I'm finishing up Social Intelligence, by Daniel Goleman, and it has rearranged how I look at my life--or at least, how I look at relationships.
Goleman's idea is that our relationships actually have a physical impact on us---on the patterns of our brainwaves, the structure of our brains, the ebb and flow of hormones and proteins, the health and frailty of the ecosystem that is our own body. He says that genes matter, but our relationships are a big factor in explaining what, exactly, our genes express. Most hopefully: he says that you really can re-learn, you really can change your bad patterns to new ones, often with the help of good relationship choices.
There's enough here that I'll probably do a column on it this week, but I wanted to pull something out quick. In one chapter, he divides people into three groups when it comes to intimate relationships: those who are secure (about 55 percent); those with anxiety (20 percent) and those who are avoidant (25 percent).
This is interesting.
The secure are those who are comfortable with emotions but not preoccupied by them.
The anxious are impulsive types who are obsessed by their own feelings, "prone to fret that their partner does not really love them or will not stay with them. . . . Once they form a relationship, anxious types can readily be beset by fears that they will be left or found wanting in some way."
And avoiders are "uncomfortable being emotionally close, finding it hard to trust a partner or share feelings. They tend to supress their own emotions and especially to stifly distressing feelings. They expect a partner to be emotionally untrustworthy."
Me, I think I've mostly been attracted to the anxious and the avoidant. Izzy was probably the only girl I ever dated who was secure, and she was a revelation. The entire time we were together, I kept thinking, OH! Oh, so this is what it's like to be with someone who's not jealous or insecure. Oh, this is what it's like when someone is neither clingy nor distant, but somewhere in between. Izzy (that's what I've called her in my column) was good for me.
I'm avoidant. Or was avoidant. I don't think I am anymore. I used to walk out when I couldn't articulate my feelings, because I didn't know what they were, really, I just knew that they were bad. I used to get stony in the face of emotional distress. I used to say in bewilderment that I never got angry, that I didn't know what angry was, that nothing shook me hard enough to make me angry.
But I'm no longer avoidant. In fact, I think I'm pretty damn close to secure myself, thanks to an excellent therapist who taught me how to actually feel my feelings, who exposed the deep, secret feelings of shame for things I wasn't even responsible for, who showed me that the thing I was most scared of was myself, and that I didn't have to be afraid anymore.
I'm thinking about this today because I had dinner with Jane last night. It was wonderful and hard. And today, when I was dealing with the emotional fallout, I suddenly understood how resillient I had become---because I was sad, deeply sad, crying-in-the-ladies-room-sad this morning. I let myself be sad. I let myself cry. I let others--including Jane--comfort me and reassure me that I was OK, that it was OK, that the ground is still steady and my heart is still intact. I went to lunch with my sister-in-law and her sister. I ate dumplings. I made them laugh.
And here I am at the end of the day, and I'm all good. Two years ago--five years ago--ten years ago--this would have tumbled me into darkness. But I am all light again, and looking forward to Valentine's Day with the new girl, and knowing, really, for the first time, that even if things don't work out with the new girl, I will really be OK.
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