Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 49

Synchronicity! (happy post)

Look at this friendly wink from the Universe! Cutting Edge, indeed. It’s as if Ludo himself was at the steering wheel…

Why an online confessional?

The other day, someone commiserated with a friend who said he didn’t dare to be himself in the company of a certain person, and she formulated it thusly: “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to censor your personality like that all the time.”

And I was flabbergasted.

And then I wondered why I was flabbergasted, and I realized that I thought everyone censored themselves all the time. Everyone. All the time. Because behind the social mask, there are unspeakable things that can never see the light of day, right?

Wrong. Apparently I’m wrong. Apparently there are people out there who let their true personalities out. Among others! For me, that sounds equal to unmuzzling your gene manipulated pitbull from hell, but hey, to each his own.

Maybe I’m being naïve. People are different, and while some are socially cautious, others are very open. But the mere thought of someone going through life without censoring themselves every second of every day… let’s just say that it was an eye opener for me.

So. Needless to say, I censor myself. Constantly. Even on here, believe it or not, although my online filters leave something to be desired. And this has led me to a conclusion as painful as they come: I’m not completely ready to fight for others, because I’m not done fighting for myself. Sure, I feel for people who face all sorts of discrimination, and occasionally I speak up against injustice – but there’s a childish, wounded part of me that resents doing it. It’s like Treebeard’s line from The Two Towers: “I’m on nobody’s side, because nobody’s on my side.”

You may argue against this, and you’d be right. There are plenty of people who are on my side. To some extent, society favours people like me. In other ways, it doesn’t. There are aspects of my personality that are problematic enough that if I’m ostracized, it can be viewed as my own fault.

And how do you reconcile yourself with that?

The answer is, you kind of don’t. I can never get over certain things that have happened to me, because every time I think about them, this one overhanging truth crushes out any healing: it was your own fault. For breaking the rules of the society that feeds you.

Maybe it’s not true, or maybe it is. Either way, it makes me resentful. Even as I want to help others, a part of me screams “And what about me? Who helps me? Who wants to fight for the rights of the critical introvert who doesn’t want to hold people’s babies?”

So there’s a reason this blog is a collection of pouty diatribes. I have so much anger, and I know why, too. I forbid myself to hurt because of shame, and that’s not a healthy way to live. Problem is, knowing doesn’t help.

Let me say that again: KNOWING DOESN’T HELP.

Okay, that was a friendly reminder to myself, because as an INTP, I tend to think knowledge solves everything. It doesn’t. Why doesn’t it? Because feelings don’t care if you’ve come to the rational conclusion that you’re a whiny privileged brat who shouldn’t complain. Feelings go on feeling. Feelings say, “But look at all this poor-me stuff! How can you ignore the poor-me stuff? Even you hate me, and you’re me!”

So I’ve tried for years and years to forbid myself to feel bad. To talk myself into feeling the right kind of feelings. And all I’m managing is to build a giant pile of smouldering anger that makes me lash out at people close to me.

Not the greatest tack.

So what’s the alternative? Shrink? HA HA. Well, I don’t know where you live, but on my local nutter-o-meter, I’m not even registering, so they couldn’t care less. Medication? That would be like taking aspirin for a headache you got from not drinking enough water. Talking to friends? Ha, well. I’ll discuss that one another day.

So I’ve tried starting an anonymous blog, just as a hole in a tree or paper bag to shout into, a place where no one knows that all this steaming crap comes from my head, but it doesn’t work, because it’s not me. I need to say these things as-me, and then get rejected or understood as the case may be, but saying them as someone else is completely pointless.

So I wind up with this blog, which should be showcasing my books and the topics in them instead of my poor self esteem and crappy personality. No matter. I’ve said it before, I know, but I’m going to use it as my confessional. (And every night, I’ll consider deleting the whole thing to rid the world of my stupidity. Maybe one day I will.)

And here’s what I fear will happen: people will be offended by what I write, get sick of me and put me on their never-TBR list. And maybe shout at me in the comments. Okay. If that’s the worst that can happen, so be it. They would probably feel the same after reading my whiny characters anyway, so there’s really no harm done. :D

Nostalgic dragons

Every time I walk down a certain street in the town where I work, I think about my first tarot deck. Seminal event, I’m tellin’ ya. I rarely bought anything frivilous for myself, but I’d been ogling this deck with dragons for months, and I finally decided to ask my local new age shop to order one for me. And the day I went to get it… I still remember it so clearly. How mild the weather was, how this precious THING was suddenly in my hand, and how, when I came home and started learning the cards, I just immediately got it.

