Prickly

I hesitate to say that I am a prickly person. It has long been my belief that to label oneself as some particular kind of person is to make such a thing more completely true and less subject to change. For instance, those who call themselves "shy" or "angry" or "lazy" seem to me to be giving in to being these and not allowing for the possibility of being bold, kind, or ambitious.

But I think I'm probably pretty prickly.

It's not that I'm an old grump, though I can be that at times; mostly I'm not. But I hold people at arm's length and don't even know I'm doing it most of the time. It has become more and more clear to me the further I pursue this path that the reason for this is that somewhere deep within me I believe that people are not trustworthy.

Now, before you try to convince me otherwise, to demonstrate to me that you and nearly everyone else is indeed trustworthy, let me preemptively say this: I know. I know that people are, generally speaking, pretty trustworthy. I know that the world is, generally speaking, a pretty safe place. But that is my higher mind, and it's my higher mind you would be speaking to if you tried to talk me into trusting. Like it or not, though, it is that primitive part of my mind that is mostly in control of these feelings and reactions. To it, there simply is no percentage in trust. And from the perspective of that reptilian brain it is correct: the world is unsafe, dangerous, hostile and frequently fatal; why should I trust? Assuming that everything is a threat is the most certain way to meet every threat with preparedness, n'est- ce pas?

Of course, this primitive mind fails to even consider, nonetheless comprehend, the suffering that proceeds from such a belief system. That actual threat is rare in our current world is entirely irrelevant to the way of thinking that believes only constant vigilance can ensure I will not be taken unaware when a threat comes.

There is a question which is often posed in recovery circles, the answer to which is supposed to be obvious, "Would you rather be happy or right?" This morning I realized that the answer for me is quite often, "Right." To be honest, I would rather be right. No, really. Being right is important to me. Letting someone believe something that is wrong is some sort of sin in my twisted little world. Calling "bullshit" when I see bullshit is as reflexive as flinching when something as thrown at my face. In some cases this can be a form of integrity, maybe even quite often. But it might also just be the need to be right.

Which makes me kinda prickly, doesn't it?
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Now, I don't want you to think that what I am about to say is self-pitying. I have wanted to talk about this in the blog for a while but have been reluctant because I don't want to seem as if I am feeling sorry for myself. I really am not.

You see, for some time I have realized that most people have (or at least seem to have) a great many friends that they call on or see with some frequency. I don't. I sometimes envy them their cadre, but most often I am very content to be by myself. Nonetheless, as a symptom of something, of this prickliness (hmm, it just occurred to me that the noun form of the adjective "prickly" might be "prick"; no comment), this lack might well be significant. And I know it has to do with trust.

I have had the experience (as have many of us) of abandonment. I am not going to do an armchair analysis of myself, at least not here, but I know that if you disappoint me, I will simply turn away. This is not fair or reasonable, but is one of my most deep-seated characteristics. And before you can reject me, I will reject you; ha! beat you to it! Or, closer to the truth: you can't push me out of somewhere I never consented to go, like your heart, your friendship, your trust, or your love. No, thanks just the same.

I'm not unfriendly, I know that about myself. I am quite often cheerful, helpful, kind, considerate and encouraging. I genuinely like being around people. But I can't afford to let any of you get too close. I have had too many experiences of wanting that and opening to it only to be turned away. It hurts less to avoid it altogether. This has become entirely reflexive; I have no idea I am even doing it, so the lack of intimacy seems to be coming from outside of me rather than inside. Oh, my, now that does sound self-pitying. This is so hard to talk about without sounding that way, but it's really not true. How can I explain? Should I try?

I am more of a cat than a dog, I guess. Cats can be social if they choose, but have very sharp lines of demarcation (called claws) that determine just how social they will be and put a period to any intimacy extending beyond that boundary. There is nothing wrong with this; they are just expressing their catness. Dogs are social by nature and thrive only in that arena. Their only limit to sociability seems to be the word, "more". I could never be a dog.

Which, I know, makes me...well...prickly. So be it.

But....

But what if this is just another form of suffering? Franz Kafka said, "You can hold back from the suffering of the world, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could have avoided."

Michael de Montaigne said, "The man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears." Hmm.

Perhaps yet more telling, Ram Dass says, "We must go beyond the intellect into the silence of our intuitive hearts, where separation disappears and knowledge gives way to wisdom."

So this is all a matter of fear, or so it seems to me. I am afraid. We are all afraid. Afraid of what? I don't think we really know. The kind of pain we feel most commonly is precisely the kind that is no real threat to us. Our primitive minds can't differentiate one kind of pain from another, though. Pain is threat. Unhappiness is pain. It is to be avoided. Loss of intimacy leads to unhappiness leads to pain. To not be intimate is much safer. An odd and unsatisfying formula, I admit.

Stephen Levine: "Float your pain in an ocean of mercy."

[I can feel myself avoiding the inevitable next conclusion. I want to close the blog and publish this post (or, better yet, don't) and go on with my day. I can feel the closing in of the intellect around the feeling.]

Laura van Dernoot Lipsky: "If we are truly to know joy, we cannot afford to shut down our experience of pain."

I would rather not be prickly. I don't know how to be otherwise. I have been this way most of my life. It feels safe and reasonable and right. In nature, all those prickles have a use, a purpose. They allow for the safety necessary to the flowering of the potential of what lies within. Can that be true of me?