Here was the world famous authority on grief; and there I was, your humble writer and shrinker of heads, sitting with him in a conference. He had just spoken about grief, the things that will cause it, what it does to people, and how to help them heal. He had many wise things to say, but then he made the mistake of asking us if we had any questions. My hand shot up.
“I was thinking about Charlie Brown,” I said. “One of his favorite expressions is Good Grief! What do you suppose he meant by that? Is there any grief that’s good?”
The world famous authority on grief did not think anything that had happened to Charlie Brown was worthy to be called grief. It’s not grief when you can’t kick a football, he said. We’re here to talk about the most horrible things that happen to people, not something as trivial as that. So, does anyone have any real questions that aren’t about Charlie Brown?
Good grief.
I didn’t have any questions that weren’t about Charlie Brown. Everything else I wanted to know about grief, the world famous authority on grief had just told me. I would have to answer for myself what Charlie Brown meant by good grief and whether it’s even possible.
I have an image of being a practical, no-nonsense kind of therapist to uphold. A certain sort of underserved clientele flock to me because they think the mental health world is glutted with flakiness. Should I really be telling them that they are inhabited by multitudes and get them to talk to themselves? I, personally, don’t have a problem talking to myself, but I would feel partly responsible if a client left my office saying, “I knew it. They’re all the same. These shrinks are nuttier than their patients,” and went back to beating his wife.
People almost always think that being divided is less desirable than being whole. They worry that, if they admitted they had parts, the parts would take over. There is a fear of dissociative identity disorder and the fractured state of schizophrenia. Many therapists agree. They believe it’s dangerous to encourage inner multiplicity. They call it colluding with a delusion. They view multiplicity as pathological and set right to work at making divided people whole.
Almost no one sees the advantages of being plural. It can enable you to be more accepting of yourself and others. It can help you adapt to certain environments without committing your whole self. Your subpersonalities can preserve valuable, divergent points of view and provide a laboratory for psychic innovation. Well, the authors of Many Minds, One Self, Richard C Schwartz and Robert R Falconer are not no one. Their book is an unapologetic apologetic for the existence of many minds within your one self. Schwartz is the originator of the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model of therapy and Falconer, who appears to have done most of the writing, is his devoted disciple.
In reading this book, I had a hard time getting past Falconer’s pious tone towards Schwartz and IFS. I’m more persuaded by rigorous science, compelling art, and logical arguments than expressions of loyalty. Be that as it may, my distaste has nothing to do with the point the authors make. I happen to believe them, mostly, and find that a lot can be gained by taking another look at the self and keeping an open mind about the contents therein.
photograph of Arthur Schopenhauer by Johann Schäfer, 1859, Wikimedia
If your anxiety and depression has made you turn on everyone and everything, if the closest you get to other people is in the commission of your sexual addiction, if you’re so spiteful, grouchy, and malevolent that even your own mother can’t stand the sight of you, if you’re any one of those things some of the time, or all of them all the time; then boy, do I have a philosopher for you. He created a dismal justification of universal hopelessness, as well as a costly way to cope with it. The philosopher I’m talking about is Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), a thoroughly wretched human being.
Why would anyone hate sex? Yes, sex is pleasurable, but it’s also dangerous. It’s often most pleasurable when it’s the most dangerous. It lures you in with the promise of satisfaction and leaves you with a disease. It’s a tool of abuse and exploitation. It forms, then ruins relationships. Let’s face it, sex is messy. It’s messy to do, it’s messy to clean up, and it’s messy to talk about.
It’s not just prudes, the repressed, and squares who hate sex. Everyone hates sex says Oliver Davis and Tim Dean in their book, The Hatred of Sex. This hatred permeates our culture, our laws, and begets conflicts within our minds. The book is so provocative that the publisher, The University of Nebraska Press, included it in its Provocations series. It’s so provocative it provoked me to write this in response. Maybe it’ll provoke you, too.
Who hates democracy? We all do, says French philosopher, Jacques Rancière in his 2005 book, The Hatred of Democracy. It was hated by Plato, who lived in its birthplace, ancient Athens. It’s hated even by blue blooded Americans like me. Our Founding Fathers weren’t too keen on it, either. The Constitution limits democracy in favor of an elected oligarchy. We hate democracy because it’s slow and messy. It involves too many people and the wrong sort of people. Democracy is the type of government by those who have no qualifications to govern, the unwashed masses, those who believe conspiracies theories, people swayed by Russian bots, and the rabble who can’t even be trusted to know their own interests. The people of a democracy are at once sovereign and deplorable, governor and ungovernable. Hearing this, you wouldn’t think Rancière supports democracy, except he does. The hatred of democracy is integral to democracy. You can’t be democratic without hating it.
This hatred of democracy is easily found in the civic arena, but we hate democracy everywhere. Practically no workplace is democratic, we hate it so much. Our marriages are supposed to be, these days, but I’ll show you how we hate it with our loved ones, too. The insides of our heads seem to be democratic in that all our thoughts and feelings think they can tell us what they think and feel whenever they want, but we’d rather that wasn’t the case. We often wish for an inner tyrant to rule our passions.
Nietzsche during his final illness from getarchive
Before anybody started talking about self-actualization[i], there was Nietzsche who taught us how to become who we are. Then he went mad and never made sense again. That being the case, can we trust him, or any of the people who speak about self-actualization, to be our guides?
