We've Been Having Feelings For Years, Part 2
The life-changing magic of being the kindest witness and following me into the dark.
Dear reader,
This week’s letter is Part 2 of my newsletter from January 22nd, “We’ve Been Having Feelings For Years, Part 1: Towing a shit-rock of decision fatigue and disappointment somewhere between Pizza Hut and Tuscon, Arizona.” You may have noticed that I changed the title of the two-part series. I feel better about it.
Thank you for reading. I really loved writing these pieces. I am so stoked on all of my subscribers. If you are not a paid subscriber, THAT’S OKAY! Having readership at all is the best thing ever and I am glad you are here.
A special thank you to my paid subscribers. I recently started therapy and signed up for health insurance, and I feel pinched from every side — but then I remember there are people in my corner who show up.
No matter what you’re doing here, please let me know who you are and what you get out of this. I love to hear from you in the comments.
I am so grateful for this network of care.
I did not drive all the way home. I drove for exactly one hour until T. and I reached Tucson, Arizona.
Despite the fact that I’ve visited many times, my opinion of Tucson remains unformed, nebulous even. I manage to remember one thing about it, which is that the colors of its skies are in a class of their own.
As we reached the city’s limits, a lavender haze silhouetted the mountains and spread itself above the freeways. I wanted badly to veer the car off at each passing exit, but I couldn’t think of what for. I had already broadcasted that I was driving us all the way back to California in one unyielding swoop, and so I swallowed the impulse. To stop here after my declaration would have felt like putting down my sword.
Logically, I knew that T. hadn’t meant to debunk my disappointment, but his responses to my aired grievances effectively shut me down. I felt bad, and then I felt bad about feeling bad. I explained that the word “but” usually invalidates the feelings that precede it. He explained that he was simply giving his opinion and wanted to resolve the situation. Back and forth we went, until it felt like the two of us were riding in separate cars.
I was not ready to put down my sword, not even for what I needed. Luckily, I didn’t have to. Before we reached the city’s final exit, T. suggested that it was more important for us to pause instead of bulldoze over our current impasse.
“It feels like we are missing an opportunity,” he said.
From my journal:
Months before my cattle-dog Lily died in 2016, I anticipated her death with regularity. She was a fixture in my life, and I no longer understood myself as an individual. I did not know where I ended and where she began (see: CatDog). We were enmeshed, and I felt comforted and in control when I let myself imagine her final days, as if I was preparing for my own death.
I found ways to bring Lily’s prognosis up in conversation, whether I was chatting with my work-crush behind an espresso machine in Williamsburg, walking with a friend through Maria Hernandez Park, or sitting at the bar at Roman’s with my partner. Naively, I assumed that the people closest to me were willing to hear me out, but instead I was often brushed off. My friends and my lover were vastly different from one another, but their responses to my ruminations were homogenous: You don’t have to think about that now! they’d say. Don’t worry about it, you’ll figure it out!
Among other things I learned from Lily’s death, I learned that people, even my favorite ones, do not like to talk about death. I learned that what I consider familiar, quotidian parts of life, other people consider dark places. And I learned that most people are afraid of going into these dark places, even briefly.
As a result of being shushed, I learned how to be in the limbo of Lily’s advancing ruin and eventual death by myself. At the time, I didn’t have any other choice, but it became clear that I valued something distinct. I resolved to prioritize relationships with people who, within reason, would be willing to at least try and cover any emotional terrain with me. Allow me to talk about that which I am most afraid of; I’ll be your buddy forever.
The concierge at the hotel was very good at his job. As T. and I checked into our room and greeted him on our way in and out of the building over the next three days, his standard hospitality felt like an arrow to my heart. I projected that he intuited the fragility of our situation by our last-minute reservation and the looks on our worn out faces. His professional kindness assured me that T. and I were in the right place. In the privacy of our room, however, I struggled to feel the same safety and consolation that Mike at the front desk evoked.
