Loneliness

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 The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  Moscow with the other children. Only Anton would stay to finish his studies and get his diploma. He was charged with selling all of the remaining family belongings and sending the money to Moscow as soon as possible. The former boarder, now owner of the house, gave Anton a corner of one room to live in, and so at the age of sixteen, with no money of his own and no family to look after him, Anton was suddenly left to fend for himself in Taganrog. Anton had never really been alone before. His family had been his whole life, for better or worse. Now it was as if the bottom had dropped out. He had no one to turn to for help in any way. He blamed his father for this miserable fate, for being trapped in Taganrog. One day he felt angry and bitter, the next day depressed. But soon it became clear that he had no time for such sentiments. He had no money or resources, and yet somehow he had to survive. So he hired himself out as a tutor to as many families as possible. When they went on vacation he would often go hungry for days. His one jacket was threadbare; he had no galoshes for the heavy rains. He felt ashamed when he entered people’s houses, shivering and his feet all wet. But at least he was now able to support himself. He had decided to become a doctor. He had a scientific frame of mind, and doctors made a good living. To get into medical school he would have to study much harder. Frequenting the town library, the only place he could work in peace and quiet, he began to also browse the literature and philosophy sections, and soon he felt his mind soaring far beyond Taganrog. With books, he no longer felt so trapped. At night, he returned to his corner of a room to write stories and sleep. He had no privacy, but he could keep his corner neat and tidy, free of the usual disorder of the Chekhov household. He had finally begun to settle down, and new thoughts and emotions came to him. Work was no longer something he dreaded; he loved absorbing his mind in his studies, and tutoring had made him feel proud and dignified—he could take care of himself. Letters came from his family—Alexander ranting and complaining about their father making everyone miserable again; Mikhail, the youngest son, feeling worthless and depressed. Anton wrote back to Alexander: stop obsessing over our father and start taking care of yourself. He wrote to Mikhail: “Why do you refer to yourself as my ‘worthless, insignificant little brother’? Do you know where you should be aware of your worthlessness? Before God, perhaps . . . but not before people. Among people you should be aware of your worth.” Even Anton was surprised by the new tone he was taking in these letters.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  be more than a statement to the larger society, there must be a force that interrupts its functioning at some key point.” The movement was not about integrating blacks into the values of American society but about actively altering those values at their root. He would add to the civil rights movement the need to address poverty in inner cities and to protest the Vietnam War. On April 4, 1967, he expressed this widening of the struggle in a speech that got lots of attention, almost all negative. Even his most ardent supporters criticized it. Including the Vietnam War would only alienate the public from the cause of civil rights, they said. It would anger the Johnson administration, whose support they depended upon. It was not part of his mandate to speak so broadly. He had never felt so alone, so attacked by his many critics. By early 1968 his depression had become deeper than ever. He felt the end was near—some among his many enemies were going to kill him for all that he had said and done. He was exhausted by the tension and felt spiritually at a loss. In March of that year, a pastor in Memphis, Tennessee, invited King to his city, hoping he could help support a strike by black sanitation workers, who had been treated horribly. There had been marches, boycotts, and protests, and the police had responded brutally. The situation was explosive. King put them off—he felt depleted. But as so often happened in these circumstances, he realized it was his duty to do what he could, and so he agreed. On March 18 he addressed an enormous crowd in Memphis, and their enthusiastic response cheered him up. He heard that voice once again supporting and urging him forward. Memphis would have to be a key part of his mission. For the next few weeks he kept returning to Memphis to lend his support and assistance, against the fierce resistance of the local authorities. On Wednesday evening, April 4, he addressed another crowd: “We got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn’t matter with me now, because I’ve been to the mountaintop. . . . Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. . . . But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain, and I’ve looked over, and I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land.” The speech left him revitalized and in a good mood. The next day he expressed some concern about an upcoming march that could turn violent but said fear should not stop them from proceeding. “I’d rather be dead than afraid,” he told an aide. That evening, he dressed and prepared for a dinner at a restaurant with his aides, and

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Her answer surprised me. There was only one club open at a time, as far as I knew. “Yeahr” I asked her. “Where?” “On the East Side,” she said, chalking up. “You mean it’s a Negro club?” “Black,” she said as she whacked a high ball and sunk it. “It’s a Black club.” I took in all of this new information as Ed lined up her next shot. “Shit,” she said as she missed it. “Ts it different from this club?” I asked as I surveyed the table. “Yes and no.” Ed wasn’t giving up much this morning, I shrugged and indicated the far corner. I missed the shot. Ed smiled and patted me on the back. I had alot of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask. Edwin sunk the eight ball by mistake. “Shit,” she hissed, “‘shit.” She looked me up and down. “What?” she demanded. I shrugged. “Look,” she said. “I work all day with these old bulls at the plant. I like coming in here and spending some time with y’all. But I like being with my own people too, you understand? Besides, Darlene and I wouldn’t