The Unreliable Narrator

I'm now down to three weeks left in Greece. From a starting point of 10 weeks, it doesn't seem like much, but then I remind myself the summer we brought Sennen here we stayed three weeks and were thrilled for the time. Our first stay – which seemed endlessly long – was four weeks. Three weeks is still a chunk of time. Yet, from the perspective of a ten-week stay, all the things I expected for the back-half of my time here have arrived – warmer weather, sunny days, open restaurants, open shops, more people. Ktima Petra has brought back their famous eggplant salad. The island has woken up. It's nowhere near its August full-throttle, but it's not longer cold and sleepy like the day I arrived.

Over seven weeks, it's become clear what I do and don't miss from home. The don't miss list could go long, but the miss list includes cut-up pineapple, other flavors of kombucha, yoga in a real class setting, friends and family up-close and personal and most of all – my kids. I do my best to try to collect the details of their lives and worlds in our FaceTime calls, but I know there are tons of little moments I'm missing – opportunities to learn, teach and love. I want to reach through the screen and touch them, kiss them – and I can't. That's the hardest part.

Without them, everything about my situation with Emily would be easier. I could be hurt and reflect – but I could stop struggling. In fact, I might have stopped struggling long ago. Maybe I wouldn't have struggled at all – maybe at one of many points, I would have stood up for myself, drawn a line and rolled the dice. I had moments I wanted that.

Now, what tortures me is making the right choices for all of us and doing things for real and right reasons.

As I have come back to several times throughout this blog, humans are pattern matching and story telling machines. Stories are our best tool for creating contexts and narratives that in turn direct actions – which can include cooperation or even mass cooperation. Stories both create and justify history. In news and PR people call it "spin" – but the truth is we're spinning things at all levels of our lives, all the time. It's easy to take a set of facts and build a story around them. In fact, you could find five, ten or 100 stories based on those same facts if you tried. Most likely, you would find a group of frontrunner possibilities for what "the right" story is and they may each have a different motivation or purpose underlying.

There were colonizers who truly, wholeheartedly believed they were bringing education, civilization, god and even freedom to the peoples they subjugated. It may actually not have occurred to them that people in those colonies were happier and better off without them – and that the colonial powers were primarily stealing wealth. Imagine what Peru might be if it still had its gold and silver? Imagine if Malaysia had kept it jewels and made money selling its rubber to foreign countries?

We are all those colonizers sometimes. The human mind is very adept at propping itself up – weaving narratives that protect us from pain and overwhelm. The explanations and rationalizations we ascribe to set of facts or events may be just the ones we need to still get out of bed in the morning, or hold our heads up high. In a situation where a relationship or marriage may be dying, one such defense is villainization – thinking of the other person as the worst possible version of themselves. In retrospect, the signs were all there and the other person was just lame or bad.  It's confusing because the signs probably were all there and the bad things did happen. But they didn't stop the show, did they? In our most hurt and disappointed moments, it's hard to remember there may have been enough positive things at the time that we put up with, minimized or overlooked the lurking problems. There may also have been more base needs – financial security, fear of leaving, fear of being alone, fear of being a single parent. 

For me, it has always been the fear of being unlovable. I won't get into the possible reasons why that fear exists – but there's no doubt that it does. The idea that Emily could love me the way she did and then for any reason, simply stop was unbearable. It would confirm every fear of my own deep-ugliness that once the initial charm of me wears off, there is not enough left to love and want. For the many years that Emily's warmth came and went, the only question in my mind was what did I need to give to turn the love back on. What was I willing to trade to make things work – pretty much anything because the price to be paid for losing that love was too much to bear.

What I foolishly failed to see in my strategy is that Emily may not have really needed and wanted all I was willing to give. While on one hand, she willingly took it – on the other she also felt manipulated, perhaps forced into a debt. My generosity and willingness went from traits that drew her to me to the traits that imprisoned her. After all, what kind of an ungrateful ogre do you have to be to not appreciate a spouse who will meet your every whim and need with gusto, no less? 

Emily has often said in couples therapy that I meet every one of her needs and have met every expectation. When she came up with her list of complaints that are inevitable for any couple, I diligently worked my way through them only to find she enjoyed all the changes, but they "didn't move the needle." I believe the reason is because none of them freed her and if anything, just made her feel more imprisoned. I was endlessly willing to invest and even to suppress myself, but that only made her feel more constrained and overrun. 

