Читать книгу Dorothy Rowe’s Guide to Life - Paula Nicolson, Dorothy Rowe, Dorothy Rowe - Страница 12

IF I WERE to ask you, ‘What kind of a person are you?’ and you were to answer truthfully, would you say,

‘Other people looking at me think that I’m a very together person, that I’m competent and confident, get on well with other people, always cheerful, kind – but they don’t know the real me. Underneath I’m very different. I’m not as confident and competent as I make out, and I’m not a nice person at all. I try not to let people know me as I am.’

If I asked you, ‘If you were a house, how would you describe yourself?’ would you say,

‘As a house I’ve got lots of rooms that represent different parts of me. On the outside the house looks all right – could be better but it will pass. There’s a front door that’s always closed. I’ll let a few people into the front rooms. They’re cheerful, nicely furnished rooms, good for work and socializing. There’s a room behind the front rooms where I let only one or two people in. It’s a rather sombre room. That’s where I am when I’m not with people. Beneath that room there’s a cellar. I keep the door to the cellar locked. There’s something terrible in that cellar. If people knew about what’s at the centre of my house that would be the end of me.’

Most people experience their existence as being something like this house.

Some people try to pretend that their cellar and its terrible contents don’t exist. This pretence leaves them feeling that they don’t have a whole house, just a facade of a house. They feel that they aren’t a person, just a facade of a person. They spend their time in their front room socializing and being good and kind to people. They need to be busy and have lots of excitement to stop them being aware of the emptiness and darkness lurking inside themselves.

Other people are always aware of the danger in the cellar. They believe that the only way to keep the cellar locked and hidden is for them to be very good. If they’re a good son/daughter, wife/husband, father/mother, employer/employee, friend and citizen they can keep the evil danger inside them well locked away. This is a never-ending task and their vigilance must be constant.

Most people believe that they are, in essence, bad and unacceptable, but that if they keep this essence hidden, and if they work hard to be good, other people won’t discover how bad they are and they’ll be accepted, and even liked and laved.

Most people believe that this is how they are, and that this is fixed and unchangeable.

If this is what you believe, then you are mistaken.

When you were born you didn’t experience yourself as being bad and unacceptable. When you were born you/your house was open-plan and everyone was invited in. You didn’t know anything about cellars and dangerous, dark forces inside you. You were as you were, open, curious, trusting, wanting to love and be loved, to please and be pleased.

Then the people around you, the very ones you wanted to please so they would love you, began suggesting that there was something nasty inside you and that your open-plan house needed a cellar where this nastiness could be locked away. This nastiness had names. There was greed (‘Babies should be fed at regular intervals and not just when they want to be fed’), dirtiness (‘You’ve soiled yourself. You’re disgusting’), selfishness (‘Wait your turn’), aggression (‘You’re a wicked child to hit your sister’).

All the time you were interpreting what was happening to you.

(You developed the ability to create meaning while you were still in the womb. We begin creating interpretations long before we have a language in which to describe these interpretations. Our interpretations take the form of feelings, images and sounds. Studies of babies in the womb show that they prefer the sweet melodies of Mozart to the taut sharpness of Stravinsky. No doubt once born they can distinguish the sound of ‘Dearest darling’ from the sound of ‘You filthy pig’ even though they don’t know the meaning of the words.)

Like everyone else, the only way you could create your interpretations was to use your past experience. But you were a tiny child. You didn’t have much experience but you did try to create the very best interpretations that you possibly could. You interpreted events and drew conclusions from your interpretations.

You found the world to be a very confusing place. Fortunately your mother explained the world to you.

There you were, toddling along on unsteady feet and your mother said, ‘Be careful or you’ll fall and hurt yourself.’

You took no notice. Then you fell over and hurt yourself. You drew a conclusion from this. You thought, ‘My mum knows what’s what. She tells me the truth.’

Soon after you had another accident. Perhaps you wet yourself or knocked over a glass of milk. Your mother said, ‘You disgusting, wicked child. You’ll be the death of me’ (or words to that effect).

