On Communication
May. 23rd, 2012 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
msagaraI said in my previous post that I had two things I wanted to talk about: help, and love as endurance.
People who are familiar with my writing in other venues will probably not be shocked to know that I now have three things to write about. The third thing - communication - comes courtesy of my husband. My husband is my external editor, and I often run things past him before I post them. He's not a censor, but he will often point out ways in which my words might be misinterpreted.
Yesterday's blog was given the immediate okay, but as I was cleaning up the multiple typist typos, he said something I've been thinking about ever since: He was incredibly grateful that I was able to clearly communicate my needs and the source of my pain in our early arguments.
I haven't thought much about those arguments since that first year, because any new couple has arguments. Any two people who are going to be living together as themselves are going to step on things they didn't know existed, as they learn to navigate the shoals of each other's expectations and needs. It's almost impossible not to cause pain, because as we open up to each other, we're vastly more vulnerable than we were when we were in our more 'social among acquaintances' mode, and although we profess to love each other, we do not yet know each other.
Learning is hard. Learning when we have automatic responses about what's 'normal' or 'reasonable' is even harder, because we have the usual insecurities about ourselves, and we have the sense that we should be a certain type of person -- even if we're not. If we insist, in private, that we are that reasonable, normal person, but still have the emotional reflexes of some entirely different person, we are sending vastly mixed signals.
One of the words that left our vocabulary upon advent of the oldest son was 'normal'. 'That's not normal' was - and is - a phrase I grew to hate. But the ability to ditch it entirely started before that point, in the early years of our relationship.
I cannot remember, at this point, what I was upset about, but in our first year of living together something minor had upset me. I knew that my husband was rational and reasonable, and that I should be rational and reasonable, so I didn't say anything. But…I was still upset, and instead of discussing whatever it was, I said nothing - and incubated the anger instead.
By the end of the week, everything made me angry. I think I finally flipped out about where he'd put his shoes when he got in from work (itself not a terribly reasonable thing). This surprised him, of course, but he'd known for the week that something was bothering me.
The reason I remember the argument is the resolution. I wish I remember what it was that had first upset me - because I think it would be instructive. Sadly, it's gone. The resolution, however, continues to this day. He said: "I don't need you to be reasonable or normal. I'm not with you because you're any of those things. If something is bothering you, it's something I have to learn to understand and deal with because it's you I'm living with. If I've done something that's hurt you, I want you tell me right away so we can work it out then." (And not, you know, have a week of me stewing in an effort not to say anything. I am not famously reserved in my anger.)
We have a sense that love = knowledge. Therefore, if someone loves me, they will understand me. I think this comes from our lives as very young children, where our parents, who loved us, mostly did.
But this doesn't work as well for two adults. Do I want to be understood? Yes. Yes, I do. Did I expect my husband to understand me because he loved me? Yes and no.
No. Not on an intellectual level. On an emotional level, yes. So there was always the tension between these two states: the certainty that no one is a mind-reader and the feeling that if he loves me, how could he miss something so important?
But he was open to discussion. And boy, that was a good thing. What we learned was that even the phrase "I'm hurt" has a weight and meaning that is entirely contextual to our individual lives. He came to the table because he honestly cared and he thought we could work through things. I came to the table believing that if I could make him understand, we would not be in this place again. What I had to do was explain myself clearly enough. I had to get past "I'm hurt" to understand what had hurt me, why it had hurt me, and what the mechanisms of my own pain were.
Off the table were things like "well you shouldn't feel that way". It was irrelevant, because clearly, I did. What was relevant in that small space was just the people we actually were. But I remember we spent six hours one night working through something. Because I explained it, and…no lightbulb went on. I knew that what I'd said did not make sense to him. He could follow the words, of course - but he couldn't follow the thread of the emotional effect to see why I was upset, because in the same circumstance, he wouldn't be; he couldn't turn the words into a set of causal circumstances on which he could act. He was not me, and couldn't think like me.
I'm a writer.