Shortly thereafter, I got the chance to use it on an actual human, and when she confirmed that it all made sense to her, I was over the moon. Now, I don’t believe in magic or anything, but I do tentatively believe in synchronicity. Also, I think using the cards is just sort of a meditation, like praying. One single image can mean a thousand things, but one of those meanings rises to the surface in answer to a question you already know the answer to.

Although how that works when there are other people involved, I have no idea. I’ve had some nerve-wracking experiences laying the cards for people I don’t know, but I don’t think I’ve ever made a total ass of myself. Once, I even read for a guy on radio, so I guess he has proof on tape. He never got back to me, though, so I don’t know if it turned out the way I said.

I don’t lay them much for myself anymore, since I tend to see my worst fears instead of what’s true, but I did lay a Celtic cross when I was accepted into the PhD programme, and I’ve had reason to chuckle at that reading many times since then. I used a LOTR deck, and the reading was full of hobbits, which I took to mean that I would feel like, well, a hobbit, ie like a total noob among the worldly-wise knights of academia. How right I was.

I also remember that in the Outcome position, Shelob’s cave turned up, and that’s where I’ve resided for a couple of years now. If I’d known how accurate that prediction was at the time, I might have turned down the position, but I guess I’m glad I’ve decided to make it to the end. I know it’s a logical fallacy that you need to finish things that have taken a lot of time and energy, but then Frodo did finally get out of that cave and everything turned out alright in the end.

[And this is where an elegant reference to the beginning of this little text would have gone, but I can’t be arsed to think of one]

Tired of being the bigger person?

I remember a rock. A big one. A rock so big he had to use both hands to lift it, and he staggered a little. He was going to throw that rock at me. Because I was wrong. I didn’t fit in. I don’t know what it was – my looks, my class, my dialect? I’ll assume all of them, since at one point or another, they’ve all pissed people off.

He lived on my street. The rock throwing incident happened a hundred yards from my house. And when I got home, what did I do? ‘Tell an adult’?

Hell no. What would be the point? I was six years old, and I already knew there was no point. That it would only make things worse.

I remember a foot on mine. Pressing down hard, to make me cry out. I didn’t. We were waiting to go into the classroom, and I pretended like I didn’t feel that foot. Because fuck you, right?

There was a teacher coming in a minute. So what did I do? Tell her?

Nah. Why would I? I was seven, and I had learned to survive by ignoring a long time ago.

I actually got that advice years later, at high school. From a well-meaning adult. ‘They’re just jealous. Ignore them, and they’ll stop.’ She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. People don’t stop because you ignore them. Oppression doesn’t stop because you take it meekly. Those toxic words are still in use, though. Just ignore the bad things and everything will be fine. Children taught to turn the other cheek. Turning into well-mannered adults who do what they’re told.

If I could go back and teach that girl something, it would be to hit back. I don’t care if that’s not the way to peace. I don’t care if those kids had a difficult time at home. I would throw a bigger stone, give that boy a concussion and get him to stop once and for all. I would kick them in the balls and spread rumours and write nasty letters.

Why? Why would I deliberately go back and make myself a worse person – ‘sink to their level’?

Because maybe then I wouldn’t be so angry now. Maybe every single day I wouldn’t despise myself. And that’s the thing: I understand the anger, all the anger. I understand the trolls and the people who throw invectives around. Many have a hundred times more reason than me to be angry.

When you’ve spent your life trying and failing to fit in, it can make you over-sensitive. When you haven’t been validated, it can be difficult to validate others. Because why should I be the one to take it meekly, to turn the other cheek and behave maturely? Why should it always be me who has to adapt?

No. I understand the hurt that makes you not give a flying fuck what anyone else feels, because this time you’re taking it into your own hands, protecting a child who was never protected by the people who were supposed to be on your side. It may not be constructive, but damn, it can feel good to lash out. To say, “No, actually, I don’t forgive you. Deal with it.”

The historical subtext of online conflicts

If life has taught me anything, it’s that a conflict never happens only here and now. For all involved, it has roots, and those roots are invisible, maybe even for the person to whom they belong.

On one side, we may have a person whose whole life and identity have been repeatedly called in question their entire life. From every classmate, teacher, parent and priest they’ve got the message that what they are is impossible and undesirable. When you question them, however mildly, they will hear all those people in your voice.

On the other side, we may have a person whose parents and friends made fun of their tastes and their interests their whole lives. From every sibling, co-worker and boss they’ve heard the same old thing: that what they enjoy is shallow and laughable – maybe even immoral. When you question their tastes, however mildly, they will hear all those people in your voice.

It’s like those wars that never seem to end, because neither side is ready to accept years of abuse and wrongs and take the first step towards mutual understanding. I see it happening, and I can to some extent understand both sides.

