Communication

http://oxforddictionaries.com/view/entry/m_en_us1275957#m_en_us1275957

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passive%E2%80%93aggressive_behavior**

The buzz-word (phrase) du jour in communicating seems to be passive-aggressive. It seems to me to have been on the menu for quite a while now; since beginning my journey towards becoming a self-aware psycho, I have become much more aware of the phenomenon.

My grandmother, and subsequently my mother, are Olympic champions of aggressive passivity. They are manipulators of the first water, and they know all the tricks. As a result, I have been aware that such behavior exists for much longer than it’s been mainstream. We just didn’t have a fancy name for it. My therapist and I discuss this sort of thing quite often. I will go out on a limb here and estimate that the term or the concept comes up about two sessions out of three, in some degree or another. Sometimes it’s just me saying “yeah, you should have heard this comment.” Sometimes it’s me complaining about the behavior in others. Most of the time, however, it’s me obsessing about whether or not I do it, too.

See, having been manipulated in this way since my infancy, and having suffered because of it, I am terrified of being passive-aggressive. I write an email, then spend hours afterwards parsing every sentence trying to figure out if I had been trying to manipulate the recipient into doing something, or responding in a certain way, or feeling this or that. Not every email, not every day, but lots of emails…. lots of days…. When someone asks me to do something, and I can’t get to it right away, I examine every aspect of my time, how it was spent, was I being passive-aggressive without realizing? Was I? WAS I?

Recently my life has taken some bizarre and frightening twists and turns. Things have been, well, “odd,” and one of the oddest things is having suddenly acquired a lover who wants to communicate. <gasp> Yes, such creatures do exist, my friends, and I’ve seen them with my very own eyes…. Easier to find dragons and elves and pink fluffy unicorns (dancing… on.. um… yeah), but they do exist. People who want to communicate effectively and lovingly with other people.

By “communicate” I don’t just mean chat about his day; he actually wants to verbally puzzle out things that are wrong between us, and solve them. We had a long talk early on in our burgeoning relationship wherein I explained my family history of manipulation through the precise application of guilt and pain; I asked him to confront me when he thought I was being passive-aggressive.

OK, in retrospect, that was kind of ridiculous of me. Seriously, asking someone to call me on that sort of thing? What am I doing? What kind of psycho does that?

But that’s how obsessive I am about not being that way.

I slip; I slip a lot more than I would like. I’ve discovered, however, something very, very interesting:

People assume I am being passive-aggressive far more often than I am actually being passive-aggressive.

Yup. I was shocked, too. I was really shocked. How many times have I walked away from a conversation, especially one that began or ended as an argument, feeling like I got hit by a train when I wasn’t looking, all because someone assumed they knew what I meant, and that I was manipulating them?? Arguments with friends, lovers, relatives… I suddenly have been looking back on them with this revelatory perspective, and I am appalled.

What I’m now wondering is this:  Are people so jaded that they just automatically assume that the person they’re talking to is being manipulative? Do they automatically assume a defensive position or take the offensive because everyone in our culture is passive-aggressive? Has the emergence of this behavior into popular culture just made people in general afraid that everyone is doing it?

When did people stop saying what they mean? When did they start implying things instead of actually saying them? When did every phrase, every utterance, come to mean something different from the actual definitions of the words and construction of the sentence?

For most of my life I’ve been fascinated with language. I am enchanted by the idea that symbols form words, and words represent thoughts, and the act of writing or speaking them performs some alchemy that conveys what’s in my head to someone else’s. I love that whole concept.

Because I do, and because I think about communicating in general, and becoming a better, more effective communicator in particular, I have a theory. (Don’t I always? <grin>)

It seems to me that at some point the filters we use to soften things, to save the feelings of others and to survive and thrive in the world outside our own heads, end up hurting us. We know how much we change what we think betwixt brain and tongue, so we use “logic” and conclude that everyone else must be doing it, too. We then spend a lot of time and effort analyzing what the other person said, trying to figure out what they “really” meant, because we know how much we edited our own thoughts.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t use filters, or that we should throw caution and social nicety to the wind and just blurt out every single thing we think, because not everything we think is appropriate, or worth saying. But I do think we should try harder to say what we mean. Communication needs to be slowed down a bit.