I've written scenes which I know should have a certain weight, a certain emotional resonance, a certain feeling.
I've sometimes discovered that those scenes don't do what I intended, and I trash them, and start again, because writing is, in part, about communication. I won't reach everyone, no matter how well I write--but in the case of this type of discussion, I only have to reach one person, and he is sitting across the table from me.
I've seen arguments in which the base statement, when it fails to sink in, is repeated at louder and louder volumes, because the person who has made the statement has explained. They know what they feel and they know what they mean and they've explained it in actual, honest words, and the person is therefore not listening. I've actually had those arguments. This type of communication was a personal evolution.
Sitting across the table, I realized that the person was listening. I had explained. I had explained clearly and cogently. I had been honest about the pain, and why I felt it. But our experiences were so different in so many ways, that the explanation made no sense to him. I could have repeated the words, but since the words hadn't worked the first time, and since he was still sitting there and waiting, I had to revise.
I had to revise, the way I will revise when I write a scene that doesn't work the first time out. I had to take all the same elements, the same characteristics, the same focal points--but frame them in an entirely different way. I had to use different analogies. Different metaphors.
I could not have done this if he was not willing to sit across that table until I found the right words. I had to have faith that if I could make this clear, we would never have this problem again.
And in the same way as that early argument above, I can remember the process, but not the reason for it; I honestly cannot remember what that fight was about. Once we work through something, it lets go of me.
I think I went through twenty iterations, trying to find an analogous situation in his life, a set of circumstances that he might face that would cause the him the pain I was feeling. Because in some ways, pain is a common experience. The things that cause pain are different. I had to explain my pain in terms that he could grasp and apply to himself, because if he could, he would understand, and he could build from that.
It was an interesting - and important - exercise. I had to accept that telling him how I felt would not give him the tools to avoid causing the same pain. I had to break down how I felt - for myself, and examine its essential structure - in order to rebuild an explanation that was general enough and specific enough, that it would reach him.
Conversely, he had to sit there, while I was angry (at him) and in pain, and while I struggled with words and with - yes, sadly - frustration. He doesn't have the temper I do; he doesn't really have a temper that is in any way demonstrative. It was not easy for him either, and I realized - with effort - that it wasn't. He believed, sitting there, asking questions which clearly showed I had still not made my point, that there was an explanation and that with work, with effort, he could understand it.
And then, finally, at about five and a half hours, his eyes rounded, because I had finally come up with an analogy that worked for him. I wanted to cry. He could follow the thread of the explanation from start to finish.
This was work, on his part. It was work on mine. Communication is not, and was not, as simple as honesty - but without honesty, the attempt couldn't have been made.
And I think the most important points about communication were these:
1. He accepted that he had caused me pain, and accepted that it was valid. Other people's opinions on its validity were irrelevant because those other people weren't part of the relationship.
2. I accepted that there was no intent to cause pain. I was in pain, but it was not an act of malice on his part. Causing him pain in return would not be an act of justice - it would be an act of malice.
3. We were always, always, on the same side. The only 'win' condition was understanding. Everything else was a loss.
He had, of course, already apologized - but apology is not prevention, and we both knew it.
People who are familiar with my writing in other venues will probably not be shocked to know that I now have three things to write about. The third thing - communication - comes courtesy of my husband. My husband is my external editor, and I often run things past him before I post them. He's not a censor, but he will often point out ways in which my words might be misinterpreted.
Yesterday's blog was given the immediate okay, but as I was cleaning up the multiple typist typos, he said something I've been thinking about ever since: He was incredibly grateful that I was able to clearly communicate my needs and the source of my pain in our early arguments.
I haven't thought much about those arguments since that first year, because any new couple has arguments. Any two people who are going to be living together as themselves are going to step on things they didn't know existed, as they learn to navigate the shoals of each other's expectations and needs. It's almost impossible not to cause pain, because as we open up to each other, we're vastly more vulnerable than we were when we were in our more 'social among acquaintances' mode, and although we profess to love each other, we do not yet know each other.
