I had been taught in my counseling courses at Seminary that, generally speaking, men and women listen differently and share differently. When men listen to someone sharing about a problem, they generally want to fix that problem. This is at least in part because men tend to share what is bothering them when they are wanting advice themselves, we were taught. So they expect that when women are sharing, it is because they are wanting advice as well. In contrast, women share for support. So women know that when another woman is sharing something with them, they are wanting to be heard, to be understood. If a woman wants advice, she usually will state that, "I am wanting your advice", or she will ask a man. Until men and women figure out this difference in the way we communicate and the way we listen, it can create real problems between the genders. Women often feel insulted by the advice or the obvious statements that men make in response to their sharing because they feel the advice or common sense statements belittle them. We hear the advice as a commentary on our ability to make our own decisions, to see things clearly or to be able to work through a problem. We talk because we are processing out loud, not because we are children who need help. In contrast, men can sometimes misread the fact that women don't offer advice as women not having insight or opinions as to what should be done in a certain situation. We have opinions, I can assure you, but we trust you to make your own choices and feel it would be insulting to try to tell you what you should do.
This is what I was taught. And my own experience has been that this is accurate. I definitely need to process out loud. But when my expressions of struggle, hurt, or pain are met with
advice, or worse, with a "just don't feel that way", or worst of all, stating the obvious, "well, you just need to make a decision", my response is usually further hurt and anger. I wasn't asking advice, thank you very much. Telling me to "get over it" is not going to make the feelings just go away. And stating the obvious makes me feel like you see me as completely incapable of seeing the nose on my face.
However, yesterday, as I found myself in several different conversations about listening, I heard all of this differently. I'm no longer convinced that the differences in the way people listen is as simple as "some want advice and therefore give advice while others want to be heard so they hear." I realized that sometimes our boundaries, or lack of boundaries are the deeper issue. Sometimes when we have poor boundaries, we give advice as a way of shutting people down because their pain hurts us. If I tell you what to do, I no longer need to listen. If I can sum it up in a few words, there is nothing more that needs to be said. I can then move on from the pain that you are experiencing which is also hurting me. I can dismiss the problem as "solved." I can make an artificial boundary of "I've solved this problem therefore it no longer exists" rather than working to build an appropriate boundary of "This is you, and I am me. I can love you and care for you without being torn apart by the pain that you are experiencing. I can be with you in your pain and I can walk this journey with you without needing to shut it down, end the feelings, or withdraw."
A personal example: It is part of my job to listen to folk. That is a part of my work that I really enjoy. I like hearing how people are, I enjoy being with people as they live their lives and go through their lives. I feel truly blessed and honored by being able to provide the pastoral care and counseling that is a large part of my work. It is not only easy for me to listen, but a real joy for me to do so. I can reflect back, ask questions that I hope will help them think differently about their situation, and sometimes offer a different way of looking at a situation. I am never tempted to offer advice. But my boundaries feel very clear in that situation. In contrast, when my children share with me their pain, I often find myself jumping into "fix it" mode. Their pain physically hurts me. I want it to stop. I find it difficult to tolerate their hurting. So I shove it away by trying to tell them what to do so they won't hurt anymore (so I won't hurt anymore for them). Sometimes I have stepped in where I shouldn't. Often I have given advice when it was not wanted, sought or needed. I don't have the same good emotional boundaries with my children, and as a result, I often react differently, in unhelpful, and occasionally hurtful ways. My lack of good boundaries with my kids cause me to fail to hear well when I am listening to them. Instead, I try to "fix" it. It doesn't help. It makes it worse for my kids who want someone to hear them. But it is because they are hurting, and because I am therefore also hurting, that I don't handle their sharing well.
As I thought about this, I found myself reflecting on other similar situations. When I was giving birth to my second child, I was in so much pain (yes, the reality of childbirth) that it was almost unbearable. Despite what the experts say about forgetting the pain once the baby is born, it was bad enough that I do remember it. What I remember even more, however, was that my husband became overwhelmed with
my pain. He was not able to have a good boundary around my pain, and
he broke down. The midwife who was working with us shut that down fast, however. She said to him, "You have to get a grip! She has to go through this. She has to. The end result will be beautiful but she has to go through this to get there. There is nothing you can do about that. But if you start focusing on the pain that her hurting is causing you, you are no longer with her to support her. You become your own needy island and no one is helping anyone else. She needs your support right now! You have to get out of yourself and how much her pain hurts you and you need to be the support person she needs in this moment! Get a grip!"