Perhaps that's where I failed again. Knowing that giving less didn't get us any further than giving more – I stuck with the strategy I hoped she would emulate. I wanted more. At some point, she might follow my example. Emily hated that. To her, it was more manipulation – more expectation. She was trapped – and worse had nothing concrete to say was bad. "He's trapping me by doing everything I ask for," is a hard complaint to make and she struggled with the absurdity of how it sounded – but I think that is how she genuinely felt.

What's worse is that when she would say that I was being controlling or manipulative, it just triggered deep childhood wounds. I felt unseen, misunderstood and failing. I was a bad person who could do no right, instead falling into an ever-deepening ditch. And then I was desperate – giving everything I had to save our love, save our family – but it's hard to love an insecure and desperate person. It may have been a situation with no clean way out – but I decided to solve it by giving more and being loving in the face of her meanness, doubling down on what wasn't working kind of like trying to floor the accelerator to get yourself out of a ditch or mud. There's a shot it might work – but if not, it'll just make things worse, which is what it did.

Of course, right here is a great example of where I may have woven an unreliable story. I've taken a set of facts and events and decided that I was caught without good choices and did the best I could, albeit unhelpful and unsuccessful. That is how it seems to me – but what if there were other options I didn't think of or wasn't ready to acknowledge? Maybe what I saw as investing in the relationship and doing the right thing was indeed just self-serving manipulation and I was the aggressor? Maybe the truly kind and loving thing was to let her go the moment she wanted it? Maybe my trying to save our marriage and family was really the selfish thing because it saved a part of me from incredible pain? Or at least it kept the ultimate pain at bay.

In novel writing, there's something called the unreliable narrator – where the teller of the story, who is essentially a character – has his/her own motivations, faults and foibles and may indeed be slanting the story. Their credibility is compromised. The reader has to begin to question the narrator him or herself. Orhan Pamuk's 2006 Nobel Prize winning novel My Name Is Red is a great example – the narrator addresses the reader directly and explains he is a corpse who was recently murdered. Then it turns out that various chapters are narrated by different characters, each of course with their own bias and slant as the reader works his/her way through the book to find out who the murderer is.

There is no doubt that in this blog I am an unreliable narrator. Moreover, I am the unreliable narrator of my life. As I look to the future, I have to question how and why I'm spinning the stories I am.

Sometimes, as I consider the options – the choices seem myriad. I can usually reduce it down to a few seemingly best choices and then it becomes a question of which narrative is right. I should do whatever I can to make our marriage work if Emily wants that – it's what I vowed, it's the right thing, it solves a ton of problems if we can do it. Or, I would just perpetuate the same bad beliefs and underlying issues that plagued us before. I deserve more and shouldn't settle any longer. A divorce is the right thing for both of us – maybe all of us and I had best get onboard. If Emily and I get divorced, this is my chance to really start living life my way, at the register I want. No more suppressing myself – no living in wait of better times. Or, if Emily and I get divorced, we should live in close proximity and exchange the kids frequently. The kids should know I'm available down the street, even when it's not my turn with them. The idea of my being there gives them stability and feeds our relationship. I'll want to be around on standby in case there's an emergency, too. 

I have facts to support all of these options. I could probably decide on any one of them and feel justified. Later, I would be able to tell myself and others why it was the best choice possible and make that seem right. Maybe I would even be able to sell it to my kids and have it become part of their life narratives.

But they can't all be the best choice.

This tortures me. Last night I was examining options and ideas in my mind and it was like my camera just couldn't focus. There were so many angles, so many options I could choose. They could all be the right photo – or none of them. How could I know it was right and not just self-serving? Maybe some of the options were soothing, but not really the best for the kids and just allowing me out of a hard-to-stomach kind of responsibility? Or maybe the some of the harder-to-stomach options that I would consider because they seem "right"are just me standing on impractical principle – possibly being manipulative, stubborn and not actually contributing to anyone's happiness and well being?

How do I know whether my psyche is conspiring against me? How do I know if my unreliable narrator is being honest or leading me astray?

In my desperation, I turned to one of my wisest friends whose perspective I can always count on to be different than others and extremely well considered. If there are truth bombs, he's a B-2 Stealth Bomber. As always, his counsel was nuanced, depthful and involved – but the heart of it, or perhaps the most actionable item – was that being able to sort through the options would only become more accessible to me by going deeper on my own actions and choices in getting here – not just my reactions to being here. 