Using your past experience you interpreted what she said.

You had found out that your mother knows the world and tells the truth. (You had no idea that she’d quarrelled with your father and was taking her bad feelings out on you.)

For you the truth now is that you disgust your mother and you are so wicked that you will kill her with your wickedness.

This dangerous, disgusting wickedness is inside you.

And so your open-plan house acquires an inner room.

You know now that this inner room can get you into trouble.

And so it does.

You find yourself in a situation from which you cannot escape and in which an adult whom you rely on is inflicting pain on you.

Perhaps it’s your mother or father, who love you and only want ‘the best’ for you. They want you to be clean and toilet-trained. They want you to do as you’re told, to be a sweet, pleasant, good child, a credit to them as parents. So they punish you when you’re not.

Perhaps your parents have abandoned you. Perhaps they don’t want you, or perhaps they’re doing the best they can for you but have to earn a living. Perhaps they’re ill, or dead.

Perhaps an adult is beating you, or using you in strange and painful ways.

Whatever the situation, it is for you the extremes of pain and danger.

You interpret the situation as, ‘I am being punished by my bad parent.’

Then you remember that you depend on this bad parent and you feel even more frightened.

What can you do?

You can do what we all do when we are in a situation from which we cannot escape and which is causing us pain.

We can change how we interpret the situation.

This is what you do.

You remember that dark room in your self/house. You realize that it is your fault that you are suffering. Your interpretation of the situation now becomes, ‘I am bad and am being punished by my good parent.’

Now you are safe in the care of you good parent.

Now your house has a cellar that contains something dark and dangerous and which you must keep hidden.

Now you can never just be yourself.

Now you know you must be good. Soon you are an expert in being good.

Some unlucky children do more than just learn how to be good. Perhaps this happened to you. Perhaps instead of that extreme situation occurring just a few times in your early childhood it occurred again and again. The adult you relied on kept inflicting pain on you.

How could you keep telling yourself that this adult was good and you deserved this punishment?

By re-interpreting your interpretation.

You decide that, ‘I am bad and am being punished by my good parent, and when I grow up I shall punish bad people in the way I was punished.’

Now you have learnt how to be cruel. Now when you grow up you’ll be able to say, ‘I was beaten as a child and it never did me any harm.’ What you don’t realize is that the harm the beatings have done is to let you think that you haven’t suffered any harm.

The harm that you have suffered is that you no longer know what your own truth is.

You think that your dark cellar contains something wicked and dangerous. You don’t know that it contains nothing dangerous at all. What is hidden in there is something you came into the world knowing, something the adults around you have forbidden you to know: your own truth.

Once you know something you can’t unknow it. So, to survive you had to hide your knowledge. This is what you did.

When you were small you didn’t need me to explain to you that each of us has our own way of seeing things. You knew that. You were often surprised that other people didn’t see things in the same way as you. You’d say, ‘Oh yes’ to something, and your parents would say, ‘Oh no.’ But that was one of the things which you found interesting.

You knew that you saw things in your way. You had your own truth.

Then the adults took that knowledge away from you.

The first time that happened was perhaps something like this. You were just big and strong enough to take a loose lid off a jar. Inside was something white which oozed when you squeezed it. If you moved your hand it spread itself across the carpet in a very interesting way, and if you bounced your hand against the carpet bits of it flew off and formed a pretty pattern. You were busy being a scientist and an artist. This was exciting. This was marvellous.

Then your mother arrived.

You recognized that she did not see the situation in the same way as you did.

If you were lucky she reacted calmly. Perhaps she said, ‘I know you’re enjoying yourself and that you’re learning a lot, but I’d rather you did that with soapsuds instead of my expensive face cream. I have my way of seeing things and on this occasion my view is going to prevail. Let’s get you and the room cleaned up.’