last a month if I hung out on the East Side.” I shook my head. I didn’t understand. “Darlene doesn’t worry about me being here. If I spent this much time at my own clubs, well, let’s just say there’d be too much temptation.” “You hungry?” I asked her. “Naw, man, I’m just human.” She sounded defensive. I laughed. “No, I mean you wanna get some breakfast?” She slapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” We met Darlene and the other girls at the restaurant. They were all excited, something about a fight with a customer that all the girls jumped into. “Hey, Ed,’ I asked her over coffee as Darlene reenacted her role in the brawl, “you think I could go with you some time? I mean, I don’t know if it’s OK to ask or not.” Ed looked taken aback. “Why? Why do you want to go to my club?” “T don’t know, Ed. You’re my friend, you know?” She shrugged. “So?” “So this morning I realized how much of you I Stone Butch Blues 55 don’t know, that’s all. I guess I'd like to meet you on your own turf.” Darlene tugged on Ed’s sleeve, “Baby, you should have been there. We kicked this guy’s ass all the way to kingdom come! He was beggin’ us for metcy.” “T’ve got to think about it. I don’t know,’ Ed said. “Fair enough. Just asking.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Edna shrugged. “I know I’m not a straight woman, and lesbians won’t accept me as one of them. I don’t know where to go to find the butches I love or the other femmes. I feel completely misunderstood. I feel like a ghost too, Jess.” For a long moment we held a conversation without words. Our eyes welcomed each other home. The waiter brought the check to me, an automatic gesture. I chuckled. Edna frowned. “What’s so funny?” “Until I talked to you tonight, part of me really believed that everyone I knew was sitting in a bar somewhere together having a good time without me.” We rode back to her home in silence. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to matter to her. And I ached to sleep, safe, with her body close to mine. I pulled up in front of her house. She took off the helmet and beckoned for me to follow her. I stood in her living room trying to know her through her home. She rummaged through her hall closet. “I found it!” She came back into the room smiling, “There’s only one thing Rocco had that you don’t have. Armor!” Edna handed me a heavy black motorcycle jacket gleaming with silver zippers. I took it in my hands. It was soft with wear. The right elbow was badly scuffed. “That’s where she skidded when she dumped her Harley on the way back from Niagara Falls.” Edna fingered the sleeve. “This was the jacket she loved almost as much as her bike. She called this her second skin.” Edna’s eyes glazed. “She left it to protect me. That’s what she said. It was so much a part of her that I could never bear to wear it.” I couldn’t speak. “Try it on,’ Edna urged, holding the jacket for me to slip into. It was heavy; the weight felt reassuring, “It fits you perfectly.” She pressed her knuckles to her lips. I opened my arms. She shook her head. “I need to be alone. ’m sorry, I’m just not ready. I hope you understand.” I didn’t. But I was so afraid to lose her that I forced myself to smile and nod. I walked back out to my Harley and swung my leg over it. I heard my own power in the engine’s roar. I drove away wearing Rocco’s armor. “Be carefull”? Edna shouted as the ladder tipped. I grabbed the metal tray before the paint inside of it could spill. “Get down from there!” Edna ordered. I climbed down and wiped my forearm across my forehead. Edna laughed. “You just smeared paint on yout face, c’mere.” She held my arm as she gently rubbed my forehead with a cloth. I clenched my biceps. “ve been working out,” I boasted. Edna suppressed a smile and said, “I noticed.” I didn’t suppress mine. She kissed my lips. “Thank you for helping me paint my living room.” Stone Butch Blues 233

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  off. A moment later she brought my coffee and slammed it down so hard it sloshed over the rim of the cup. Then she lifted it up, wiped the counter, and spilled it again. “Next time you want to read a book, go to the goddamn library.” She spun on her heel. I put down a tip, paid the cashier, and left. The next day I brought her a single flower. “I’m sorry I got personal,” I told her. “Aw, well, I don’t mind you gettin’ personal, darlin’. Just take your damn sweet time about it, OK?” “Agreed,” I agreed. “What kinda flower is this anyway?” I smiled, “A mum for a mum.” She frowned. “Oh, I get it.” Annie’s body language was very reserved with me. But as soon as Annie and Frances got together, she loosened up. They whispered. Frances smelled the flower and put her hand over her heart. Annie smacked Frances on the shoulder. I wanted to spend time with Annie when she wasn't working. It was no secret now. Annie brought me a white paper bag. “What’s this?” I asked. She shrugged. “Coffee and a cherry danish.” I was confused. “I didn’t ask for it.” “T didn’t ask for no flower either. It’s on the house,” she shot back. “It’s fresh. The danish is fresh.” I smiled, left a tip, and paid the cashier for my breakfast. Then I came back to the counter and tried to get Annie’s attention. She made me wait. “Whatdya forget?” she asked. “T wanted to know if you ...” I hesitated. It could be a big mistake to go out with someone who knew my co-workers. She could make real trouble for me if she found out; P’d have to quit my job. But I was desperately lonely. “If Pd what?” She sounded suspicious. “If you’d want to go out with me sometime?” Annie put both her hands on her hips and looked me up and down several times. “Ask me again sometime.” Somehow I thought that was a good sign. Our serious flirtation began the next morning. Stone Butch Blues 201 It was fun. It felt good. It reminded me of the old days between femmes and butches. But this was not between women. At least that’s not how the world around us saw it. And, I reminded myself over and over again, that’s not how Annie saw it. The amazing part was that this courtship dance could take place in public and everyone—co-workers and strangers alike—encouraged and approved. Meanwhile, Anita Bryant was thumping the Bible in a well-publicized campaign to overturn a simple gay rights ordinance. I wondered how human affection could be judged so differently. When I finally got up the nerve to ask Annie out again, she wiped her hands on her apron and answered, “Sure, I guess. Why not?”