Learning is hard. Learning when we have automatic responses about what's 'normal' or 'reasonable' is even harder, because we have the usual insecurities about ourselves, and we have the sense that we should be a certain type of person -- even if we're not. If we insist, in private, that we are that reasonable, normal person, but still have the emotional reflexes of some entirely different person, we are sending vastly mixed signals.
One of the words that left our vocabulary upon advent of the oldest son was 'normal'. 'That's not normal' was - and is - a phrase I grew to hate. But the ability to ditch it entirely started before that point, in the early years of our relationship.
I cannot remember, at this point, what I was upset about, but in our first year of living together something minor had upset me. I knew that my husband was rational and reasonable, and that I should be rational and reasonable, so I didn't say anything. But…I was still upset, and instead of discussing whatever it was, I said nothing - and incubated the anger instead.
By the end of the week, everything made me angry. I think I finally flipped out about where he'd put his shoes when he got in from work (itself not a terribly reasonable thing). This surprised him, of course, but he'd known for the week that something was bothering me.
The reason I remember the argument is the resolution. I wish I remember what it was that had first upset me - because I think it would be instructive. Sadly, it's gone. The resolution, however, continues to this day. He said: "I don't need you to be reasonable or normal. I'm not with you because you're any of those things. If something is bothering you, it's something I have to learn to understand and deal with because it's you I'm living with. If I've done something that's hurt you, I want you tell me right away so we can work it out then." (And not, you know, have a week of me stewing in an effort not to say anything. I am not famously reserved in my anger.)
We have a sense that love = knowledge. Therefore, if someone loves me, they will understand me. I think this comes from our lives as very young children, where our parents, who loved us, mostly did.
But this doesn't work as well for two adults. Do I want to be understood? Yes. Yes, I do. Did I expect my husband to understand me because he loved me? Yes and no.
No. Not on an intellectual level. On an emotional level, yes. So there was always the tension between these two states: the certainty that no one is a mind-reader and the feeling that if he loves me, how could he miss something so important?
But he was open to discussion. And boy, that was a good thing. What we learned was that even the phrase "I'm hurt" has a weight and meaning that is entirely contextual to our individual lives. He came to the table because he honestly cared and he thought we could work through things. I came to the table believing that if I could make him understand, we would not be in this place again. What I had to do was explain myself clearly enough. I had to get past "I'm hurt" to understand what had hurt me, why it had hurt me, and what the mechanisms of my own pain were.
Off the table were things like "well you shouldn't feel that way". It was irrelevant, because clearly, I did. What was relevant in that small space was just the people we actually were. But I remember we spent six hours one night working through something. Because I explained it, and…no lightbulb went on. I knew that what I'd said did not make sense to him. He could follow the words, of course - but he couldn't follow the thread of the emotional effect to see why I was upset, because in the same circumstance, he wouldn't be; he couldn't turn the words into a set of causal circumstances on which he could act. He was not me, and couldn't think like me.
I'm a writer.
I've written scenes which I know should have a certain weight, a certain emotional resonance, a certain feeling.
I've sometimes discovered that those scenes don't do what I intended, and I trash them, and start again, because writing is, in part, about communication. I won't reach everyone, no matter how well I write--but in the case of this type of discussion, I only have to reach one person, and he is sitting across the table from me.
I've seen arguments in which the base statement, when it fails to sink in, is repeated at louder and louder volumes, because the person who has made the statement has explained. They know what they feel and they know what they mean and they've explained it in actual, honest words, and the person is therefore not listening. I've actually had those arguments. This type of communication was a personal evolution.
Sitting across the table, I realized that the person was listening. I had explained. I had explained clearly and cogently. I had been honest about the pain, and why I felt it. But our experiences were so different in so many ways, that the explanation made no sense to him. I could have repeated the words, but since the words hadn't worked the first time, and since he was still sitting there and waiting, I had to revise.
I had to revise, the way I will revise when I write a scene that doesn't work the first time out. I had to take all the same elements, the same characteristics, the same focal points--but frame them in an entirely different way. I had to use different analogies. Different metaphors.