In a world where texting, chatting and emailing is instantaneous, it’s easy to just fire off words without really considering how they’ll be interpreted by the receiver. Because we’ve become used to lightning fast communicating, we have begun talking that way as well. Instead of trying to be a good listener, we’re Tweeting or texting or reading the next blog entry and we aren’t paying attention to what the speaker is saying; then we go right on with the monologue we’ve prepared in our own heads and pay no attention to whether or not it has anything to do with what the other person had just been talking about.

I’m trying to slow it down. I’m trying to think about the actual meaning that I want to convey rather than just getting out my quota of words so that I can keep up with the next guy. And I’m going to use all my words to do it. <grin>

-Cat

**yes, yes, I used Wikipedia. I finally drank the kool-aid.

10 Days – Day 1

The interior of the bar was the way bars should be – dark, cool, smoky, and with a properly weathered wooden bar, the mirrored wall behind it lined with partially filled bottles of hard liquor. Walt liked it. The stranger who sat at the bar fit, too, in a way that even some regulars didn’t. She leaned forward on her barstool, her feet hooked over the stool’s crosspiece, one arm tucked between her and the bar, the other hand curled around a beer mug. Walt wiped condensation rings off the bar where one of those regulars had been sitting and snapped his towel in the air when he was done. He looked around, checking the levels in glasses and mugs. Wandering over to the woman, he eyed her nearly empty mug.

“Want a refill?”

Her eyes were brown, he thought, so dark as to almost be black. They didn’t seem to focus on him as Walt met her gaze.

“Got anything worth drinking?”

“Whatcha want? I’m not really good at those frou-frou drinks, though I can probably figure one out if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“Got any Jameson’s?”

“Sure. Kinda pricy for these parts, though. Jack’s cheaper.”

She smiled at that. “Depends on the Jack. I’ll take the Jameson’s.”

“On the rocks?”

She snorted. “If I want water, I’ll ask for water.” He waited, and she said, “Neat. I want it neat. Straight up. Don’t add anything, just pour it in a glass.”

“Sure. Sorry. Comin’ up.”

As he turned away, she reached out one hand. Her knuckles were scarred.

“Bring the bottle, would ya?”

He nodded, and brought back a mostly clean glass and a nearly full bottle. Pouring out the first shot, he looked at her right hand as she reached for the glass. There was a tattoo, a blue anchor wrapped about with gold chains, on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. “You planning on drinking the whole bottle?”

She sipped from the glass, her eyes half closed. “Yup.” She set the glass down and reached into her back pocket. Pulling out a flat black wallet, she drew out a $100 bill and slid it across the bar. “That oughta cover it, don’t ya think?” She picked the glass back up and sipped again.

Walt held the bill up in the neon light reflected from the multitude of signs hung across the walls. “Yeah, that’ll more than cover it.”

“Keep the change.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, he shrugged, and rang up the sale on the register – an old fashioned piece, it clattered and rang, and the drawer bell sounded an off-key complaint as he slammed it home.

“You got a name?”

“Jack.”

Walt hesitated, considering that perhaps he had mistaken the sex of this particular patron, then shrugged. “Name’s Walt. You want some peanuts or something with that?”

“Nah. Just the drink. I wouldn’t say no to a pitcher of water, though.”

Walt started to fill a water glass; taking another look at Jack and the bottle, he dumped the glass out and grabbed a beer pitcher. Dumping a double handful of ice in it, he filled it up with water and put it and an empty glass on the bar next to the whisky bottle.