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  inner workings of the Senate—vote counting, how bills were actually passed—and insights into the various senators, their deepest insecurities and weaknesses. At some point, his deep understanding of the institution would translate into a commodity he could exchange for influence and favors. After several months of this campaign, he was able to alter the reputation he had had in the House. He no longer seemed a threat, and with the senators’ defenses down, Johnson could escalate his campaign. He turned his attention to winning over key allies. As he had always believed, having one key ally at or near the top of the hierarchy could move mountains. Early on he spotted Senator Russell as the perfect target—lonely, a believer in a cause without any real disciples, and very powerful. Johnson genuinely liked Russell, and he was always in search of father figures, but his attention and approach were highly strategic. He made sure he got appointed to the Armed Services Committee, where he would have the most access to Russell. Their constant encounters in the hallway or the cloakroom were rarely accidental. Without making it obvious, he slowly increased the hours they spent together. Johnson had never liked baseball and could care less about the Civil War, but he quickly learned to cultivate an interest in both. He mirrored back to Russell his own conservative values and work ethic and made the lonely senator feel like he had not only a friend but a worshipping son and disciple. Johnson was careful to never ask for favors. Instead he quietly did favors himself for Russell, helping him to modernize his staff. When Johnson finally wanted something, such as the chairmanship of the subcommittee, he would insinuate his desire rather than directly express it. Russell would come to see him as an extension of his own political ambitions, and at that point he would do almost anything for his acolyte. Within a few years, word got around that Johnson was a masterful vote counter and had inside knowledge on various senators, the kind of information that could be extremely useful when trying to get a bill passed. Now senators would come to him for this information, and he would share it with the understanding that at some point he would expect favors in return. Slowly his influence was spreading, but he realized that his desire to have the dominant position within his party and the Senate had one major obstacle—the northern liberals. Once again, Johnson chose the perfect target—Senator Humphrey. He read him as a man who was lonely, in need of validation, but who was also tremendously ambitious. The way to Humphrey’s heart was threefold: make him feel liked, confirm his belief that he was presidential material, and give him the practical tools to realize his ambitions. As he had done with Russell, Johnson gave Humphrey the impression that he was secretly on his side, mirroring Humphrey’s deepest values by sharing his adoration of

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  alone or with one or two close friends. As opposed to extroverts, who are fascinated by facts and statistics for their own sake, introverts are interested in their own opinions and feelings. They love to theorize and come up with their own ideas. If they produce something, they do not like to promote it; they find the effort distasteful. What they make should sell itself. They like to keep a part of their life separate from others, to have secrets. Their opinions do not come from what others think or from any authority but from their inner criteria, or at least they think so. The bigger the crowd, the more lost and lonely they feel. They can seem awkward and mistrustful, uncomfortable with attention. They also tend to be more pessimistic and worried than the average extrovert. Their boldness will be expressed by the novel ideas they come up with and their creativity. You might notice tendencies in both directions in individuals or yourself, but in general people trend in one or the other direction. It is important to gauge this in others for a simple reason: introverts and extroverts do not naturally understand each other. To the extrovert, the introvert has no fun, is stubborn, even antisocial. To the introvert, the extrovert is shallow, flighty, and overly concerned with what people think. Being one or the other is generally something genetic and will make two people see the same thing in a totally different light. Once you understand you are dealing with someone of the other variety than yourself, you must reassess their character and not foist your own preferences on them. Also, sometimes introverts and extroverts can work well together, particularly if people have a mix of both qualities and they complement each other, but more often than not they do not get along and are prone to constant misunderstandings. Keep in mind that there are generally more extroverts than introverts in the world. Finally, it is critical that you measure the relative strength of people’s character. Think of it in this way: such strength comes from deep within the core of the person. It could stem from a mixture of certain factors—genetics, secure parenting, good mentors along the way, and constant improvement (see the final section of this chapter). Whatever the cause, this strength is not something displayed on the outside in the form of bluster or aggression but manifests itself in overall resilience and adaptability. Strong character has a tensile quality like a good piece of metal—it can give and bend but still retains its overall shape and never breaks. The strength emanates from a feeling of personal security and self-worth. This allows such people to take criticism and learn from their experiences. This means they do not give up so easily, since they want to learn how to get better. They are rigorously persistent. People of strong character are open to new ideas and ways of doing

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  The Williamses were not actually married. Jane Cleveland, who came from the middle class, had married a high-ranking English soldier, only to find out he was an abusive brute. When she met the handsome Edward Williams—a military man who had lived in India, as Jane had—she fell instantly in love. In 1819, although Jane was still married to her first husband, she and Edward left for the Continent, posing as a married couple. Like the Shelleys, they also had lived in Switzerland and had come to Italy for adventure and the good weather. Jane was now expecting her second child with Edward, just as Mary was now pregnant again. It seemed, in a fateful way, that they had much in common. More important, Mary empathized deeply with their love affair and how much they had sacrificed for each other. Then Jane had her second child. Now the two women could bond as young mothers. Finally someone to talk to about the difficulties of raising infants in a foreign land, something Mary’s husband could care less about. Besides, the Shelleys had no English friends, since English expatriates in Italy avoided them like the plague. It would be such a relief to have some daily companionship in this moment of turbulence in her