When I was studying anthropology in college, one of the classes I took required us to read a book about a tribal culture in which the boundaries between people were not so confused as they sometimes are here. People in this tribe were incredibly happy, they didn't complain but laughed a great deal and focused on the good rather than problems. The author described a man who had a serious cut in his leg that needed stitches. There was no anesthesia so each stitch was painful. His wife held his hand throughout the process and supported him with her love, with her smiles, with her care. But the anthropologist who wrote about it noted that if a similar situation had happened in the United States, the wife would have flinched and probably cried out herself every time her husband was gripped with the pain of a stitch. She might even have excused herself, unable to stand watching her husband suffer in this way. She would not have been able to stay present and strong with him without being traumatized by his pain. But in this tribal culture, where boundaries are clearer, she was able to be a support without experiencing the pain herself. As a result, her presence was a huge help to him and carried him through the experience.
I recently saw a youtube video in which a couple fathers were in a grocery store with a couple children who were having temper tantrums because they wanted candy that the fathers would not give to them. Again, with our lack of boundaries, the normal reaction when our children act up in the grocery store is to grab at them, sometimes harshly, because we are embarrassed. We try to get them to stop the tantrum because our lack of boundaries tells us that this reflects badly on US. What is interesting is that our attempts to shut them up usually increase the length of the tantrum, the severity of the tantrum, and their inclination to repeat it when they don't get what they want again; after all, it successfully upset us. But in this video, the fathers really remained calm. They clearly stated "no" and stood watching the kids throwing the tantrums, but they didn't allow themselves to get upset or embarrassed or even angry with the kids. They didn't abuse the kids, they didn't walk away from the kids, they didn't threaten the kids, but they also were clear that they weren't giving in. There was a clear sense of boundary: the fathers did not take on the embarrassment or shame of the kids' behavior. It wasn't the fathers' bad behavior after all, it was the kids' behavior and they understood that. And what was interesting is that the kids themselves became quickly embarrassed about their own behaviors and ended the tantrums, again with very little time, themselves.
One final example. I know two couples who have this boundary issue in another way. When one person in the couple says something that the other feels is wrong or stupid, the one hearing the comment responds with embarrassment and sharp critique of their spouse. They are unable to remember that their spouse is not a reflection on themselves. And, as with the other examples, their lack of boundaries and the subsequent harsh critique of their spouse then leads to others seeing them as unkind. They are treating their partner meanly and everyone sees that. While they are trying to avoid the judgment they believe will come their way from the comments made by their spouses, they are instead incurring judgment for their attempts to "correct" their partners, especially in this public way. While trying to avoid embarrassment, they are bringing shame on themselves as those around them watch this painful interaction.
What is ironic about all of this is that those with stronger boundaries, and a clearer sense of what is mine and what is yours are often also the people who see more fully how interconnected we all are. Those are the very people who often really understand that we must care for all people in all things if any of us hope to be okay as individuals. Somehow that clear sense of boundaries, of where I start and end also allows people to be more open to the understanding that under all of it, we are still one.
All of this leads back to where I began, with the way we talk and listen to one another. I think we would be better at hearing and supporting those we love if we were able to step back a little and be okay with witnessing (and experiencing) pain. As with my story about childbirth, most pain must be gone
through in order to come out to the gifts on the other side. Shoving pain down does not get rid of it, it does not end it, it does not solve it. We have to deepen into those hard feelings in order to come through to the other side. Even if we cannot set up a boundary that allows us to be with others without experiencing their pain, perhaps we can find ways to go through it with them rather than trying to just make it go away.
In my spirituality circles, there has been a great deal of focus lately on our desire to avoid the darkness, to avoid the unpleasant and uncomfortable, rather than facing it, feeling it and dealing with it. But everytime we do that, the darkness has a way of making itself bigger until it finally has our attention. I'm reminded of J.K. Rowling's
Fantastical Beasts. The magic that is repressed became an evil force. Our feelings, when repressed, do damage. Our dark sides, when avoided rather than faced, grow into monsters within us. We see this again and again as those people who condemn something in others are caught in those actions themselves (our politicians who speak so harshly against LGBTQ folk being caught in homosexual liaisons, for example). When we cannot face within us what we do not value, do not like, what we condemn: when we cannot look with honesty at all of who we are, those parts of us we try to squish or stomp down tend to reappear in frightening and destructive ways. Scott Peck, in his book,
People of the Lie, says that we do evil when we cannot face something in ourselves so we put it out there onto others and work to destroy it in the other. If we want to be people of light, people of love, people of hope, we have to be willing to look hard at those parts of ourselves we condemn and to work with them and through them.
We can start by listening to others, really listening, rather than trying to 'fix' what others are going through. We do them no favors by failing to truly support them. Nor do we aid in their recovery by encouraging them to suppress and stomp out their feelings. We also do great damage to ourselves by denying the reality of unwanted feelings, unwanted thoughts and unwanted pain. We have to step through. There is no other way. "Can't go under it, can't go around it, guess I'll have to go through it" as the children's song tells us. The pain we and our loved ones experience is not pleasant, but it is an opportunity to grow, to work through problems in a different way, to move forward in our journeys towards wholeness. The journeys are easier if we travel them together. But that starts with a commitment to listening and being present, even with those things we would rather not know, rather not hear, and especially, rather not feel.
