The Ghosts of Living
What to do with all these ghosts?
Not just the ghosts of the dead - although they are difficult enough, since they often refuse to stay in their graves and haunt our associations and decisions, whether we like it or not.
No, there's a wide world of ghosts out there, sending echoes through our lives like Jacob Marley's wails, and many of those specters are reflections of the living. The things that we've been and done resonate in others and reverberate into the future farther than we imagine. Sometimes we sense this when relationships are young and intense; we know we're changed forever, but when things go wrong we try to forget. We think we need to forget, or that we can forget those things that seem too painful to remember. But there is more than pain at stake.
When I was a child, I used to wonder what it was that made the adults in my life seem so haunted. I didn't understand what made their lips set in grim lines or what it was they were trying not to think about while they sat at home. I knew they worried about work, and that plenty of their time was taken up by having to deal with other dysfunctional adults. But I didn't know about the wraithly experiences that hovered around my elders like cigarette smoke - the demons they might have tried to exorcise, but couldn't.
They'd learned about the dead and the rituals of mourning, and the ways to keep going after others fell. They knew the names of the dearly departed. But they didn't know what to do with all the other ghosts that couldn't be prayed away or purged forever.
I've found myself in similar shoes as time has progressed, but instead of denying them, I have taken to examining the specters with which I live. Cataloging them, if you will, and tracing their effects.
The relationships that used to mean the most to you and that used to take up the greater portion of your life leave strong impressions. And I'm not just talking about the friendships and romances that ended with death (though you might have thought they would have been 'till death do us part'). The unions that withered on the vine or exploded into storms that razed everything to ashes leave phantoms to be reckoned with. They send you visions of the way things used to be, from the smallest and most personal details to the largest and most public functions. They chill you with floating bits of conversations that can't be changed and break your heart with moments that can't be fixed.
The dreams that you once cherished and the goals that seemed attainable don't always bear themselves out the way you envisioned. Many of them curdle in utero, or after a few feeble attempts at life. Others die hard, fighting every step to a shallow grave. And these things you used to think you'd be or you used to think were essential to your being, they linger around the things you say and the way you see yourself for years to come. "I used to want to be a writer, but..." The ruins of former expectations become deep, black marks for the visiting team on your scoreboard of life. "I could have done so much more." They suck the joy out of your sense of your own possibilities.
But perhaps most disconcerting is becoming aware of the phantoms of your former self - the people you used to be but really aren't anymore. Enough has changed that you can't re-immerse yourself in the high school years, or even the way you lived five years ago. You remember the things you went through and the people you were with, but the person you are has undergone enough changes to effectively make the old molds untenable. Maybe the 16 year old you was sweeter, or the 18 year old was sexier, or the 23 year old you was more fun. Maybe the 19 year old you did things you simply cannot fathom, even now, and the 31 year old you believes things that old versions of yourself would despise. But these former incarnations travel with you - they are what friends remember and what lovers count on, and even what families demand - and they make commentary on the present. This spectral chorus measures, beckons, and berates, creating the soundtrack of your life.
Not one church or shrink ever warned me about such things. Not one.
But I've learned about the daemons of living by observing how I've approached them, and how others have wrestled with them.
I watched most people try to ignore their ghosts, to little effect. They follow you through the music and movies and chatter you use to block them out. One moment of silence, and you'll know they're still there, in the dark and the shadows and the lonely spaces. They fill fun parties with foul music and drive you from your bed. They wait for you at the end of every drug binge.
I've seen others try to lash out, and I used to think that it was at the world around them, but I've come to see that they were trying to strike at all the shadowy elements just out of reach. The plans that didn't pan out, the families that crumbled, the shining fantasies of youth - losing those things can make you mad enough without their echoes dogging your heels. And it doesn't seem like a fair deal, since they can hurt you but you can't seem to hurt them in return. Your hatred and bile can't touch them. Your force means nothing. Their force can seem to mean everything.
In an era of sideseat psychology and self-help gurus, some have managed to reckon with one of their poltergeists at a time. I felt accomplished when I first started doing this for myself. But I was taught that I was dealing with dead issues and old habits that must pass away to be a part of the natural order - so it felt like backsliding when the old ghosts would return again. And after years of this one step forward, two steps back routine, I have come to a place where I question not only the terms and the methods, but the goals of "moving on" the way that many understand it..
Can I ever expect to live without some remnant of my former selves informing my decisions? Is it sane to believe that old loves can successfully be left behind, when old situations inevitably come round again? Has shoving the discomfort aside ever truly helped me come to terms with the ghosts that hang in the ether?
Toward the end of 2008, I felt alone in a world full of echoes I wasn't sure I could bear. I lived in a house I had shared for years with someone I loved, and ached for the beloved routines that were so thoroughly broken. None of the old methods or platitudes I'd tried could address my condition, but it was then that the ghosts of life were most apparent. It seemed like they were everywhere I went, and it was only when I started to think about the dead aspects of life in new terms that I felt anything resembling peace.
But since then, I have been thoughtfully learning to live with my ghosts. I recognize the old parts of me and the dreams I once had, and I approach them with interest. I want to trace how they've continued to affect me. I want to acknowledge their affects and to encourage some visits more than others. I want to see the puzzle pieces coming together to form a whole, and I want to treat them with the respect that such mysteries deserve.
The ghosts with which I live cannot be changed - but they have changed me. I have gotten nowhere by denying them, but I might just get somewhere by inviting them along for the ride.