life. Mary quickly became dependent on Jane’s company and forgot any misgivings she might have had about her. Shelley seemed to warm up to the couple as well. Edward was so officious in offering to help Shelley in any way. Edward loved sailing and boasted of his navigational skills. Sailing was an obsession of Shelley’s, despite the fact he had never learned to swim. Perhaps Edward could help him design the perfect sailing boat. And Jane began to intrigue him the more he spent time around her. Jane was so different from Mary. She never argued. She only looked at him admiringly and seconded everything he said. She was so cheerful. He could be her teacher, instructing her in poetry, and she could be his new muse, a role his depressed wife could not fill anymore. He bought Jane a guitar and loved to listen to the songs from India she seemed to know so well. She had a beautiful voice. He wrote poems in her honor and slowly became infatuated. Mary noticed all this. She knew well her husband’s pattern. He was always looking for a woman very different from the one he was with to inspire him and break the monotony of a relationship. His first wife, Harriet, had been more like Jane, pretty and simple, and so he fell for the much more complicated Mary. Now the pattern was repeating as he fell for the simpler Jane. But how could she take Jane seriously as a rival? She was so ordinary. He was simply poeticizing her; he would eventually see her as she was and grow bored. Mary did not fear losing him. In 1822 the Shelleys and Williamses, now rather inseparable,

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  the very top of the scale and beyond—complete absorption in others. By our very nature, we humans have tremendous abilities to understand people from the inside out. In our earliest years, we felt completely bonded with our mother, and we could sense her every mood and read her every emotion in a preverbal way. Unlike any other animal or primate, we also had the ability to extend this beyond the mother to other caregivers and people in our vicinity. This is the physical form of empathy that we feel even to this day with our closest friends, spouses, or partners. We also have a natural ability to take the perspective of others, to think our way inside their minds. These powers largely lie dormant because of our self-absorption. But in our twenties and beyond, feeling more confident about ourselves, we can begin to focus outward, on people, and rediscover these powers. Those who practice this empathy often become superior social observers in the arts or sciences, therapists, and leaders of the highest order. The need to develop this empathy is greater than ever. Various studies have indicated a gradual increase in levels of self-absorption and narcissism in young people since the late 1970s, with a much higher spike since 2000. Much of this can be attributed to technology and the internet. People simply spend less time in social interactions and more time socializing online, which makes it increasingly difficult to develop empathy and sharpen social skills. Like any skill, empathy comes through the quality of attention. If your attention is continually interrupted by the need to look at your smartphone, you are never really gaining a foothold in the feelings or perspectives of other people. You are continually drawn back to yourself, flitting about the surface of social interactions, never really engaging. Even in a crowd, you remain essentially alone. People come to serve a function—not to bond with but to placate your insecurities. Our brains were built for continual social interaction; the complexity of this interaction is one of the main factors that drastically increased our intelligence as a species. At a certain point, involving ourselves less with others has a net negative effect on the brain itself and atrophies our social muscle. To make matters worse, our culture tends to emphasize the supreme value of the individual and individual rights, encouraging greater self-involvement. We find more and more people who cannot imagine that others have a different perspective, that we are all not exactly the same in what we desire or think. You must try to run counter to these developments and create empathic energy. Each side of the spectrum has its peculiar momentum. Deep narcissism tends to sink you deeper, as your connection to reality lessens and you are unable to really develop your work or your relationships. Empathy does the opposite. As you increasingly turn your attention outward, you get constant positive feedback. People want to be around you more. You develop your

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ive alvays wanted to tell you this. In that one moment I knew you really did understand how I felt in hfe. Choking on anger, feeling so powerless, unable to protect myself or those I loved most, yet fighting back again and again, unwilling to give up. | didnt have the words to tell you this then. just said, “It be OK, itil be alright.” And then we smiled ironically at what Id said, and I took you back to our bed and made the best love to you I could, considering the shape I was in. You knew not to try to touch me that night. You just ran your fingers through my hair and cried and cried. Stone Butch Blues 5 When did we get separated in life, sweet warrior woman? We thought wed won the war of liberation when we embraced the word gay. Then suddenly there were professors and doctors and lawyers coming out of the woodwork telling us that meetings should be run with Robert’s Rules of Order. (Who died and left Robert god?) They drove us out, made us feel ashamed of how we looked. They said we were male chauvinist pigs, the enemy. It was women’s hearts they broke. We were not hard to send away, we went quietly. The plants closed. Something we never could have imagined. That’s when I began passing as a man. Strange to be exiled from your own sex to borders that will never be home. You were banished too, to another land with your own sex, and yet forcibly apart from the women you loved as much as you tried to love yourself. For more than twenty years I have lived on this lonely shore, wondering what became of you. Did you wash off your Saturday night makeup in shame? Did you burn in anger when women said, “If I wanted a man Id be with a real one?” Are you turning tricks today? Are you waiting tables or learning Word Perfect 5.12 Are you in a lesbian bar looking out of the corner of your eye for the butchest woman in the room? Do the women there talk about Democratic politics and seminars and co-ops? Are you with women who only bleed monthly on their cycles? 6 Leslie Feinberg Or are you married in another blue-collar town, lying with an unemployed auto worker who is much more like me than they are, listening for the even breathing of your sleeping children? Do you bind his emotional wounds the way you tried to heal mine? Do you ever think of me in the cool night? Ive been writing this letter to you for hours. My ribs hurt bad from a recent beating. You know. I never could have survived this long if Id never known your love. Yet still I ache with missing you and need you so. Only you could melt this stone. Are you ever coming back?

