the words of Smith and his colleagues, “In a challenging, messy and imperfect world, perfectionists may burn out as they age, leaving them more unstable and less diligent.” Life does not get easier for people with perfectionism. One way that perfectionism does not make life easy is its contribution to actual disorders. Perfectionism itself isn’t a diagnosis, but a meta-analysis of 284 different studies reiterated the link between perfectionism and depression, eating disorders, social anxiety, OCD, and non-suicidal self-injury. It even reaches its tendrils into problems that, on the surface, seem unrelated, like sexual dysfunction, mood swings in bipolar disorder, panic attacks, and migraines. A sobering meta-analysis of forty-five different studies went even further, linking perfectionism to suicide. The Alaska Suicide Follow-Back Study tracked suicides in the state of Alaska from 2003 to 2006. With great care, the researchers interviewed grieving parents who had lost teens and young adults. Without any prompting at all, 62 percent of the bereaved parents described their deceased children as perfectionistic. The most alarming takeaway? Suicide among people with perfectionism comes out of nowhere. Many said they had no idea their children were even suffering. These promising young people hid their distress from everyone. But internally, they agonized to the point of believing the world would be better off without them. Perfectionism isn’t technically a disease, but it can be fatal. * * *

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Back on campus, Parkhurst and Hopmeyer, who is now a researcher at Occidental College, pondered what the kids had said. The researchers had used a well-established method to measure popularity: Each kid got a list of others in their grade. Students were asked to circle the names of the three kids they liked best and the three kids they liked least. Then they were asked to do the same for those who were “kind,” “someone you can trust,” “cooperates,” “starts fights,” “easy to push around,” and “can’t take teasing.” It was a simple tally: You were popular if you got lots of “like most” votes and few “like least” votes. You were unpopular if you got lots of “like least” votes and few “like most” votes. Easy-peasy. But in the face of the kids’ feedback, Parkhurst and Hopmeyer reconsidered how to measure popularity. Maybe popularity wasn’t just a tally of likes and dislikes. They did another study, this time with one simple tweak: they added “popular” to the list. Then they crunched the numbers again. What they found changed the game. With the new method, being chosen as “popular” didn’t actually mean a kid was well liked; it meant they were dominant. The kids who were pegged as “popular” did get lots of “likes,” but they also got many “dislikes.” These alpha dogs and queen bees were liked by some, but mostly by other high-status kids. With others, they racked up the eye rolls. It’s easy to mistake being dominant for being liked, because dominant kids get a lot of attention. Their visibility is high. The shy among us despair, thinking, I’ll never be able to do that, or, That’s not me. But you don’t need to be someone you’re not. You don’t need to own the room to be liked. You don’t need to be a big shot, alpha, or self-important. True, honest, by-the-numbers popularity, as Parkhurst and her colleagues discovered, didn’t come from commanding attention or gaining deference. It didn’t even come from having the most confidence. Instead, the kids with the most “like most” votes and the fewest “like least” votes were those who were also rated as the package deal of kind, cooperative, and trustworthy. Dominance, it turns out, equaled perceived popularity. Warmheartedness equaled actual popularity. This phenomenon continues into adulthood. An oft-cited study found that in first impressions of others we prioritize warmth over anything else, which is defined as—you guessed it—kindness and trustworthiness. It’s startling, then, to realize that the shouts and whispers of the Inner Critic are mostly about competence and confidence—we worry we’ll do something stupid, look weird, seem incompetent. We work hard to increase our competence and confidence, but we’re barking up the wrong tree. Competence and confidence aren’t what others are hoping for in a friend—they’re hoping for warmth.