How to be intimate
Avoidance of emotional intimacy isn't a great place to be as random meetings sometimes prove.
In the second of my short essays on the topic of disconnection, I’m exploring how the way we see ourselves and the baked-in beliefs we have about what we like don’t always align with reality, and how we need to be open-minded enough to see an opportunity for positive change when we see it.
Since I began to think about disconnection I’ve noticed the topic cropping up all over my writing, and I haven’t even started on the impact adult ASD diagnosis had on my understanding of my patterns of relating.
In short, this may turn out to be a slightly longer series of posts than I had anticipated because I’m learning from an earlier version of myself here and that feels pretty good.
I hope there’s value here for you too and, if so, do feel free to share in the comments.
We're driving down the motorway to Brighton.
I'm attending a conference on Attachment theory and how our developmental experiences shape relational patterns and difficulties with emotional intimacy in adulthood. It's unclear whether I’m going for professional or personal reasons.
The rest of my family are going for a walk with the dogs and having lunch in a pub.
My daughter is in the back of the car plugged into her iPad, the dog is looking out of the window, and my wife is asking me to summarise Attachment theory in the final few miles before we reach the city.
“I don’t think I can do Attachment theory justice in ten minutes,” I tell her.
My daughter offers help from the back seat and so I leave her to talk about “The Love Quiz” by Hazan & Shaver and Harlow’s “Strange Situation” experiment while I worry that the bonnet on the car isn't securely attached having seen it flap about alarmingly in a particularly strong gust of wind moments earlier.
“What’s your attachment style then?” My wife asks, unwilling to let it go and leading me down a road I don’t want to walk.
“Fearful avoidant,” I tell her, and the irony of my unwillingness to discuss it further is not lost on me.
“I wonder what mine is?” she says.
“You should ask your therapist. That’s the best place to talk about it.” I tell her.
“Maybe I’ll email her in advance so she can think about it.”
“She won’t need to think about it,” I say pulling over to check that the bonnet isn’t about to fly up obscuring the windscreen and causing a catastrophic fatal accident.
They drop me off and, to avoid being too early and having to 'network' I buy myself an expensive and disappointing coffee and browse a stall of cheap sunglasses sheltering from the rain before making my way up the hill to the venue.
I often find other therapists (people) hard work. They can be intrusive (interested) when all I want to do is listen to the presentations, think about how to moderate attachment styles that tend to make people think you're aloof and disinterested, and then get out without talking to anyone.
There are no seats left on the outer edges of rows so I am forced to sit next to a lady who has travelled from Guilford and is making a weekend of it with her husband.
Through the morning's presentations, I think a lot about my parents, both of whom displayed avoidant attachment of the dismissive variety. I wondered how they'd been treated by their parents, and how they learned, if indeed they ever did, that they were valuable and lovable.
Perhaps they found in one another a person who would not challenge them to get closer than felt comfortable despite a closeness they must have craved.
Was my mother looking to me for a love she couldn’t get from my dad, or was she so occupied with the fights they had that she was unavailable?
We are asked to share with the person sitting next to us a moment of intimacy from our personal therapy, a time when something risky was offered which opened something in us.
I overshare with the lady from Guilford and find myself not only telling her about a moment but providing the backdrop of depression, suicidal ideation and my time in a psychiatric unit.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she says, like a therapist might.
At lunchtime, I eat the sandwich provided and take off down the road to “Infinity Foods” to buy rye flour I don’t need just to avoid making small talk.
In the afternoon there is a presentation about a client desperate for intimacy but simultaneously terrified of it and a comment is made about how we tend to revert to our fundamental pattern at times of trauma.
I think about the end of relationships and how I have invariably felt completely abandoned, and the way that neediness and desperation create a self-fulfilling prophecy of solitude.
I think too about how when I am at my most frightened I choose to be alone.
I make notes about my clients. Some need to be found and acknowledged, some to be separate so that they can thrive, and some just want to feel safe. Some need all three.
At the end of the day, the lady from Guilford turns to me and says,
'It’s been lovely meeting you and I’m so glad I sat next to you. It really made it a very enjoyable and informative day.'
'I'm glad I sat next to you too, and I hope you have a lovely weekend in Brighton.'
Walking back to the car park to meet my family, I think about how such a fundamental part of my enjoyable day had been the lady from Guildford, how I didn't introduce myself to her or even ask her name.
This week on ‘Sideways’ we’re talking about what the clothes we wear might say about us and how our clothes have an impact on the way we feel in the same way that the way we feel might influence what we wear.
In other news, a woman tries to take out a loan with the help of a corpse, we reminisce about bicycle clips, and ask, ‘Is it OK to wear pyjamas in the supermarket?’
That’s all for this week. Thanks for being here, I appreciate you.
See you next time.
This really resonated with me, especially the part about wanting to listen and learn but avoiding the "networking" aspect. The conference on attachment styles sounds fascinating, but I can totally see how being surrounded by therapists could feel overwhelming!
The ending with the lady from Guildford was a nice surprise. Even a small interaction can make a difference, even if it's outside our comfort zone. Thanks for sharing this personal story!