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  The one problem Flannery had to confront with her new life was the crushing loneliness of it all. She required the company of people to soothe her, and she depended on the cast of characters she met to supply her endless material for her work. As her fame grew with the publication of Wise Blood and her collections of stories, she could count on the occasional visit to the farm from other writers and fans of her work, and she lived for such moments, putting every ounce of her energy into observing her visitors and plumbing their depths. To fill the gaps between these social encounters, she began a lengthy correspondence with a growing number of friends and fans, writing back to almost anyone who wrote to her. Many of them were quite troubled. There was the young man in the Midwest who felt suicidal and on the verge of madness. There was the brilliant young woman from Georgia, Betty Hester, who felt ashamed for being a lesbian and confided in Flannery, the two of them now regularly corresponding. Flannery never judged any of them, feeling herself to be rather odd and outside the mainstream. To this growing cast of characters and misfits she offered advice and compassion, always entreating them to devote their energies to something outside themselves. The letters were the perfect medium for Flannery, for it allowed her to keep some physical distance from people; she feared too much intimacy, as it would mean getting attached to those she would soon have to say good-bye to. In this way she slowly built the perfect social world for her purposes. One spring day in 1953, she received a visit from a tall, handsome twenty-six-year-old man from Denmark named Erik Langkjaier. He was a traveling textbook salesman for a major publisher, his territory including most of the South. He had met a professor at a local college who had offered to introduce him to the great literary figure of Georgia, Flannery O’Connor. From the moment he entered her house, Flannery felt they had some kind of mystical connection. She found Erik very funny and well read. It was indeed rare to meet someone so worldly in this part of Georgia. His life as an itinerant salesman fascinated her; she found it humorous that he carried with him a “Bible,” what those in the business called the loose-leaf binder of promotional materials. Something about his rootless life struck a chord with her. Like Flannery, Erik’s father had died when he was young. She opened up to him about her own father and the lupus she had inherited. She found Erik attractive and was suddenly self-conscious about her appearance, constantly making jokes about herself. She gave him a copy of Wise Blood , inscribing it, “For Erik, who has wise blood too.” He began to arrange his travels so that he could pass often through Milledgeville and continue their lively discussions.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  This therapeutic guidance can occur only when it becomes physiologically possible to access the social engagement system—that is, when the nervous system is no longer hijacked by the immobilization and the hyperarousal systems. The intentional use of a mental or physical health practitioner’s own intact heartfelt human expression can be profoundly therapeutic. In spite of the raw dominance of the vagal immobilization and sympathetic arousal systems in suppressing social engagement, the power of human contact to help change another’s internal physiological state (through face-to-face engagement and appropriate touch) should not be underestimated. Thus, as I discussed in Chapter 1, the pediatrician with the kindly face who sat by my side after my auto accident gave me the glimmer of hope I needed at that exact moment in order to go on. The gentle power of the human face to soothe the “savage beast” is portrayed in a film with the revealing title Cast Away. Tom Hanks plays the lead character, Chuck Noland, who is marooned on a remote, uninhabited island as the sole survivor of an airplane crash. Also washed ashore is some of the plane’s cargo, which includes a white volleyball printed with the Wilson brand name. He aptly names the ball “Wilson” and offhandedly adopts it as his mascot. g To his surprise, it begins to take on a life of its own, becoming the confidant for Noland’s innermost thoughts. One day, in a fit of impotent rage, Noland throws the ball into the sea, but then—realizing how deeply he has become attached to Wilson—he dives in to retrieve it. Back on the beach, he affectionately draws childlike facial features 65 (eyes, mouth and nose) on the round volleyball. h Wilson now becomes his most intimate companion, sharing his troubled thoughts, deepest yearnings and anguished feelings of loneliness and despair, as well as his joyful triumphs. Noland’s bonding with Wilson is eerily reminiscent of the ethologist Konrad Lorenz’s orphan ducklings and their powerful attachment (imprinting) to a white ball after their mother was removed from their life shortly after their hatching. 66 Once they were permanently bonded to the ball as their surrogate mother, they preferred it even to a live, soft, feathery mother duck. Finally, Hanks’s character realizes that the island is apparently outside of any shipping lanes and that he will never be rescued if he remains on it. In his ill-fated attempt to leave on a raft he has made, Wilson is swept away during a fierce storm, and Hanks is inconsolable in his grief. Face-to-face, soul-to-soul contact is a buffer against the raging seas of inner turmoil. It is what helps you calm any emotional turbulence.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I was frozen with fear, unable to collect my thoughts enough to invent a story that even appeared to reveal something about me. “There’s nothing to tell,” I told him. I was closed and protected. He was left naked. The warmth drained from his face and anger rose to replace it. He was too gentle a man to lash out at me. Like a butch, he kept it inside. I stood up. “Td better be going,” I said. He nodded and stared at his beer bottle. I let my hand rest for a moment on his shoulder. He would not accept the comfort or look at me. I wanted to say, Ben, I'm so sorry I hurt you. I only did it because I was scared. I didn't know men could hurt the way I do. Please let me back inside. But of course, I didn’t. Instead I said, “See you Monday.” The loneliness became more and more unbearable. I ached to be touched. I feared I was disappearing and I'd cease to exist if someone didn’t touch me. One woman in particular turned my head every morning: Annie, the waitress at the coffee shop near my job. When she brought me coffee, it seemed she 200 = Leslie Feinberg didn’t notice me. But then she’d catch my eye and turn away from me, wrapping my attention around her like a shawl. She was as tough as a gangster. God, T liked Annie. She treated every customer like a trick. She worked them for a tip and didn’t let them drop till they left it. I sat at the counter and watched Annie relax with her co-worker, Frances. The men in the restaurant seemed to think the women’s attention only existed for them. If they had seen how intimate the women were with each other, the men might have been jealous. But they didn’t notice. I did. Annie saw me at the counter. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s shaking this morning?” I laughed. “How are you, Annie?” “Finer than a frog’s hair quartered, darlin’. Whatcha havin’?” “Coffee and eggs overt easy.” “You got it,” she said over her shoulder as she swung away from me. Her body demanded I pay attention. Frances and Annie showed each other their kids’ school photos while they waited for their orders from the grill. “Can I seer” I asked Annie as she brought me my eggs. She eyed me warily as she handed me the photo. “Don’t see why not.” Four rows of sweet children’s faces looked back at me. “Which one?” I asked. Annie wiped her hands on her apron and pointed out her daughter. “God, she’s great,” I told her. “She’s got your smart and angry at the same time.” “Where do you see that?” Annie demanded as she snatched the photo from my hand. She stormed eyes

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  inspiration born of a feeling is the grandchild of a judgment—and often of a false judgment!—and in any event not a child of your own! To trust one’s feelings—means to give more obedience to one’s grandfather and grandmother and their grandparents than to the gods which are in us: our reason and our experience. —Friedrich Nietzsche 2 Transform Self-love into Empathy The Law of Narcissism We all naturally possess the most remarkable tool for connecting to people and attaining social power—empathy. When cultivated and properly used, it can allow us to see into the moods and minds of others, giving us the power to anticipate people’s actions and gently lower their resistance. This instrument, however, is blunted by our habitual self-absorption. We are all narcissists, some deeper on the spectrum than others. Our mission in life is to come to terms with this self-love and learn how to turn our sensitivity outward, toward others, instead of inward. We must recognize at the same time the toxic narcissists among us before getting enmeshed in their dramas and poisoned by their envy. The Narcissistic Spectrum From the moment we are born, we humans feel a never-ending need for attention. We are social animals to the core. Our survival and happiness depend on the bonds we form with others. If people do not pay attention to us, we cannot connect to them on any level. Some of this is purely physical—we must have people looking at us to feel alive. As those who have gone through long periods of isolation can attest, without eye contact we begin to doubt our existence and to descend into a deep depression. But this need is also deeply psychological: through the quality of attention we receive from others, we feel recognized and appreciated for who we are. Our sense of self-worth depends on this. Because this is so important to the human animal, people will do almost anything to get attention, including committing a crime or attempting suicide. Look behind almost any action, and you will see this need as a primary motivation. In trying to satisfy our hunger for attention, however, we face an inevitable problem: there is only so much of it to go around. In the family, we have to compete with our siblings; at school, with classmates; at work, with colleagues. The moments in which we feel recognized and appreciated are fleeting. People can largely be indifferent to our fate, as they must deal with their own problems. There are even some who are downright hostile and disrespectful to us. How do we handle those moments when we feel psychologically alone, or even abandoned? We can double our efforts to get attention and notice, but this can exhaust our energy and it can often have the opposite effect—people who try too hard seem desperate and repulse the attention they want. We simply cannot rely on others to give us constant validation, and yet we crave it.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  off. A moment later she brought my coffee and slammed it down so hard it sloshed over the rim of the cup. Then she lifted it up, wiped the counter, and spilled it again. “Next time you want to read a book, go to the goddamn library.” She spun on her heel. I put down a tip, paid the cashier, and left. The next day I brought her a single flower. “I’m sorry I got personal,” I told her. “Aw, well, I don’t mind you gettin’ personal, darlin’. Just take your damn sweet time about it, OK?” “Agreed,” I agreed. “What kinda flower is this anyway?” I smiled, “A mum for a mum.” She frowned. “Oh, I get it.” Annie’s body language was very reserved with me. But as soon as Annie and Frances got together, she loosened up. They whispered. Frances smelled the flower and put her hand over her heart. Annie smacked Frances on the shoulder. I wanted to spend time with Annie when she wasn't working. It was no secret now. Annie brought me a white paper bag. “What’s this?” I asked. She shrugged. “Coffee and a cherry danish.” I was confused. “I didn’t ask for it.” “T didn’t ask for no flower either. It’s on the house,” she shot back. “It’s fresh. The danish is fresh.” I smiled, left a tip, and paid the cashier for my breakfast. Then I came back to the counter and tried to get Annie’s attention. She made me wait. “Whatdya forget?” she asked. “T wanted to know if you ...” I hesitated. It could be a big mistake to go out with someone who knew my co-workers. She could make real trouble for me if she found out; P’d have to quit my job. But I was desperately lonely. “If Pd what?” She sounded suspicious. “If you’d want to go out with me sometime?” Annie put both her hands on her hips and looked me up and down several times. “Ask me again sometime.” Somehow I thought that was a good sign. Our serious flirtation began the next morning. Stone Butch Blues 201 It was fun. It felt good. It reminded me of the old days between femmes and butches. But this was not between women. At least that’s not how the world around us saw it. And, I reminded myself over and over again, that’s not how Annie saw it. The amazing part was that this courtship dance could take place in public and everyone—co-workers and strangers alike—encouraged and approved. Meanwhile, Anita Bryant was thumping the Bible in a well-publicized campaign to overturn a simple gay rights ordinance. I wondered how human affection could be judged so differently. When I finally got up the nerve to ask Annie out again, she wiped her hands on her apron and answered, “Sure, I guess. Why not?”