I could not have done this if he was not willing to sit across that table until I found the right words. I had to have faith that if I could make this clear, we would never have this problem again.
And in the same way as that early argument above, I can remember the process, but not the reason for it; I honestly cannot remember what that fight was about. Once we work through something, it lets go of me.
I think I went through twenty iterations, trying to find an analogous situation in his life, a set of circumstances that he might face that would cause the him the pain I was feeling. Because in some ways, pain is a common experience. The things that cause pain are different. I had to explain my pain in terms that he could grasp and apply to himself, because if he could, he would understand, and he could build from that.
It was an interesting - and important - exercise. I had to accept that telling him how I felt would not give him the tools to avoid causing the same pain. I had to break down how I felt - for myself, and examine its essential structure - in order to rebuild an explanation that was general enough and specific enough, that it would reach him.
Conversely, he had to sit there, while I was angry (at him) and in pain, and while I struggled with words and with - yes, sadly - frustration. He doesn't have the temper I do; he doesn't really have a temper that is in any way demonstrative. It was not easy for him either, and I realized - with effort - that it wasn't. He believed, sitting there, asking questions which clearly showed I had still not made my point, that there was an explanation and that with work, with effort, he could understand it.
And then, finally, at about five and a half hours, his eyes rounded, because I had finally come up with an analogy that worked for him. I wanted to cry. He could follow the thread of the explanation from start to finish.
This was work, on his part. It was work on mine. Communication is not, and was not, as simple as honesty - but without honesty, the attempt couldn't have been made.
And I think the most important points about communication were these:
1. He accepted that he had caused me pain, and accepted that it was valid. Other people's opinions on its validity were irrelevant because those other people weren't part of the relationship.
2. I accepted that there was no intent to cause pain. I was in pain, but it was not an act of malice on his part. Causing him pain in return would not be an act of justice - it would be an act of malice.
3. We were always, always, on the same side. The only 'win' condition was understanding. Everything else was a loss.
He had, of course, already apologized - but apology is not prevention, and we both knew it.
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no subject
Date: 2012-05-23 10:55 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing. This is a tremendously hopeful post.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 04:19 am (UTC)For example, ever since I was little I've known that I cannot recognize people unless I know them really, really, really well (and even then, unless they are in front of me, or a picture of them is in front of me, I will not be able to tell you what they look like--not even the husband-person). However, I did not know that there is a word for this ("faceblindness") until last year. And, in absence of the word, in not even knowing the word existed, when I tried to explain things to people, about how this experience was to me, and why I have so much trouble (particularly working retail) with some things, I was not able to get people to understand. Even with the word, it doesn't always work, but I stand a better chance.
(no subject)
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Date: 2012-05-24 07:16 am (UTC)Not to make this about me, but there are relevant expansions from personal experience, or those of acquaintances, that I hope are okay to make. I admit the possibility that I'm misreading what you wrote, and thus making unwarranted qualifications. If so, my shame and apologies. I've only read it four times, and my sleep wake schedule has been unusual for me for the past week, but if I do my usual thing of waiting until I think I'm really ready, it might be next year.
While the straight "well you shouldn't feel that way", is problematic, and not useful, one also doesn't want to say that people's thoughts, feelings, and reactions should not be examined, and through examination, change, if they are amenable, and if it makes them and the relationship more whole, just because they're their own person and not these other people. It's a thing one does for instance, in anger management, addiction treatment, with obsessive personalities, with depression. It needs to happen sometimes between family members or friends around issues where the implications are wide enough to draw in whole swaths of other social interactions - like religious beliefs, or coming out queer (It's maybe on my mind more than usual as I'm halfway through this year's InsideOut LGBT film festival. Modern filmic conventions being what they are, it isn't the best medium for long involved conversations. The ways that the storytelling manages to work its way around not having offspring say to their parents that their being trans or gay is not about being disrespectful, and really, kicking them out of the house is not truly an act of love, is actually kind of interesting, but also makes me cringe.). I know that you didn't wholly exclude those, but I thought it important to mention that there are times when it isn't wrong to say that it would be healthy to evaluate one's perspective about something they feel strongly about, that one doesn't have to feel that way, and could they please consider it. It's often ineffective, but that doesn't make it not worthwhile occasionally.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 07:36 am (UTC)"It was an interesting - and important - exercise. I had to accept that telling him how I felt would not give him the tools to avoid causing the same pain. I had to break down how I felt - for myself, and examine its essential structure - in order to rebuild an explanation that was general enough and specific enough, that it would reach him.