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I then turned to Buddhist meditation to deconstruct my suffering—to accept it as a karmic consequence of my past lives and present life, to tolerate it without blaming anyone, even to welcome it as part of life’s natural cycle. I tried to look at my own contribution to my unhappiness. I would meditate on the suffering of others, and attempt to lay the groundwork for less suffering of my own the next time he left town. I would try to remember that the pain of my loss and attachment is an illusory phenomenon. I thought about how simple life might be if one removed sexuality from the equation. Between the search, the conquest, the fucking itself, the residual emotions, and the desire for repetition, my sex life was almost a full-time job: without it, I could save a great deal of time and energy. A very great deal. For what? Compassion for all rather than obsession with one? But after months and months of all this “spiritual” work, I still wanted A-Man in my ass—as frequently and as predictably as possible. I was, it appeared, incurable. There I was—searching, searching, searching for the solution to my pain to no avail. Then she found me. HER One day, walking into the locker room at the gym, I saw the quiet brunette, the one I assumed A-Man fucked on occasion. I said my usual warm hello, but instead of her usual warm smile back, I was greeted with an icy stare and sulky silence. The next time I saw A-Man, I recounted the exchange. Did he know why she might have snarled at me? Well, yes, he did know. Apparently she had recently confronted him, demanding to be told if he was fucking anyone besides her. (Surely, I thought smugly to myself, she already knew the answer to that particular question.) He said that he asked her if she was certain she wanted an answer, and she insisted that she did. So he said yes. But she didn’t stop there. She wanted to know who. So he told her about me. Apparently this was a total surprise to her. She had known we were friends, but I guess she didn’t know the whole of it. Or the half of it. Or the back half of it. Well, he told me, she couldn’t stop crying. He clearly didn’t feel good about this, but he also knew that he’d only told her what she’d insisted on hearing.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Ahora lo hago. Mis ojos arden, las lágrimas se acumulan, pero es extraño. No estoy segura de estar triste. Lo que dice es casi un consuelo, porque conozco esta historia. Estoy acostumbrada a ella. Camino hacia la puerta. —No estoy listo para dejarte ir —me dice, parándose frente a mí—. Simplemente no todavía. No he terminado... —busca las palabras—, de hablar contigo y... de amarte. —Me toma de los hombros, moviéndonos detrás de la puerta de entrada, mi espalda contra el armario—. Vayamos a algún sitio, solo nosotros. Hoy hay un espectáculo de medianoche. Vamos. Salgamos de aquí y alejémonos por un par de horas y hablaremos. Lo miro fijamente. —En algún lugar oscuro, ¿cierto? ¿En un teatro donde no seremos vistos? Me mira como si eso fuera exactamente lo que estaba pensando y lo lamenta, pero así son las cosas. —Lo solucionaremos. —Planta sus manos a ambos lados de mi cabeza en la puerta detrás de mí y se inclina—. Simplemente todavía no. No te vayas todavía. El entumecimiento que he sentido desde anoche flaquea y lo escucho en mi cabeza. No voy a ninguna parte. No voy a ninguna parte... No tengo dudas de que eso sea verdad. Y siempre será verdad, Pike no se aleja de sus responsabilidades. Siempre cuidará de mí. Y no puedo pensar en nada más que preferiría ser para él más que una obligación. No puedo ser como Cole o su trabajo, su casa o sus facturas. No soy una obligación. Soy cualquier otra cosa. —¿Me amas? —pregunto—. ¿Estás enamorado de mí? Sostiene mis ojos e incluso en la oscuridad, puedo ver que sus ojos están rojos, cansados y dolidos. Pero cuando abre la boca, no salen las palabras. Sacudo mi cabeza. —No importa, supongo. —Me rindo—. No tienes el valor, así que no serás para siempre. —Me enderezo, apretando mi mano alrededor de las correas de mis bolsas—. Y al final, acabarás siendo nada más que una pérdida de mi tiempo. Su rostro cae y se ve tan completamente derrotado. No tiene la convicción de hacer nada. Todo lo que sabe es que no quiere que me vaya. —Oh, esto es demasiado bueno —dice alguien—. Así que ese es tu perversión, ¿eh, Jordan? Pike y yo giramos nuestras cabezas rápidamente para ver que Jay acaba de salir de la cocina y entrar en la sala de estar. Pike deja caer sus manos y se endereza, fijando a Jay con una mirada dura. —Vamos, nena —se burla Jay de mí y puedo oler la cerveza en su aliento desde aquí—. Seré tu papá y podrás abrir tus piernas para mí también por un poco de dinero de alquiler. Pike se lanza hacia él y jadeo. Toma a Jay por el cuello y lo lanza, enviándolo volando para atravesar la contrapuerta. Jay apenas se estremece, probablemente porque sabía lo que estaba haciendo. Mi corazón se detiene, viéndolo tambalearse hacia el porche y a Pike correr detrás de él.