I think we need to be aware of this, both when it comes to our antagonists, but also, perhaps even more crucially, when it comes to ourselves. We need to realize that yes, the voice we’re hearing does echo all those years of pain, but it also belongs to a unique person who doesn’t know you, your history or your reasons for being the way you are.

Too much to ask? Maybe. Because feelings are unwieldy beasts. But at least it’s an explanation for why things escalate. It’s an explanation for how someone who seems so nice on the surface can hurt you so deeply. They truly don’t know. You’re just a non-face on the internet, but your voice joins a chorus they’ve learned to despise – a chorus you may not have chosen to join, but whose words you use.

And on it goes.

The role of friends

Something has been bugging me lately, and it’s probably quite petty of me to point it out, but apparently I can’t shut up online so here goes: I’m not helped by friends telling me (what I perceive as) white lies to make me feel better about myself. For example, if I express worry about being a bad person for doing X thing, I don’t feel better if a friend says, “No, you’re not a bad person, and you’re not even doing X thing, so just relax.” It’s like telling a fat person they’re not fat, because apparently being fat is so taboo that not even a close friend can admit that you are. Isn’t it better to say, “Yeah, you’re fat, and you’re rocking it!”

Alright, that analogy got a little out of hand, because I don’t want my friends to say that me being a bad person is a good thing. What I would like is to discuss it, to have someone say, “Yeah, actually, that is a problem, but I love you anyway.” The main point being that last one. Because if your friends only love you because they ignore your bad traits, that’s like cyanide for your self esteem, isn’t it? That basically leaves you with “enemies” who hate you for your faults and “friends” who love you for something you’re not.

Maybe not everyone feels like this. Maybe some people want their friends to be blindly supportive, but for me it’s kind of insulting. As if I’m so dim I can’t see my own faults, and I use people around me to perpetuate the fantasy of my flawless self. I’m too realistic to buy into the “Relax, you’re fine” discourse. I want to know that you can see into the filthy corners of my soul and STILL love me.

The hardest thing, and therefore the most precious.

The philosophy of peer pressure

What do you do when the party you wanted to go to changes who you are for the worse?

What do you do when your efforts to get through the door transform you into a person who does questionable things just to get accepted by the other party goers?

What do you do when you’ve got a foot through the door to this fantastically alluring party, and you realize that 1) you’re not following the dress code, 2) half the room will be horrified that you’re not following the dress code, 3) the other half thinks the dress code is wrong and 4) you’re not crazy about the dress code either? Not to mention the fact that the way you dressed for this party was a compromise to begin with, with half of you looking like yourself and the other half is a poor attempt to look like everyone else.

How do you live with yourself? Do you leave the party, or do you just hide in a corner and hope no one sees you (thus defeating the object of coming here)? Do you drink yourself silly and dance on the table as long as you can before the guards chuck you out?

Yeah, I know that last one sounds super cool and everyone will laugh, “Yeah! Do that one!” But what about the morning after? When you wake up and realize that you made a prat of yourself, just to be a part of something you’re not sure was your thing to begin with?

The answer is, I guess, that there are other parties to go to. But you’re in a part of town you don’t know your way around, and there isn’t a taxi in sight. And when you try the door on the opposite side of the street, the one with the pleasant piano music streaming out, no one even hears you knocking.

“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, th...

“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.” (Pride & Prejudice)

The post that will brand me traitor

Urrgh, now I’m doing it: I’m opening the can of worms called Feminism, with a side dish of gender fluid stuff. For the record, I’m quite ignorant of both, and the following must be viewed in that light. I’m simply having strong feelings about something I know nothing about. As per usual.

First of all, I’d like to state for the record that feminism is valid and important. Globally, there is oppression of women. Not debating that. There are problems of power distribution and violence and money and invalidating discourses and God knows what, but that’s not what this blog post is about. This blog post is about ME. So if that puts you off (and it should), this is where you should stop reading.

The thing is, I’ve never felt that what I’ve read about the patriarchy has hit the nail on the head for me. Of course, I realize that things can be true without me feeling they are, but it just doesn’t resonate. When I’m told that I’ve been hindered in my life because I’m a woman, I feel… nothing. Oh, sure, the usual stuff like not daring to go out at night because rape: yes, absolutely. But the rest? I don’t know.

I just don’t feel like that part of me – the female part – is the problem. I’ve never had to deal with people buying me drinks and expecting things, or harassment at work, or any of that stuff which is apparently so ubiquitous. Sure, this partly stems from me 1) not being considered beautiful enough, and 2) being so aggressively intellectual that people just count me out of their Evil Seduction Schemes. Perhaps that should make me moan and rave about how Men Are Afraid Of Smart Women, but… nah. My life just doesn’t corroborate that.