Conversely, he had to sit there, while I was angry (at him) and in pain, and while I struggled with words and with - yes, sadly - frustration. "
Sometimes it's so hard to just sort out and speak what the problem is for yourself, and then it's so much more difficult when you find your explanation does not automatically click. It's like finding there's a whole othr set of hills to climb when you through you were about to get through the pass. If the other person hasn't the patience or just the time to wait for you to try again--it becomes impossible.
This is part of what CJ Cherryh talks about in her Foreignoer books about humans and the race of ateva not understanding each other, how the history and meanings are so different that terrible mistakes get made in the translation.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 10:38 am (UTC)Thank you.
(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 11:24 am (UTC)I don't think I know more than two people well enough that I could formulate examples I know about in their lives to make them understand me. This problem is heightened because I am very self-centred and relate lots of things to my own experiences (this part especially resonated for me in the Help post before this).
The closest I got to at least talking about a real problem one of the two people, my father, had with me so that he articulated it, was provoking him until he shouted at me and me trying to explain my side of things in tears. I only did that twice in my life (I was unable to stand-up to my father when he was angry until I was 21), mostly because it is emotionally exhausting (plain painful, too) and while it clarified for me what sort of problem he had with me, it never lead to an improvement of the situation, because I did not necessarily feel during those two occasions that *I* was at fault, so nothing changed.
I am self-aware enough (probably because of having my father as the bad example) that I haven't inflicted my skewed perspective on a relationship, apart from casual friendship.
(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-25 02:44 am (UTC)Oh, he talks to me - or rather, at me - about X-Men or Pokemon or telling me yet another made-up knock-knock joke or whatever his most recent question about which superpower I would want to have, but never about anything serious. There are times I could cheerfully strangle the person who introduced him to GameBoy and Pokemon. Can it really be a need to play games all the time? No, to be fair, he does spend time watching television - and not usually cartoons. As someone working on the new DSM-V put it, "A monologue about Pokemon is not a conversation."
I think communication can only happen between two people who are willing to work at it, it cannot work when only one person is.
(no subject)
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Date: 2012-05-29 03:19 pm (UTC)I've been on the receiving end of a lot of the 'stewing for a week until the explosion' arguments, so yeah, I know where you're coming from. I know that we weren't able to figure this all out immediately, and for your husband to be able to do that is a really good thing.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-19 08:13 pm (UTC)First, he had asked if we wanted to go to some bar outing with friends and had said that we'd both be there before he had asked me. I ended up finding out through one of the friends saying to me, "I'll see you at such and such." I had to let him know that while if he had asked me before committing us to going to said function, I would have said yes, that I did appreciate being asked and did not like to have my choice taken away. In the 5 years we've been together, he has never failed to ask me before committing us to anything again.
Second, he's an introvert, and when he gets upset or stressed he tends to pull into himself and hide a bit. Early in the relationship, I didn't realize that his pulling away had nothing whatsoever to do with me and I got a little scared that he was going to break things off. I explained how I felt, and he explained to me what was going on, that this was part of who he is, and he was going to do this pulling away thing from time to time. We made an agreement that when he starts to feel like he needs to close himself off, all he has to do is say, "I need to be alone." and I would then know that it was OK to just let him be, and that he'd return when he was ready. This agreement has diffused a lot of angst from our relationship, because I trust that he'll tell me what he needs when he needs it, and he trusts that I will let him take that space when he needs to.