I was at a loss, defeated and admittedly petulant. The idea that after six months, I was dating somebody who didn’t understand the basics of empathetic listening or emotional invalidation rattled me. I try to pick partners more conscientious than the last, and yet once again I was in a standoff with a man who couldn’t hold steady when confronted with my feelings.
What surprised me the most was that my feelings were about our disintegrating road trip — they weren’t even close to a dark place, nor were they a direct affront to T. So why was he so threatened? Why did he feel the need to butt-in instead of just listen? Moreover, why did I feel the need to express my feelings at all?
On our second morning together in Tucson, T. left the hotel room to watch the sunrise on the roof. I stayed in bed, pretending to sleep. When the sky was light enough to read by, I opened the curtains and reached for the book I mentioned in Part 1 of this newsletter, Mars and Venus: The Languages of Love by John Gray.
Gray’s entire career is predicated on the existence of an explicit male/female binary, and on defining “innate” relational truths that differentiate the two. I’ve been skeptical of Gray’s work for this reason, and despite being his target demographic, I have avoided reading his notoriously popular best-seller. In fact, I hadn’t read anything by him until this trip.
Even though I was by myself, picking up the book was embarrassing, like I was reaching for the lowest hanging fruit of something to read. The Hallmark logo on the front and back of the book jacket did not help. I was borderline repulsed, and yet I felt called to read the book, perhaps because of the tangible polarity between myself and it.
I had barely started reading when the sensations of a-ha! and feeling understood coalesced, leaving my brain tingly. A mere 11 pages in, Gray proposes a hypothesis titled “How Our Ancestors Coped”, that argues why women in particular lean more towards verbal processing.
He writes,
Chief among the traditional female coping mechanisms is communication. For the nurturer women of long ago, talking in a non-goal oriented way, while giving and receiving sympathy, was essential to peace of mind and generated feelings of security and belonging.
Years ago, women with children were much more vulnerable and were dependent on the goodwill of others. Before government welfare programs and expanded legal rights and educational opportunities, women had to rely on others for security and safety. If her husband left her or died, a woman depended on her family and community to take care of her, so she had to maintain strong relationships with those around her. Talking connected her to her support network and made her feel secure. When a modern woman today is upset and begins talking, she is automatically connecting with that time-honored feeling of security.”1
In other words, women express their dilemmas as a way to build trust and loyalty with others, and to verify care and concern. They tell someone invested in them how they feel, and the empathy evoked by it simultaneously creates relief and generates deeper investment. Through this exchange, a bond is formed between the people involved. Security and solidarity is then upheld by this bond: they have each other’s back.
Gray continues,
“As a common practice, nurturer women shared their problems with each other not directly to ask for help but to share sympathy and community. Problem solving was secondary to the exercise of the cooperative spirit.
Women supported each other unconditionally, and without being asked and expecting nothing in return. This cooperative sharing strengthened relationships within the community and ensured a woman’s and her children’s survival should she be widowed.
Talking about problems, sharing feelings, and articulating desires became a feminine ritual to create greater intimacy and express loyalty to the community.”2
According to Gray, sharing her story was a woman’s way of assembling kinship outside of her marriage. This was necessary due to the vulnerability of her status — in general, but especially if she was abandoned or widowed.
I agree with Gray’s theory, though I think today it applies not just to women, but to all marginalized people. If a member of society is denied the security of basic rights and resources, self-preservation and prosperity depends on establishing other networks of care. How do we get people to care about us? How do we belong to one another? Perhaps it is through witnessing each other’s stories — being moved enough to listen, and soft enough to remain unshaken.
Taking Gray’s thoughts into further consideration, I’m curious how our sadness or anxiety knows it can trust somebody in the first place. I wonder if I sometimes express my worries as a test to determine another person’s dependability. Based on their response, I can detect whether or not somebody has the capacity to go into dark places with me. I don’t think I screen people consciously, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with occasional audits either. Like I said before, I’m not interested in floating on the surface of my relationships anymore.