Most of us weren’t that lucky. Most of us were left in no doubt that our mother saw the situation differently. What she did was to show us that our way of seeing the situation was utterly, utterly wrong while her way was right and that we were very bad.

Bringing up children isn’t easy. Children do have to be told that many of their interpretations are not a good reflection of the situation and thus likely to lead to danger. Many a child has thought that the red circle on top of the stove would be nice to touch. But parents have a choice of how to tell the child this isn’t so.

(1) Parents can concentrate on the child’s interpretation of the event and, arising out of this interpretation, what the child did.

For instance, a parent restraining a child from running across a busy road can say, ‘The cars are moving faster than you think. Wait until the road is clear.’

OR

(2) Parents can ignore how the child has interpreted an event and simply tell the child that he is silly, stupid, childish, wicked to do what he did.

They can say, ‘You wicked child. How many times have I told you not to run across the road!’

(1) draws the child’s attention to the interpretation he has created and suggests that he can create a better interpretation and thus act more effectively.

(2) tells the child that there is something intrinsically wrong with him.

However,

(1) requires the parent to think, be creative, be patient and to ignore those adults who are watching and thinking, even saying, ‘If that was my child I’d give him a good hiding.’

Whereas

(2) is quick and can be a self-satisfying expression of the parent’s anger arising from his or her anxiety about the child.

On the whole, parents are more expert in interpreting the world than are children. However, there is one part of the world where the child, not the parent, is the expert.

The child is the expert in knowing about his own thoughts and feelings. The child knows what these are. The parent can only guess.

This applies to all of us.

When I say, ‘We can never know reality directly,’ I mean the reality of what goes on around us. There is one aspect of reality we do know directly and that is our inner world of thoughts and feelings. In judging the world around us, however carefully, we can only make approximations; we can never enter and know another person’s inner world, but we always know directly and accurately what we think and feel and why. We know our own truth.

Unfortunately, most of us don’t know that we know. We had that knowledge taken away from us when we were children.

Some parents take our knowledge away accidentally out of exasperation. Imagine the kind of scene where the child is making those unpleasant sounds which Australians call ‘grizzling’. The child feels in need of a cuddle and something to eat. He says, ‘I’m hungry. I want a biscuit.’ His mother says, ‘You’re no; hungry. You’re tired. Go to bed.’

The child is confused. He thought his feelings meant he was hungry but his mother says this isn’t so. She implies that she knows his feelings better than he does.

Our own truth is always private. Other people cannot know our truth unless we choose to tell them.

Small children have to learn that this is so. Some parents lie to their children in order to make them obedient. They say to the child, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

Sometimes the parent is right about what the child is thinking. It’s an educated guess, not direct knowledge, but the child doesn’t know that her parent is making a guess from an assessment of the situation and the expression on the child’s face. The child thinks that the parent can read her mind.

I’ve met many adults who still have the feeling that their parents can read their minds. They dare not think, much less say, anything critical about their parents in case the parent, however far distant, knows what they are thinking and punishes them by making them feel guilty. ‘How could you think that, after all I’ve done for you.’

I’ve come across many people who, seeing psychologists as parental figures, believe that psychologists can see their deepest secrets. I’ve seen a banker turn pale when I’ve asked him if I could ask him a few questions about banks and money, while dozens of people, in the course of a casual conversation, have nervously asked me, ‘Are you psychoanalysing me?’, that is, ‘Are you seeing into the deepest recesses of my being?’

Some parents tell their children that God knows what they are thinking.

If God made us, He equipped us puny creatures with aggression to help us to survive in a hostile world, and with imagination to let us express our aggression towards one another in thoughts rather than in deeds.

When we are children, we become aggressive because parents necessarily frustrate us. Frustration leads to aggression. Children soon discover that they can vent their aggression in fantasy, allowing them to both murder (in fantasy) and preserve (in reality) their parents.

But if God can read your thoughts, and if anger and aggression are wicked, your own truth ceases to be your own certainty and becomes instead a source of shame, guilt and confusion.