Jack scrubbed one hand through her close-cropped hair. Not a buzz cut, but nearly. The severity of the haircut combined with the hungry look in her eyes and the lean strength in her hands to make Walt thing that, perhaps, this woman was a tougher customer than he usually got on Thursday night.

A couple of regulars wandered in, blinking at the gloom and making their way to the bar mostly from memory. They got their drinks, and motioned Walt closer, looking down the bar. “Hey Walt. Who’s the new kid?”

“Hey Charlie. That’s Jack. And no, I don’t know anything. Just somebody coming in for a quiet drink, looks like.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Know how that is.”

Charlie and Bob, his long-time drinking buddy and co-commiserater, headed for their usual table. Walt rubbed his towel on the bar again and considered, then headed down to the woman and her whisky.

“So, what brings you into our place?”

“It’s a bar.”

Walt wiped at a water stain on the bar, not looking at Jack. “Yeah. You from around here?”

Jack eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Nope. Sorta from all over.” She sipped the last of the whisky from her glass, and refilled it. “You ever in the service?”

Walt stopped wiping the bar and looked her in the eye. “Yeah, did a little bit. Wasn’t really my thing.”

Jack nodded. “Not for everybody, that’s for sure. What branch?”

“Army. Got an uncle who was a Marine, and he didn’t think I was cut out for it, so he suggested the Army. Said the Air Force was too soft and the Navy too queer.”

“Really? Figures. Sounds like some dumbass jar head.” Jack snorted and leaned across the bar, holding out her hand. “Jack Taylor. Navy, 18 years.”

Walt took her hand; her grip was strong and dry, and her grip stopped just short of being painful. “Walt Riley. 18 years, huh? You retired or something?”

Jack leaned back on her stool and picked her glass back up. “Nah, just got out. Been moving around a bit, checking things out. Takes some getting used to, you know?”

“Not really. I lived here my whole life, and came back after my tour. I worked days at the factory, but that last set of layoffs got me.”

Jack nodded and leaned forward again, head bent over her glass. Walt could see light hair threaded through dark; he couldn’t tell the color in the neon lights, but he thought it might be brown shot with gray.

More regulars came in and Walt started pulling beers. The factory had let out, and the guys were stopping for their after-work brew before heading home. Some of them noticed Jack, but she seemed oblivious to the comings and goings behind her until Walt noticed her glancing up at the mirror behind the bar.

She traded her whisky glass for the water glass, and drank it down in one shot. She refilled it and set the glass back down next to the pitcher. “Walt, I’m hitting the head – keep an eye on my spot, would ya?”

“The head? Oh, right. Sure thing.”

He watched her walk to the back – when she entered the ladies’ room, he went back to putting empty glasses in the sink and refilling others. A couple of the guys eyed the whisky bottle, either with curiosity or dull yearning, but no one made a move towards it. When she came back, Jack repositioned herself on the barstool and continued drinking.

Walt refilled the pitcher of water a couple of times, and watched her seat, and her bottle, when she made her occasional trips to the ladies’ room. When there was another lull, he meandered back down to check up on her.

“So, what made you think you weren’t cut out for the military?” she asked as she sipped another shot.

“You know, had a problem with authority and all that. I was pretty cocky. Shoulda stayed in, though. It’s still a good career, ya know? And better than getting laid off all the time. I get laid off at least once a year. At least Marty lets me work here when I’m laid off, so I’ve got a paycheck comin in. Some of the guys don’t have that, even.”

“I don’t know. It’s not really that great of a career anymore, especially with the war and all. You do your tour during the Gulf?”

“Is that why you got out? The war?”

“Nah. Just got out. You know.”

Walt thought for a second, leaning against the bar and fiddling with an empty glass. “Not really. I mean, 18 years, that’s a long time. You got a retirement though, right?”

She snorted. “Nope. Gotta do 20 to get anything these days. No such thing as ‘early retirement,’ that’s a fantasy they tell the kids when they join up to get them to re-up a few times. By the time they realize they’ve been had, it’s too late to do anything else. So when were you in?”