When I talk about my current debacles in a non-goal oriented way, I do feel better. Not all of the time, and not all day long either — just sometimes. Naming my disappointments, especially ones I know can’t be solved, has a way of soothing the ache. What’s better, when my feelings are met by another person with an attentive nod or pensive silence, the sense of camaraderie that mushrooms from the exchange is enough to puncture my quandary altogether, like a pin to a balloon. I get over things quickly; sometimes I just need a little airtime and understanding.
I get frustrated just as quickly when my feelings are not granted those things, or when it feels like efforts are being made to snuff them out completely. Sometimes it’s as if my emotions cast a spell and provoke amnesia when I speak them out loud. My partner forgets that like most people, I ask explicitly for the opinions I want. He forgets that I’ve likely already considered every angle of my experience, and that if I need solutions, I’ll ask for help.
I was not curious what T. or anybody else thought when I was speeding down the highway and having a wobbly about my tainted vacation. I did not need T. to agree with my mood, nor did I need his opinion on it. I was simply wanting to have a wobbly, hoping that he would be the kindest witness.
The day before we left Arizona, T. and I walked to an uncrowded college campus nearby the hotel. In silence, we sat together on a bench under an orange tree, savoring chunks of sourdough bread torn from a loaf and dipped in yogurt.
I was conflicted, hesitant to spend more time talking about our relationship, but aware of the fact that the book had nailed something I was struggling to articulate. T. brushed the crumbs off of his lap, reached for the book, and started reading aloud.
“When a woman talks about her feelings," he began, "[a man] assumes she is seeking his help to solve her problems and instinctively responds to her feelings by offering help or advice. Asking a lot of questions and offering empathy is not part of his job description.”3
T. glanced up from the page and met my eyes. I said nothing — my knowing glance said it all. An orange dropped from the branch above our heads and hit the grass with a thud. He continued reading.
“Modern men," he said, "need to understand that modern women need, more than anything else, the opportunity to talk about their feelings without focusing on solving the problems that cause them. By responding with empathy, sympathy, and understanding, he makes sure that her female side is nurtured so that she can throw off her feelings of being overwhelmed.”4
“Do you get it now?” I asked, as the alarm I had set on my phone earlier in the day went off. T. closed the book and helped me packed up our things. It was time to move the car again.
Gray, John. Mars and Venus: The Languages of Love, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., New York, NY, 1992, 11.
Gray, Mars and Venus, 12.
Ibid.
Ibid.
When I read the line that you wanted us to still comment and let you know what we get out of this even if we aren't paid subscribers, I knew you were talking to me.
In this moment I'm not quite where I need to be financially, but I decided to go ahead and subscribe as a sort of placeholder to remind me to become a paid subscriber in the correct moment. I also look forward to that moment because I want it to be one in which I have more time and attention, so that when I read your letters I can really absorb and process them with the attention they deserve.
But even with the glimpses of your writing I get just by being here, it provides something to me I don't really get anywhere else in my life: The opportunity to allow myself to think in these ways, opening up the weird and dark parts of my mind to think about them, what they mean, how I want to experience them and share them. Reading what you write has been a bit mind-blowing to me, to be honest. It leaves me like, "What? People really have these conversations with their friends and their community?" and it's really cool.
Keep going, Anna 💕 I look forward to becoming a paid subscriber real soon
Anna, I feel called to share just how resonant your work is to me. For Christmas, I was gifted Grey's book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" by my grandmother. My partner and I have been in a relationship for about 4 years. I felt apprehensive about the book, I think because I have a hard time integrating the rigid male/female binaries he promotes. AND, I see a lot of validity in his work. So thank you for the candid expression of feeling doubt and inspiration at the same time around that. Your substack has been like a magnet to my eyes, and is somehow giving me exactly what I need right now - in my journey of finding a way to express myself on the internet in a way that feels really real. I am getting so much out of your book reccs too! supporting you on this journey.