It’s hard to admit such a thing, but I’ve always been disappointed in Christmas. Even as a kid. Oh, seeing my family is good. Opening the presents is fun. I would be remiss if I said I don’t appreciate the gifts. Giving my own makes me feel virtuous all over. But, when all is said and done, all is said and done. There’s nothing to look forward to for another year, Christmas-wise. The beautiful wrappings, which were exciting strewn under the tree, with all their colors and promise, are now reduced to clutter, garbage to be cleaned up and tossed into the bin. In a few days, the tree will go, too, and look pathetic leaning outside after its needles fled. Someone would lose their temper; not badly, but enough to put a gloom over the gaiety. The gifts themselves would not change my life to any great degree. I would still be an awkward lonely kid. When the Holiday break was done, I would still need to go to school and later, to work.
The best part of Christmas, I always thought, is the preparation and potential. I made my wish list, told Santa want I wanted and, until Christmas Day came, my desire was sharpened by anticipation. Except for untangling the lights, which was and is pure aggravation, trimming the tree is the highlight of the season. Each ornament evokes memories that had been packed away and forgotten. It’s no different these days, even though I’m no longer a kid. I’d just as soon skip Christmas because of the letdown it brings. Maybe if we actually got the original Christmas promise, peace on earth and good will to men, maybe if Christ actually returned, riding on the clouds of glory to wipe every tear from our eyes, I’d be satisfied; but all we get is a sugarcoated imitation.
I’ve been coming across more and more people talking about their Enneagram type. Luckily, I’ve heard of the Enneagram before and already know what they’re talking about. I’m a Type Five, with a Four wing. If you don’t know what that means, bear with me. I guess you haven’t come across the Enneagram. Maybe your workplace didn’t have you take an Enneagram test. Or, maybe you aren’t an Evangelical Christian, for that’s where interest in the Enneagram has gotten some traction, as small church fellowship groups adopt it as a tool for discussion. There’s nothing particularly Capitalist or Christian about the Enneagram. It’s a way to get to know yourself and, when you look at others through its lens, it’s a way to get to know others.
The word Enneagram comes from the Greek for a nine-pointed star. The nine points refer to personality types. Enneagramites refer to them by number, one through nine, but they have names: Reformer, Helper, Achiever, Individualist, Investigator, Loyalist, Enthusiast, Producer, and Peacemaker, in order. I’m a Five, Investigator, leaning towards Four, Individualist, which is called my wing. If you don’t know what type you are simply by looking at the names, you can take a short test that’ll tell you. The best one is at the Enneagram Institute website. If you want to take it before you read on, go ahead. I’ll wait.
The further people go into addiction, the more their lives center around it.
They discard all forms of recreation in favor of activities that include the addiction.
All of their friends become using friends. Non-using friends drift away and the addict is drawn to those who don’t judge because they, themselves, are doing the same thing.
Sometimes particular careers are chosen for their proximity to the drug of choice. Alcoholics become bartenders; potheads, musicians; drug users, drug dealers.
In some cases, intimate relationships end as the loved one finds that he or she is a low priority compared to the drug. They are replaced by one of two kinds of relationships: either the type where the loved one picks up after the addict and helps the addict escape the consequences, or the type where the relationship is all about use.
Things go like this until the person enters recovery, then he or she finds that all the things they love are connected in some way to use.
He can’t see his friends because all his friends use and are unlikely to support his recovery because it would challenge their own use.
The alcoholic bartender can’t return to work without being tempted to drink; the marijuana smoking musician has to watch what she does on breaks; the addicted drug dealer has to learn to sell something else.
Otherwise innocent forms of recreation, hobbies, or art may put the recovering addict at risk. A writer who cannot write without a bottle of scotch at hand is in trouble; a painter who seeks inspiration in LSD has got to find a new muse.
Even intimate relationships can be a problem if they were associated with chemical use. The wife who lovingly keeps your refrigerator stocked with brewskis, even though she hates your drinking, is as much of a problem as the breswkis themselves. The boyfriend who was your connection to a dealer may have to go as well as the dealer.
The general principle is this: first the drug takes you hostage, then it takes everything you love hostage. Even if you get yourself free, the drug still has the other hostages in its clutches. You want to be near them, but to go near puts you at risk.
Every recovering addict wants to go in and free the hostages. They want to save their loved ones who are still addicted. They want to continue writing that novel that was started under the influence of scotch, finish that painting, inspired by a meaningful trip, work at their job, see their friends. But, consider this: you’ve seen enough hostage movies to know, it’s dangerous to free the hostages. Be sure you are safe and secure before you try it.
I was on Interstate 86, heading east, returning from a road trip that took me across most of the country, when I entered Allegany County, in western New York. It was a place I knew well, but not as well as I might. I lived in Allegany County for two short years before I moved on. The mere sight of the place unexpectedly filled me with a longing to return. I’d just been through the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee, across the Midwest, the Great Plains, up and down the Rocky Mountains, and back again on this road trip; but there was no place I liked as well as Allegany County.
Evidently, not many people agree with me that Allegany County is the best place between here and the Rocky Mountains. The population at last count was well under 47,000, spread over an area the size of Rhode Island. Few visit, and many residing a short distance away, in Buffalo or Rochester, never heard of the place. The economy is ailing and has been for a long time. It doesn’t even have a WalMart, or any other big box store, and few fast-food joints. It does have many greasy spoon diners that could not possibly have earned a health permit. Allegany County once enjoyed an oil boom. Rusted tanks and machinery are scattered across the landscape. Oil brought money, and money built big, fancy Victorian homes, now in disrepair. It has suffered the fate of much of rural America. Its only distinction is that its decline came first.
If you enjoy worn down old mountains, covered by trees, with the occasional open field, populated by white-tailed deer, then Allegany County would be your kind of place. You would call it beautiful; and it is, by those standards. I liked that about Allegany County, for I enjoy those things, too. But the beauty of the place does not account for my strong feelings. There are many other places just as beautiful, if not more. There’s no good reason why I feel as I do about Allegany County. I have a longing that’s inexplicable. At least until I explain it.
Keith Wilson - Counseling 