For many people, feminism is an eye-opener, a Eureka moment, a hammer on the head that makes you go, “So that’s what my niggling sense of unease was about!” It’s liberating and comforting. It’s a shoulder to cry on. But not for me. I read about it and I agree, but only on a superficial level. I want the world to be a better place for women, but it doesn’t hit me. It doesn’t cause a pang in my heart and a whoosh of never-before-felt feelings.

I’ll tell you what does:

 The concept of class. Whoa. When I first encountered it, my whole life suddenly rearranged itself in a new pattern, and I understood everything.
Susan Cain’s Quiet, which is about introversion.

So: I don’t feel shut out or discriminated against because I’m a woman (I probably am, but bear with me, okay?). I do feel alienated from other people because of class issues, however, and I feel extremely shut out and discriminated against because I’m an introvert. Maybe this is exacerbated by my gender, since women are supposed to be caring, social, down to earth and responsible, but that fact just doesn’t interest me. Sorry.

The thing that interests me is that the Thinker archetype isn’t really appreciated where I live and work – and I work at a frigging university. (Alright, I’m exaggerating. Some lovely people do sporadically require my critical services, but apart from that, the Thinker currency is way down there with the German mark in the twenties.)

I’ll tell you what’s worse. As a Thinker, I understand why traditionally feminine traits can be undervalued. Shock horror, straight to the gallows! I should be on the barricades for the promotion of kindness and caring, because I know on a rational level that these things are sorely needed in our harsh world, but I don’t care. Not deep down. I’m drawn to intelligence before I’m drawn to kindness. Actually, kindness can scare the hell out of me because it requires Reciprocation, and I don’t have the skill set. Instead, I tend to shine when I can discuss ideas, logic and patterns. You know, ‘male’ stuff.

You’d think I’d be overjoyed about the concept of gender fluidity. Here at last is a label that lets me be who I am, instead of confining me in a narrow definition of womanhood. But no: even that feels alien. I appreciate that many, many people are liberated by it. I’m overjoyed for their sake. But me? I’m a Woman with a capital ‘W’. I’m not fluid at all. When I was a child, I was mistaken for a boy a few times, and it absolutely shocked me. How could they not see past the tracksuit and the short hair to the utter girl in me?

Yes, I’ve fantasized about being a man, I often prefer the company of men, and I’ve always identified with male characters in books and movies (Katniss Everdeen being the massive exception), but I identify with men as a woman. I don’t feel like I’m on a spectrum, rather it’s like I am one person through and through (female), and yet the mirror shows something else (maleness, to a degree).

Impossible to explain.

And anyway, it’s irrelevant, because my gender identity isn’t very interesting to me. I see these totally understandable narratives about people who don’t fit into society’s definitions, and gender fluidity becomes their salvation, but it doesn’t help me. And it’s like feminism is this club that’s supposed to be for me, and yet when I step inside, it just feels odd. I can engage in the club for the sake of others, but me? I’m an outsider, even though I have the membership card. It’s like I’m saying the tomato is red, and feminism is saying the tomato is red, and I still feel like the red I’m seeing is a different colour.

Makes total sense, right?

I don’t even know why I’m writing this post. To whine? Well, yes, partly. Because whining is a valid hobby and I like it. But I’ve only got one accepted reason to whine – namely, that I’m a woman. In every other way, I’m privileged, ergo not allowed to throw a pity party. But I have no interest in whining about the woman stuff. I want to whine about other things.

And also, I don’t want to be bullied into calling myself a feminist. (Whooooaaaa, moving into dangerous territory here). I’m above all a linguist. An idolater of words. A person who doesn’t dance around a golden calf, but around a golden thesaurus. And if a word feels wrong to me, or the definition is so battled over that I don’t know what the other person will hear if I use it, I avoid it. I know I can contribute to creating a good meaning by using the word in a sense I can live with, but jeez… no. Just too much work to constantly have to explain my stipulative definition. I get enough of that in my PhD studies, thank you very much.

In fact, I don’t subscribe to any –isms at all, because they’re like party manifestos: even though I’m mildly interested, I just know I’m going to disagree with half the contents. And yet I agree that things need improving in the world, whether it has to do with class or gender or sexuality or race or region. But the simple fact that I don’t want to call myself a specific word can get people’s undies in a twist, and that actually scares me.

I’m just saying: let’s not turn an important struggle into the enforcement of 1984 Newspeak.

That said, I would love it if someone pulled their head out of their arse and made a movie about Margaret Hamilton. And not with some mushy love story that completely smothers the plot!

Public service announcement

I will never laugh at anyone’s ‘man flu’ jokes. I just don’t find illness funny, especially not other people’s derisive comments about how a segment of society experiences it wrong.