Not just the ghosts of the dead - although they are difficult enough, since they often refuse to stay in their graves and haunt our associations and decisions, whether we like it or not.
No, there's a wide world of ghosts out there, sending echoes through our lives like Jacob Marley's wails, and many of those specters are reflections of the living. The things that we've been and done resonate in others and reverberate into the future farther than we imagine. Sometimes we sense this when relationships are young and intense; we know we're changed forever, but when things go wrong we try to forget. We think we need to forget, or that we can forget those things that seem too painful to remember. But there is more than pain at stake.
When I was a child, I used to wonder what it was that made the adults in my life seem so haunted. I didn't understand what made their lips set in grim lines or what it was they were trying not to think about while they sat at home. I knew they worried about work, and that plenty of their time was taken up by having to deal with other dysfunctional adults. But I didn't know about the wraithly experiences that hovered around my elders like cigarette smoke - the demons they might have tried to exorcise, but couldn't.
They'd learned about the dead and the rituals of mourning, and the ways to keep going after others fell. They knew the names of the dearly departed. But they didn't know what to do with all the other ghosts that couldn't be prayed away or purged forever.
I've found myself in similar shoes as time has progressed, but instead of denying them, I have taken to examining the specters with which I live. Cataloging them, if you will, and tracing their effects.
The relationships that used to mean the most to you and that used to take up the greater portion of your life leave strong impressions. And I'm not just talking about the friendships and romances that ended with death (though you might have thought they would have been 'till death do us part'). The unions that withered on the vine or exploded into storms that razed everything to ashes leave phantoms to be reckoned with. They send you visions of the way things used to be, from the smallest and most personal details to the largest and most public functions. They chill you with floating bits of conversations that can't be changed and break your heart with moments that can't be fixed.
The dreams that you once cherished and the goals that seemed attainable don't always bear themselves out the way you envisioned. Many of them curdle in utero, or after a few feeble attempts at life. Others die hard, fighting every step to a shallow grave. And these things you used to think you'd be or you used to think were essential to your being, they linger around the things you say and the way you see yourself for years to come. "I used to want to be a writer, but..." The ruins of former expectations become deep, black marks for the visiting team on your scoreboard of life. "I could have done so much more." They suck the joy out of your sense of your own possibilities.
But perhaps most disconcerting is becoming aware of the phantoms of your former self - the people you used to be but really aren't anymore. Enough has changed that you can't re-immerse yourself in the high school years, or even the way you lived five years ago. You remember the things you went through and the people you were with, but the person you are has undergone enough changes to effectively make the old molds untenable. Maybe the 16 year old you was sweeter, or the 18 year old was sexier, or the 23 year old you was more fun. Maybe the 19 year old you did things you simply cannot fathom, even now, and the 31 year old you believes things that old versions of yourself would despise. But these former incarnations travel with you - they are what friends remember and what lovers count on, and even what families demand - and they make commentary on the present. This spectral chorus measures, beckons, and berates, creating the soundtrack of your life.
Not one church or shrink ever warned me about such things. Not one.
But I've learned about the daemons of living by observing how I've approached them, and how others have wrestled with them.
I watched most people try to ignore their ghosts, to little effect. They follow you through the music and movies and chatter you use to block them out. One moment of silence, and you'll know they're still there, in the dark and the shadows and the lonely spaces. They fill fun parties with foul music and drive you from your bed. They wait for you at the end of every drug binge.
I've seen others try to lash out, and I used to think that it was at the world around them, but I've come to see that they were trying to strike at all the shadowy elements just out of reach. The plans that didn't pan out, the families that crumbled, the shining fantasies of youth - losing those things can make you mad enough without their echoes dogging your heels. And it doesn't seem like a fair deal, since they can hurt you but you can't seem to hurt them in return. Your hatred and bile can't touch them. Your force means nothing. Their force can seem to mean everything.
In an era of sideseat psychology and self-help gurus, some have managed to reckon with one of their poltergeists at a time. I felt accomplished when I first started doing this for myself. But I was taught that I was dealing with dead issues and old habits that must pass away to be a part of the natural order - so it felt like backsliding when the old ghosts would return again. And after years of this one step forward, two steps back routine, I have come to a place where I question not only the terms and the methods, but the goals of "moving on" the way that many understand it..
Can I ever expect to live without some remnant of my former selves informing my decisions? Is it sane to believe that old loves can successfully be left behind, when old situations inevitably come round again? Has shoving the discomfort aside ever truly helped me come to terms with the ghosts that hang in the ether?
Toward the end of 2008, I felt alone in a world full of echoes I wasn't sure I could bear. I lived in a house I had shared for years with someone I loved, and ached for the beloved routines that were so thoroughly broken. None of the old methods or platitudes I'd tried could address my condition, but it was then that the ghosts of life were most apparent. It seemed like they were everywhere I went, and it was only when I started to think about the dead aspects of life in new terms that I felt anything resembling peace.
But since then, I have been thoughtfully learning to live with my ghosts. I recognize the old parts of me and the dreams I once had, and I approach them with interest. I want to trace how they've continued to affect me. I want to acknowledge their affects and to encourage some visits more than others. I want to see the puzzle pieces coming together to form a whole, and I want to treat them with the respect that such mysteries deserve.
The ghosts with which I live cannot be changed - but they have changed me. I have gotten nowhere by denying them, but I might just get somewhere by inviting them along for the ride.