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  My first night there I crawled out onto the fire escape. I could see a few green trees lining a tiny strip of something people in this city call a park. The traffic backed up for the bridge to Brooklyn had thinned. The music of mariachi and Mandarin melded in the night. Three little girls sat on a fire escape across the street, combing each other’s hair as they sang pop tunes from Hong Kong. A man and a woman fought bitterly in an apartment below me. I tensed at the sound of a crash. It was followed by an even more ominous silence. From the open living room window of my next-door neighbor’s apartment I could hear the steady hum of a sewing machine. The faint glow of the city softened the darkness of night. If there were still stars in the sky, they weren't within my sight. oe | I saw my next-door neighbor a month later. As I unlocked my apartment, she opened hers. I said hello before I even looked up. She didn’t answer. Her face startled me. It was badly bruised on one side like a rainbow—yellow, red, blue. Her hair was outrageously crimson. I could tell that womanhood had not come easily to her. It wasn’t just her large Adam’s apple or her broad, big-boned hands. It was the way she dropped her eyes and rushed away when I spoke to her. Every day I saw others like me in this city— enough of us to populate our own town. But we only acknowledged each other with a furtive glance, fearful of calling attention to ourselves. Being alone in public was painful enough; two could find themselves smack in the center of an unbearable sideshow. We didn’t seem to have any of our own places to gather in community, to immerse ourselves in our own ways and our own languages. But now I had a neighbor who was different like me. As weeks passed I became intrigued by the sounds and smells coming from her apartment. She sewed endlessly. She loved Miles Davis. And whenever she opened her oven, the hall outside her door filled with the most tantalizing aromas. One Saturday afternoon I found her clutching two huge bags of groceries and fumbling with the downstairs front-door lock. I pulled out my key. “Here, let me.” She didn’t say thank you. She hurried 270 Leslie Feinberg ahead of me on the stairs. “Can I help you carry those?” I offered. “Do I look weak to you?” she asked. I stopped on the stairs. “No. Where I come from it’s just a sign of respect, that’s all.” She continued up the stairs. “Well, where I come from,” she called out, “men don’t reward women for pretending to be helpless.” Once I heard her apartment door close I kicked the stair in anger and frustration.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I smiled at Ruth. “And I know your hair is as red as wild sumac in early autumn.” Ruth looked at me wide-eyed. “What a lovely thing to say. You’re from upstate. I can tell by your accent. Me, too.” Stone Butch Blues 271 I nodded. “TI know.” Ruth’s whole demeanor toward me changed. She seemed ready to open her door partway for me. That’s when I discovered I was still hurt and angry at her earlier rejections. Before she could say another word I told her “Good night” and climbed back inside my living room. I leaned my head against the windowsill and watched the moon continue to rise over Manhattan. I never would have known Ruth was doing the same thing only a few feet away from me if I hadn’t heard the scratch of a match and smelled the smoke from her cigarette. I didn’t see her again for a couple of months. I think she went away for a few weeks over the holidays because I didn’t hear music or sewing, and the hallway went back to smelling like a urinal. I got tired of sleeping on an air mattress and I bought a bed from the Salvation Army. I also got a used record and tape player that was so beat-up I wouldn’t care if someone stole it. One Saturday afternoon, after weeks of working overtime I woke up late. My apartment looked so filthy it discusted me. The daylight had thinned to grey by the time I bundled up to go out for cleaning supplies. 272 Leslie Feinberg Ruth and I opened our doors at the same moment and looked away in embarrassment. I held back to let her go ahead of me. From the landing she called up to me, “I hope this doesn’t sound rude, but what was the music you were playing yesterday? Do you remember?” “Why?” I called down to her. “Is this an indirect way of saying it was too loud?” There was a long silence. “No,” she said. “T liked it, that’s all. Do you mind me asking?” “If it sounded African it was King Sunny Ade.” “Thank you,” she said curtly. I heard the front door shut. Now I knew that she listened to my music just as I listened to hers. So I began to play tapes for both of us, wondering as I did which ones she enjoyed most. I imagined our lives connected in spite of the thin walls and closed doors physically separating us. That’s when I realized just how lonely I was. On the morning of the spring equinox, I wearily climbed my stairs at dawn, eager for a hot shower and a long sleep. The pungent aroma of simmering rhubarb pulled me up the steps two at a time. The irresistible smell was coming from Ruth’s kitchen. I was a child the last time I’'d smelled rhubarb cooking. I rested my head against her door. My mouth filled

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  I stood there awkwardly by myself in this no-man’s-land in the middle of the playground. Luckily, I was rescued by the Indian kid from my class, a guy named Theesan Pillay. Theesan was one of the few Indian kids in school, so he’d noticed me, another obvious outsider, right away. He ran over to introduce himself. “Hello, fellow anomaly! You’re in my class. Who are you? What’s your story?” We started talking and hit it off. He took me under his wing, the Artful Dodger to my bewildered Oliver. Through our conversation it came up that I spoke several African languages, and Theesan thought a colored kid speaking black languages was the most amazing trick. He brought me over to a group of black kids. “Say something,” he told them, “and he’ll show you he understands you.” One kid said something in Zulu, and I replied to him in Zulu. Everyone cheered. Another kid said something in Xhosa, and I replied to him in Xhosa. Everyone cheered. For the rest of recess Theesan took me around to different black kids on the playground. “Show them your trick. Do your language thing.” The black kids were fascinated. In South Africa back then, it wasn’t common to find a white person or a colored person who spoke African languages; during apartheid white people were always taught that those languages were beneath them. So the fact that I did speak African languages immediately endeared me to the black kids. “How come you speak our languages?” they asked. “Because I’m black,” I said, “like you.” “You’re not black.” “Yes, I am.” “No, you’re not. Have you not seen yourself?” They were confused at first. Because of my color, they thought I was a colored person, but speaking the same languages meant that I belonged to their tribe. It just took them a moment to figure it out. It took me a moment, too. At some point I turned to one of them and said, “Hey, how come I don’t see you guys in any of my classes?” It turned out they were in the B classes, which also happened to be the black classes. That same afternoon, I went back to the A classes, and by the end of the day I realized that they weren’t for me. Suddenly, I knew who my people were, and I wanted to be with them. I went to see the school counselor. “I’d like to switch over,” I told her. “I’d like to go to the B classes.” She was confused. “Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t think you want to do that.” “Why not?” “Because those kids are...you know.” “No, I don’t know. What do you mean?” “Look,” she said, “you’re a smart kid.