Last night, I walked out of a particularly challenging graduate class for the last time. All assignments turned in, final presentation complete, no more readings to pump out. I was slightly relieved, but there was no joy. I had taken on something that was probably a bit over my head considering my lack of background knowledge on the subject matter and also the reality of taking a graduate class while pretty much full-time. I expected some joy in completion, but did not feel it as I printed my final paper, or even as I walked out of the classroom for the final time. There was some slight relief that it was over, a knowledge that my grade would probably be okay, and the conviction that perhaps I had not done my best work.
What bothered me was how familiar the feeling was. I knew it after certain athletic seasons. I felt it after my first year of teaching. I felt it after certain relationships with girls ended. And I knew it certain times when I have moved from one place to the other. One of my younger sisters once told me that I was the most detached member of the family.
For whatever reasons, this has been one of the biggest realizations I have had this year. I never could have imagined how pervasive this is in my life. I have speculated about why this is, and I have a few answers (mostly stemming from family systems and broken relationships with girls), but I am looking for more. Obviously, I am not the only person to detach emotionally; it is common particularly among men. But I think it is a response to cover up and avoid pain. To escape the messiness of intimacy. One of the things I have often said is, "It's not complicated." And from my vantage point of detachment, whatever "it" is, usually isn't complicated.
But the problem with this way of living is that I don't have joy or a sense of accomplishment when I walk out of a class because I have detached and endured long before. We cannot turn these things on and off as we please. I don't cry through funerals. Weddings hardly affect me. Little moves me, if I'm honest. I hate the question, "How are you?" because I don't know the answer. I say I'm fine, like most other detached people do.
There are certainly people on the other end of the spectrum. Sometimes these people get described as dramatic or hysterical or codependent. I am not glorifying that; neither extreme is where we want to be. I recall a conversation a few months ago about which is more important, reason or emotion? I think the answer is both. I'm seeing a band play this weekend called The Head and the Heart. I don't know much about their music (my friends do, though), admittedly, but I think they're onto something with their name. Healthy living is when the head and the heart--reason and emotion--are connected. We were created with both; it's not accidental.
But how do we break out of this? How do we find our way back out of mere existence to a more fully alive life?
2 comments:
This reminds me of a persistent problem I had while in school. I had tremendous trouble giving most of my classes my best effort. I knew how to do enough work to get the best grade possible but I felt disconnected with the classes--I rarely engaged in class discussions, etc. even if the topic intrigued me. To this day, I really do not know why I was never able to imitate the intrigue and connection other students had with the class.
I used to think it was an example of my laziness or waning interest in the class but reading your post I think it is similar to the lack of attachment. My unattachment, perhaps, was not as easily split into a heart vs. mind dilemma. But something in me refused attachment, and I think it was my emotions that sought being unattached the most.
Similarly, I hear a lot of talk about "emotional distance" in psychology and how healthy it is for you. It would be interesting to explore the differences between "emotional distance" and "emotional unattachment"
Sometimes it is the valley of the shadow of death, or at least part of the journey is there.
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