I am a listener. I suppose it is part of my purpose, or maybe my whole purpose. It's not something I've worn proudly; I just know that all my life people have felt compelled to relate things to me. I've often wondered why - it's not like I want to hear the juicy tidbits of your latest drama. I really don't.
But what I've learned over the past couple of years is to listen in a way that is helpful to the person relating. I used to think mostly with the male mind - that is, the problem fixer. Somewhere along the line, I learned that when women are talking about their experience, they don't want a solution, they want to be heard. So I began shutting off the problem fixer, but was still left wondering, "Why am I listening to this?" (besides that this woman is actually talking to me and I'd like to keep it going).
I wasn't understanding that the woman wanted to express how certain events or situations made her feel. I didn't have feelings, so I wasn't relating on any level deeper than the surface. (I had feelings; I had just tamped them down, like a well-worn path in the woods). Eventually, I came to understand that by me not expressing my own feelings, I was making myself sick. I remember being in a recovery meeting many years ago shortly after my mother passed away, and talking about it. Somebody pulled me aside later and said, "You talked about your mother dying the same way you'd talk about your car breaking down." I really did not understand. I didn't understand how talking about what was going on in my life was helpful, unless talking about it gave me a solution. I didn't realize that I didn't need to share the event of my mother passing; I needed to share the sadness and guilt and shame I was feeling surrounding it. When I would lose a job or a relationship, I didn't need to talk about the event, I needed to share my feelings of low self-worth. And shame.
About 5 years ago, I came to understand that if I didn't open up and let the real Ken out, I was not going to recover. I was going to die. Well, one doesn't one morning decide to drop all the facades and people pleasing and approval seeking and Boom! and Voila! Here's the new Ken! It takes practice, it takes courage, it takes the willingness to fall down and get up, and it takes time. But through time, I began to feel again (that part of me is still waking up). I began to see my life as more than just a series of events - I began to see that how I defined myself and felt about myself surrounding those events was shaping my future. Enter CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and I began to question the way I was reacting to life and to myself, and I began to find more productive and constructive ways of thinking.
But what was most important was I began expressing how I felt - about events, about myself, about life - with people whom I trusted. I talked about how I felt. It became ok to feel again. I wasn't wrong or bad anymore for being sad or angry. It was just the way I felt. I began to feel ok with how I felt, because the people who were listening to me were listening without judging, sometimes with the added bonus of listening with understanding.
As I might have mentioned in the previous post (I rarely go back to re-read) the things we have in common with every other human being is that we've all loved, we've all lost, and we've all hurt. No matter how hard we might try, those experiences are inescapable.
I used to be kind of a hard guy, I think. If you told me something that I didn't understand, or hadn't experienced, I didn't feel too much for you. I wouldn't necessarily show outside that I wasn't getting it, but inside, I knew. Everything was cerebral or intellectual. If it didn't match with my experience, point-to-point, I really couldn't relate. However, when I started becoming open to acknowledging and experiencing my own feelings, I began to understand a lot more when people related there experiences to me. I began to listen differently.
I began to listen for the feelings. For example: I work with a lot of people in early recovery. Now, the casual observer might see someone who drinks too much or uses heroin stop drinking and using, and say, good - they're getting their life back together. That's what it looks like, anyway. What's actually going on is a traumatic event - the person who is addicted to alcohol or drugs is experiencing a major upheaval in their lives. They're giving up something that has become their best friend. It hurts! physically and emotionally. It's scary! It's confusing! There is a lot of guilt and shame involved, and fear for the future. I listen to people as they tell me the losses they've suffered from going into recovery. Recovery is supposed to be a good thing! But folks lose friends, maybe family, sometimes their livelihoods, sometimes their freedom. It is a big experience. So I listen, and because I've been there, I relate very well. By the way, I've also learned that men have a desire to have their feelings heard as well.
And most of all today, I understand the importance of connection. Entering into recovery means losing part or sometimes all of our identity. Our self-identity. Who am I now? What do I do now? Where do I go from here? Having someone who relates to the experience makes the experience a little more ok.
I can hear something today, and, while I might not relate to the specific experience, I can hear the feelings underneath the experience. I understand that loss is loss is loss, whether it's one's driver's license or one's home or one's job or a loved one, and I can listen to the pain and all the other stuff that goes along with that loss, and I don't have to judge whether that pain is justified or not. If someone's feeling it, they're feeling it! I no longer judge whether or not someone's suffering is worthy or not; I recognize the suffering and support the person going through it. By the way, I've also learned that men have a desire to have their feelings heard as well.
It is sometimes painful for me, but then I recognize it's more painful for the person experiencing the feelings. I offer support, encouragement, and hope, and none of it is false. I'm a miracle, and I know lots of other miracles, and today I believe anything is possible. I offer to others the hope of recovery, and the understanding that we're in this together. To me, that's gold. I know what it's like to feel alone and hopeless, to feel used up and worthless. I also know what it's like to turn what once looked like a mountain of crap into something not only worthwhile but beautiful. I have the ability to listen to someone to help them feel not so alone and hopeless, and to maybe help them discover or re-discover who they really are. For someone like me, this is the greatest blessing of my life - to be a positive agent in someone's life. I've learned to listen not only with my ears, but with my heart.
Namasté,
Ken
No comments:
Post a Comment