As I read his words, my gut churned – which is always a good sign that the other person is right. My mind immediately resisted – I felt I've been revealing about myself and owned what's mine. Reflexive resistance is also a sign someone else is right. Then I realized that while I may have been brief in taking ownership – that revealing my own underlying feelings and motivations in my marriage is so painful and dark, that I preferred to make quick work of it. 

It's not easy to say I was vulnerable and unhealthily accommodating. Or that my attempts to invest in my marriage were also being taken as manipulation and imprisonment – and that I continued doing it, even understanding that perspective. It's harder still to admit that not only do I struggle with the feelings of being unlovable – and that if Emily could love me, and despite all I did could then stop loving me – that it would confirm every worst fear and feeling I have about myself. Or that the prophecy one of my parents gave me at age 15  - that I would have to marry Asian because only a deferent, diminutive girl could stay married to me – would be true in some way. (I recognize there are many problems in that statement) 

Ultimately, I am afraid that I am both too much and not enough. I am too much for someone else to bear and live with – needing too much love, being too much with my presence, overpowering someone else's life and world, being controlling and manipulative  - and just bad. At the same time, I don't have enough to offer. I am not good enough. My love will never be enough. I cannot sustain love. I am not generous or caring enough. I am not attractive enough. I can give everything I have and it will come up short because I am not worthwhile. Who would want to love me as I want to be loved? Who would want to stand by me when I'm vulnerable or at my worst? Who would want to be there for me?

Prophecies come in many forms including self-fulfilling. Choosing someone who is unlikely to want to give and be there for me – and somehow loving them into WANTING to be there for me and seeing the inner me I hope they would find worthwhile would be a giant, healing coup. Not something easily achieved.

In the Imago method of couples counseling – which is what Emily and I underwent – this is the underlying theory of relationships: we choose someone who can resolve our childhood wounds if we can just complete the negotiation and get a different result. This goes both ways and inevitably results in a power struggle that can only be overcome through understanding and compassion for one another – which then allows growth into a deeper, more mature love built on dedication and showing up for each other. But this outcome is far from foreordained and if the power struggle doesn't get resolved, the couple can easily find themselves washed up on the rocks. Their choice of spouse doesn't heal the original wounds and instead aggravates or deepens them.

The theory is nice because if nothing else, it helps depersonalize it. Lots of people experience some version of the same thing – it's not all me. It helps keep it all from feeling absolutely, completely, irrecoverably crushing. There have been many times I have wondered what value I have if after everything I've invested in my relationship with Emily, it doesn't "move the needle." The world then becomes very bleak.

One of the workarounds to not believing someone else would want to be there for me is to decide not to need it. I am highly self-sufficient, maybe it's just easier to be there for myself? That kinda' works until it doesn't because it's not very fulfilling. It prevents hurt and disappointment, but it's not terribly fulfilling.

No, whatever happens next requires me to heal and be open to love again. If not with Emily, then with someone who I choose with smarter and better – more aware of what goes on below the surface. I will need to be more mindful and take more time. I don't need to repeat the same mistakes and replay the same cycles.

Part of the work is applying a lesson I learned from my cousin Laureen after an ex-girlfriend had a psychotic break in my kitchen. I was trying to piece together the things my girlfriend said while she was having her psychotic break – trying to make sense of what was happening, what meaning there was to it all. I shared this with Laureen, a Psychologist, who replied simply, "Eric, a psychotic break is a psychotic break – don't try to make sense of any of it."

I have found that true of many things in life. Sometimes, as much as you want to bring meaning to something, the best thing is to let it lie. What happened with Emily doesn't have to be what will happen in the future. It's not Emily's pieces I need to put together and make sense of, it's mine. 

Besides trying to make that leap from the power struggle to the deeper mature love – my attempts to understand Emily and piece together the narrative of our relationship primarily serve to buffer my psyche. If I can understand and externalize, then I don't have to fall apart – I don't have to be utterly crushed. The worst possible thing hasn't happened to me because there can still be enough room for doubt to keep it a fear or a false prophecy.

Or is it just the work of a clever, unreliable narrator?

We may never know. I am not Master Osman and this is not a Pamuk novel.

Right now is the magic moment that I imagined my camera would focus, the correct choice would illuminate and I would have beat this level of the video game of my life. Nothing yet. But you never know what will come to me in the coming hours, days and weeks. I will continue to try to keep my unreliable narrator honest as I try to do the Right thing while making my way back to my pineapple, all of you and most importantly, my kids.