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  68 Why Therapy Fails Many traumatized individuals, and especially those who have been chronically traumatized, live in a world with little or no emotional support, making them even more vulnerable. After a devastating event—be it violence, rape, surgery, war or an automobile accident—or in the aftermath of a childhood of protracted neglect and abuse, traumatized individuals, even those who share a residence with a friend, family member or intimate partner, tend to isolate themselves. Alternatively, they cling desperately to other people in the hope that they will somehow help and protect them. Either way, they are bereft of the real intimacy—the salubrious climate of belonging—that we all crave and need in order to thrive. Traumatized individuals are, at the same time, terrified of intimacy and shun it. So either way, avoidant or clinging, they are unable to maintain the balanced, stable and nurturing affiliations we all need, the egalitarian bond characterized by the Jewish theologian Martin Buber as the “I-thou” relationship. 69 When their loneliness becomes too stark, traumatically disconnected individuals may seek increasingly more unrealistic (and sometimes dangerous) “hook-ups.” They see each new relationship possibility (or impossibility) as providing the caring protection that will calm their inner anxieties and buoy up their fragile sense of self. Having had a neglectful or abusive childhood predisposes them to chaotic relationships. These individuals continue to look for love “in all the wrong places”—a folly the song reminds us of. Even when one’s idealized (fantasy) rescuers become abusive, one seems oblivious to the early signs of that abuse and becomes increasingly ensnared in a damaging liaison precisely because it is so familiar or “like family.” Correcting such maladaptive patterns is the bane of many trauma therapists, who look on helplessly as their clients are repeatedly triggered and seduced into self-destructive affairs, reenacting their original trauma. Many therapists hold to the hope that they can somehow provide their clients with the positive, affirmative (I-thou) relationship that will assuage a client’s fractured psyche and restore his or her wounded soul to wholeness. However, what often happens is that a client’s dependency upon the therapist escalates and gets entirely out of hand–as shown so conspicuously in the gem of a film What About Bob? (1991). In it, Bob, the “abandoned” client, is so dependent, and his feelings about being left alone are so intolerable, that he tracks down his psychiatrist like a sleuth and follows him on a family vacation on Cape Cod. On the other hand, if a client experiences the therapist, who is supposed to be a healer, as a “proxy” abuser, the therapy often culminates in the client’s profound disappointment and/or seething rage. Traumatized individuals are not made whole through the therapeutic relationship alone. Even with the best of intentions, and highly developed empathic skills, a therapist often misses the mark here. The polyvagal theory and the Jacksonian principle of dissolution help us to understand why and how this happens.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  70 When the traumatized person is locked in either the immobilization response or the sympathetic arousal system, the social engagement function is physiologically compromised; the former, in particular, both inhibits sympathetic arousal and can almost completely suppress the social engagement system. A person whose social engagement system is suppressed has trouble reading positive emotions from other people’s faces and postures and also has little capacity to feel his or her own nuanced positive affects. Thus, one finds it difficult to know if that other person can be trusted (whether he or she is threatening or safe, friend or foe). According to the polyvagal theory, being in shutdown (immobility/freezing/or collapse) or in sympathetic/hyperactivation (fight or flight) greatly diminishes a person’s capacity to receive and incorporate empathy and support. The facility for safety and goodness is nowhere to be found. To the degree that traumatized people are dominated by shutdown (the immobility system), they are physiologically unavailable for face-to-face contact and the calming sharing of feelings and attachment. And while immobilization is rarely complete (as it is, for example, in catatonic schizophrenia), its ability to suppress life and one’s capacity for social engagement is extreme. A young man describes his dark plight as follows: “I feel all alone in the universe, dissociated from the human race ... I am not sure that I even exist ... Everyone is part of the flower; I am still part of the root.” i It is not surprising that, try as they may, many traumatized clients are little able to receive support and caring from their well-intentioned therapists—not because they don’t want to, but because they are stuck in the primitive root of immobility with its greatly reduced capability for reading faces, bodies and emotions; they become cut off from the human race. For this reason such a client may not be readily calmed by the positive feelings and attitude of empathy the therapist provides, and may even perceive the therapist as a potential threat. Unable to recognize caring feelings in the face and posture of others, such a client finds it extremely difficult to feel that anyone is safe or can really be trusted. And when high hopes are placed on the therapist, one small misstep or inadvertent fumble on the latter’s part can bring the entire relationship crashing down. As highly dissociated and shut-down clients involuntarily retreat, they experience additional self-recrimination and shame. Tormented by this loss of control, they are unable to accept and respond to the warmth and security offered by their therapist and may engage in unproductive transference and “acting out.” The inherent disconnect that then occurs often leaves both client and therapist bewildered and frustrated, feeling that they are failing in their respective roles.