Powerful emotions come and go, so it’s worth noting if one stays

By David McElroy · December 17, 2018

Some feelings are here today and gone tomorrow. For someone who feels as much as I do — and who can easily have great waves of emotion wash over me without warning — one of the most important lessons of life is not to get too attached to any fleeting emotion.

I can fall in love with a new idea and then get cold on it a few days later. I can hate something I’ve made and then decide two weeks later that it was actually quite good. I’ve learned not to get upset as those feelings come and go.

The only thing my mind seems to take too seriously to allow feelings to come and go is romantic love. I’ve certainly had a couple of mild infatuations which I tried to talk myself into being love, but I always really know the difference. The real proof is when my stubborn heart refuses to let go of love which isn’t convenient.

Let me tell you about a dream I had awhile back.

Wherever I was in the dream, it didn’t seem like a real place. It was more like a vast blackness with no end in any direction, and it was as though I was floating in this space. I was very aware of a painful tugging on my chest. I could feel that it was coming from what looked like a silver thread or cord that was physically attached to me near the center of my chest.

Something was pulling hard on the other end of this cord. Every pull yanked at me and seriously damaged me, so I was scared and in a lot of pain. I didn’t know what it was, but I just wanted to break the cord so it would quit hurting. It seemed quite small, so it seemed reasonable that I could just snap it easily, as you might a piece of sewing thread. But when I tried to break it, I found that it was made of something so strong that it didn’t even stretch or bend or show any effect from my efforts.

A voice from behind me said, “You can’t break that thread. It’s an unbreakable philotic cord. You will have to live with that connection in place.”

Since I know that a “philotic connection” is a fictional concept — from the science fiction novels of Orson Scott Card — I know that it had to be a metaphor, but in the dream it seemed very real. I wanted to turn and look at the place where the voice was coming from, but I knew that I wasn’t allowed to turn, because I would see God’s face if I did. I suddenly understood what the cord was.

It tied me to a woman. The voice which I identified as God was firm but kind and loving. He knew it hurt, but it wasn’t going to go away.

That sounds miserable. (It is miserable.) But I have to celebrate it anyway, as strange as that sounds.

Since I know feelings can come and go, it’s comforting that my heart is committed to some few things whether they’re convenient or not. Why do I celebrate this? Because it’s my way of knowing what’s real and what’s just passing fancy.

I don’t like hurting. I don’t like longing for love I can’t have. I don’t enjoy obsessing about what might have been. But at least I can be certain this love is real — and that’s something no one can take away from me.

I’ve never gotten over real love easily when I could no longer have it. The only thing that’s ever allowed me to get over love is finding a new love which is even greater. That’s hard to imagine now, but I have to believe there is someone out there who I can love even more — who can finally break this bond which I haven’t been able to kill on my own.

For tonight, though, I quietly celebrate something which I know is real and true and genuine. Romantic love in this world is often based on sexual attraction or social prestige or mere habit. None of those will last. None of those mean anything in the long run.

I know I have something — for now, at least — that’s as real as love can get. It might be painful. It might be inconvenient. It might leave me lonely. But it’s the kind of genuine love and connection with another heart which poets and painters and sculptors and movie characters all long for.

I can say I’ve genuinely loved with my whole heart — and I don’t think many people have experienced that. So I celebrate a warm and open and imperfect heart that’s full of love for an imperfect woman, even if it hurts for now.

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Years ago, I heard a question that seemed very insightful at the time. You’ve probably heard it, too. What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail? The question is intended to help you uncover things you really want to do, but which you’re afraid to try — for fear of failure. In an interview today, I heard the great marketing guru Seth Godin give a different point of view. He said the better question is to ask what you would do even if you knew it would fail. That struck me as far more insightful than the original version. We ought to be doing what we know is right, not what will maximize our success or praise from others. There are some battles that are worth fighting even if you believe you’re doomed to failure. Those battles are often for love or important ideas or our children. Some things are simply worth fighting for — and the truth is that you might win anyway. Do the right thing. Take the chance.

The more I understand about myself, about human nature and about the nature of reality, the more I realize I’m a radical by the standards of both Modernism and Postmodernism. Seeing the things which I’m stumbling toward makes me an enemy of many of the core ideas upon which contemporary culture is built. It exposes the culture as a monstrous lie — like a dangerous infection that’s slowly destroying what human were created to be. My “inner observer” has always known that truth was found in the ideas of the Enlightenment, but I’m slowly finding words to explain what has merely been instinct until now. The Enlightenment was humanity’s great leap forward, but shallow and arrogant thinkers for the next two centuries threw away the fruits of that achievement. We can’t go forward as a species until we go back to correct this intellectual and spiritual error — and part of that is acknowledging that our collective attempts to do away with our Creator will always fail.

I’ve come to believe that some of us — including me — aren’t very good at knowing how to be happy. I don’t mean that in the sense that happy talk and positive thinking should be able to make us happy regardless of the circumstances. I mean that some of us had so much experience with being unhappy when we were young that we were trained to be unhappy — and that being happy is an unconsciously uncomfortable thing. When I look at times in my past when I should have been happy, it rarely lasted. I believe now that I found reasons to be unhappy — and caused real problems for myself — because being comfortable and happy felt so foreign to my programming. If I’m right, this means that some of us have to do more than just change our circumstances. It means we have to learn how to accept the happiness that we unconsciously fear we don’t deserve.

After I wrote last night about being happy, I thought of an old song that mirrored what I was feeling. After listening to the entire album, I found it remarkable how well the emotions of that music match my own heart at this point in my life. Bob Bennett’s “Matters of the Heart” came out while I was in college. Even after all these years, it holds up really well, and you can listen to the entire album on YouTube. The specific song which matched my feelings last night was “Madness Dancing,” but I still find every song on the album to be strong with the exception of the eighth and ninth. (The song about his parents, called “1951,” is especially poignant.) In fact, the opening and closing songs paint a picture of my heart at its best now in these lines: “A light shining in this heart of darkness, A new beginning and a miracle, Day by day the integration of the concrete and the spiritual.” It’s old music that you’ve probably never heard, but it means a lot to me.

Narcissists tend to turn their children into narcissists — and since a narcissist doesn’t realize he or she is a narcissist, there’s no bad intent. How does this happen? I watched a YouTube video over the weekend from an Australian psychologist who does a nice job of summarizing how it works. None of this is new to me, but I thought it was useful for those who haven’t spent years digging through books and articles about it. The same psychologist has an excellent summary of something which confuses a lot of people about narcissism. You’ve all seen examples of the loud, boisterous and overbearing narcissist, but what about the ones who are more introverted and vulnerable? This type is called a covert narcissist (or a vulnerable narcissist), and this is what my father was. In the first video, I strongly see myself in the ways my father treated me and in the second video, I see what my father was almost successful in making me become.

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