“Couple of years ago. Part of it was during the Gulf, yeah. I got to see some sand, wear a flack jacket, that kind of crap. Like I said, wasn’t really my thing.”

“Navy was better for that shit, though it was bad on some of the small boys with the weather as hot as it is over there.”

“Small boys?”

“Yeah, ‘little boats’ to you land-loving types.”

“Right. Yeah, the heat was pretty bad. Never did get used to it, or the fact that you had to wear about 100 pounds of crap everywhere you went. Got to feel comfortable about 5 minutes a day – when you were in the shower.” Walt sighed and fiddled with the row of shot glasses. “I gotta get back to the regulars. Word gets back to Marty that I’ve been standing around b.s.-ing with a customer, he’s gonna have my head on a plate.”

Jack shrugged and went back to her drink. Her manner and posture discouraged the regulars from starting conversations, but most of them tried to pump Walt for information about her. There were never more than one or two women who came in to Wet Your Whistle, and those came with men more often than not, so Jack elicited more curiosity than most newcomers.

Walt wandered by to check up on her, and refill her water pitcher. As she drank, she looked into her glass as if she was searching for something in the amber reflections. The bottle was more than half empty, and Walt was trying to figure out how to find out if she had a car when she set her empty glass down on the bar with a thud. Digging in her pocket, she came up with a keyring holding two Ford keys and one that looked like a house key. She slid them across the bar.

“Do me a favor, would ya?” She pulled out her wallet and produced a twenty. “When the bottle’s about gone, call me a cab? I’m over at the Motel 6.”

“Yeah, sure. Twenty is way more than the cost of a cab, though.”

She shrugged and picked her glass back up. “Long as I get back to the motel in one piece, I’m cool.”

When her cab came and she walked out to meet it, Walt could see no signs of the bottle she’d just emptied – her posture was straight, her steps firm and sure. He shook his head as he watched her get in the cab and ride away.

Feisty

Where our heroine finds her spine… and her muse

I’m feeling better. It’s been a rough coupla months, and I feel… better. Pissed off, a bit. Frustrated, a lot. But no longer weeping inconsolably, and there is now proof positive that my muse has returned:  I have been writing. 2500 words last night, and significant editing of an old, abandoned story today.

The old story is one that I was afraid would never come back to me; it’s very personal, and I find it very sad, but it’s a story I want to tell. Suddenly, the main character is talking to me again, and the story is taking shape in ways that it didn’t before. I’ll post it when the draft is done.

On the topic of feisty, I have a couple of observations.

1. The things I despise most in other people fall into two categories:  Traits I despise in myself and traits I was taught to despise by my blood family.
2. The trait I despise the most in myself is weakness, and I am fiercer about stamping it out in myself than in others. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be meaner than shit about it in other people… it just means I’m meaner about it in myself.

-Cat

Muse

I haven’t written in ages. Looking through my notes, my journals, the only thing I’ve written has been the odd journal entry or dream transcription, for over a year. I haven’t written any fiction at all for well over that, and certainly nothing new; what I did write was one or two scenes from an old story, and I did some editing on some of the old stuff.

A few nights ago I had a dream, and it was typically intense and detailed. I started writing it up, and realized that this dream really wanted to be a story. After 3-1/2 pages of transcription, I got an idea for an independent piece based off the dream. After a page of that (it really only needed a page), I realized that there was more story there, and started an outline for that.

The dream itself is a bit intense and personal, so I probably won’t ever post it, but the fiction that’s coming out of it feels pretty solid. Stay tuned for further developments.

-Cat

Being a psycho is a lot of work…

And I decided a new journal with a new look was a good start. Planning on there being some new writing, some dream analysis, psycho ramblings and plenty of the incessant whinging we all know and… well… tolerate.

-PJR