It’s no wonder that some people come to feel that their thoughts are known to powers outside themselves and that these powers insert thoughts into their minds.

Some parents know that it is important to recognize and respect their child’s own truth. However, knowing your own truth and hanging on to it no matter what is not without its problems. My friends Galen and Helen have brought up their daughter Naomi to know her own truth. Naomi has always been allowed to say what she thinks. Now she is a beautiful sixteen-year-old. Recently Galen said to me, ‘She’s utterly fearless. I’m afraid for her.’ People alienated from their own truth often envy those who aren’t and will seek to do them harm. Naomi said, ‘Why should I be afraid of people? They’re just people.’

Surviving as a person knowing your own truth is a matter of deciding in an imperfect world which imperfections are the easiest with which to live.

Some children manage to hang on to their own truth, or at least some part of it, because they are brought up by parents who are too lazy, or too busy, or too inconsistent to police the child’s every act. These parents might, however, on occasion mock or punish their children when they reveal their own truths. Their children soon learn to keep their thoughts to themselves.

What effect this has depends on how well the children think of themselves.

If they manage to hang on to some self-confidence they become revolutionaries, inventors or artists who can decide which of the imperfections of this imperfect world they will accept and which they will try to change. The revolutionaries might not lead a revolution except in their own lives. They are critical of society and fail to conform. The inventors and artists preserve something of the child’s fresh vision of the world and out of this vision develop other possibilities.

Children who grow up knowing that they see the world in their own individual ways but who don’t think well of themselves feel that the fact that they see things differently means that there is something wrong with them. They think, ‘I oughtn’t to feel like this. I ought to be like other people.’

Some children are brought up by parents who police their every act and forbid the children to have their own truths. Such children cease to recognize what their own truth is.

Some of these children, as adults, know only what they ought to think and feel and not what they do think and feel.

Others sense their own truth as a void inside themselves. They say, ‘I don’t know what I feel,’ and ‘I don’t know who I am.’

To be born deaf and blind to the world around us is an immense handicap to living a full life, but to become deaf and blind to yourself is a far greater handicap – it means losing most of the unique ability we have as human beings to reflect upon our thoughts and actions and the world around us.

It means too losing the only reliable sense of certainty in an uncertain world, the certainty of knowing what you think and feel. If you have this you have a benchmark against which you can measure every event you encounter.

However, to know what you think and feel you need to be able to accept what you think and feel. This isn’t always easy.

Parts of our own truth might cause us pain and fear, and so we try to hide them from ourselves. A friend told me how her parents had always seen her as the good daughter while her sister was the bad daughter. She had accepted this role because she thought that by being good she could stop her parents fighting one another and punishing her sister for her supposed wickedness. Now in her forties, she says, ‘I’m just starting to recognize the anger I felt because I had to be the one that kept the family together.’

Parts of our own truth can cause us shame and guilt. If you’ve been brought up to believe that anger is wicked and that you have no right to be angry, no matter what is done to you, you have to shut away in your dark cellar all your angry thoughts and feelings. Then you can say to yourself, ‘I never get angry.’

This, of course, is a lie.

Telling yourself that you don’t get angry, indeed that you have no need for anger, is as realistic as telling yourself you don’t breathe and have no need to breathe.

Here is one of those relative truths for which I have yet to encounter an exception:

Provided you’ve got a good memory you can lie to other people and get away with it, but you can never get away with lying to yourself. Lying to yourself always leads to disaster.

People who deceive themselves deceive themselves about deceiving themselves.

I’ve met many people who have led long lives of self-deception. They do not enjoy close relationships, for how can someone know you if you are always pretending to be someone else? Some of these people have a history of failed relationships. Others have managed to acquire a long-suffering spouse (usually a wife) who believes that to be a good, acceptable person she must protect her husband from the consequences of his folly.

If you want to have a sense of security in an insecure world, and to have good relationships with the people who matter to you, you must know and accept your own truth.