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No quiero molestar a Jordan. Se alejó y no he sabido nada de ella, así que eso me dice que hice lo correcto. Ella está bien, y será más feliz. Pero yo no. Esto no se ha terminado para mí. Necesitas tú corazón para poder salir de la cama, caminar, hablar, trabajar, y comer, y ella se lo llevó cuando se fue. No era mucho, antes que ella apareciera, pero lo que había dentro de mí, se lo llevó. Soy jodidamente miserable. —Por favor dile… —me detengo, admitiendo en voz alta lo que temía admitir—. Que la amo. Shel no dice nada, y ni siquiera puedo mirarla a los ojos y ver que está pensando lo que sé es verdad. Lo arruiné. Estoy a punto de irme cuando Cam se acerca. —Han pasado dos meses —le dice a Shel—. Y todavía tiene un aspecto de mierda. —Ese no es problema de Jordan. —Y no somos las guardianes de Jordan —responde Cam—. Se fue una vez y puede volver a alejarse si es lo que decide. No tenemos que protegerla. Shel duda, me lanza una mirada, y finalmente se da por vencida, caminando alrededor de Cam al otro lado del bar. Cam se dirige a mí. —Mira, no sabemos exactamente dónde está —dice—. Me llama y se reporta cada pocas semanas. Pero tiene una amiga cuya familia tiene un motel al este de Virginia. Ha estado intentando que Jordan vaya a visitarla e incluso le ofreció un trabajo durante un verano. —Duda y luego se encoje de hombros—. Sin mucho dinero, no puedo imaginar a Jordan yendo a otro lugar. Virginia. Eso está a doce horas conduciendo. ¿Lo habrá hecho con el VW? Supongo que si Cam dice que ha estado llamando, está a salvo. Y ésta es la mejor pista que voy a poder conseguir. Sus clases de otoño inician en una semana, y si tuviera la intención de regresar ya lo habría hecho, ¿no es así? Querría sus cosas fuera de mi casa, y tendría que averiguar dónde va a vivir. ¿Estaba planeando regresar a casa? Necesito encontrarla. No puedo esperar. Doy la vuelta pero luego me detengo. —¿Cuál es el nombre del motel? —le pregunto a Cam. Pero ella solo suspira. —Hmmm, no puedo recordarlo —dice, jugando conmigo—. Supongo que si la quieres lo suficiente, la encontrarás. Y luego se aleja satisfecha por estarlo haciendo más difícil para mí. Podría llamar, supongo, pero si logro encontrarla quizás solo me cuelgue. Necesito encontrarla. Necesito al menos verla una última vez y decirle que la amo y que ella lo es todo. Y que estoy muerto sin ella. Presiono el ratón, moviendo el seis de corazones rojos y todo debajo de éste al siete de tréboles negros. Luego abro la nueva carta, presionando dos veces, y viendo el As moviéndose automáticamente a la casilla libre.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Enough to finally say “enough.” My dignity was shattered. In an effort to wrest myself out of my self-pity, I signed up for a two-week retreat with seventeen hundred Buddhists five thousand miles away in an obscure part of England. To leave where he was. It was like tearing off my own flesh to escape the hold he had on me. Free, I had no skin. Like a burn victim. The Buddhists I met were truly lovely people, welcoming me into their world without judgment despite the fact that I was probably only there for a quick fix in my moment of desperation. But even the wisdom of a quick fix, if it’s Buddhist, can linger long after one’s ego has regained its footing. And so while they all meditated on peace for all, I meditated on peace for me, feeling like the child among them. Everyone I met at the retreat, all strangers, asked me with genuine interest how I was. And so I told them. One after the other smiled broadly at my tale of lost love. “Ah! But you are so fortunate!” said one man, beaming. “So very fortunate!” He almost looked envious. The explanation: any experience of great pain is releasing negative karma, and this release is nothing more than a cleansing, a clearing of the way to nirvana. Well, while nirvana without A-Man in my ass seemed a most unlikely prospect, I had now become the one thing I wasn’t before: willing. Willing to entertain the possibility of sanity without him, just as I had been willing three years earlier to entertain the possibility of giving myself to him for just one afternoon—and look where that had led me. One by one, over and over, again and again, my new Buddhist friends rejoiced at my great sadness . . . until the tears finally stopped. They just ran right out. There was a young Englishman, also attending the retreat, who was staying at my B&B in the nearby town. Every morning at breakfast, he would smile at me as we ate poached eggs on toast at opposite ends of the communal table. Eventually we talked. He had been a devout Buddhist for eight years already, although he was only twenty-four years old. He even lived at a Buddhist center in northern England, where he was finishing his university education. Tall, with clear white skin, full red lips, and long curly black hair, he was handsome as hell; he reminded me of John the Baptist, whom Salome so loved. He was also kinder than kind, paler than pale, and sweeter than honey. And, I assumed, monklike—given his Buddhist devotion.