This was originally written in June of 2023, in the weeks following my first Community Building (ST) Workshop.
I had never heard of Community Building before. Mainly, I attended because my partner, Asia, was interested in the topic. That's not to say that I was uninterested in community, or that I was averse to self development, but rather that I didn't consider myself particularly community-minded. For my entire adult life I've enjoyed living alone. I never had roommates. My hobbies have consisted of solitary activities like photography, writing, reading, or music. In social situations I generally feel stressed. Always there is the fear of saying something stupid or offensive, of being misunderstood, remaining unseen, unheard.
Sometimes I worry I have nothing to contribute...and that everyone knows it.
This leads me to exclude myself as a sort of defense mechanism; a way to exert control and reduce exposure to pain or judgement.
I hadn't reflected much on these tendencies or patterns. Though powerful, they were largely invisible to me. Until this workshop, that is.
The workshop was built on the work of M. Scott Peck, and it was comprised of three parts: brief informative lectures, paired exercises, and circle time. All together there were about 30 of us in attendance. The lecture functioned as theory and laid out the framework for what was to follow in the exercises. In the exercises we would get the chance to put things into practice in what was effectively a circle of two before doing it together as a large, 30-person group. If I had to summarize the core methodology and condense it down to a single sentence, I'd say: optimize for empathy, listen silently but attentively, and speak only from your heart about your personal experience.
This is of course a wild oversimplification, and, although it is technically what we were doing, it is easier said than done.
To be vulnerable and honest in front of a circle of strangers is to render yourself naked. It is downright horrifying.
Something sexist whispers that it is harder for a man to do this than it is for a woman. We are conditioned to treat feelings as something to control, not talk about. As men we are told to be strong, not to be a pussy, to keep your chin up, that boys don't cry.
I cried for four days.
There is much to write about, but we swore to confidentiality. This is because people share deeply intimate stories about themselves involving terrible traumas, insecurities, pain, grief and shame. So instead of sharing theirs, I'll share mine.
I'm anxious around people. I've been this way for a long time. In the past I used alcohol to mask this discomfort. It works well. Up until a point. Eventually, after many years, I realized I was using drugs and alcohol as a crutch. But by doing so I was weakening my ability to work with these feelings because I was never forced to actually sit with them in a productive way. Once I stopped drinking I began to understand my motives more clearly and had the opportunity to confront these feelings and try to meaningfully address them instead of avoiding them. I doubt I'll ever fully overcome them, but I've got a much better, much healthier handle on them now.
Another thing is that I self-censor and police myself to the point that it's hard to be fully authentic and present. This wastes a considerable amount of my mental energy and leaves my body feeling drained and tense (instead of recharged) after social interactions. I'm plagued by feeling I'm going to make a mistake or make a fool of myself. I worry that I'll reveal myself as the worthless person I am and that once I do people won't want to be around me anymore. I place undue pressure on myself to say something smart or interesting or funny, which a person of course cannot always do. Inevitably, once I come up empty-handed, I become self conscious and fearful and this stress makes it hard to transition towards a relaxed emotional space where I might actually say or contribute something of value.
Some of these issues arise from my childhood. My father was an alcoholic and would often condescend and verbally abuse everyone in the household. It was rare to hear the words I love you, or I'm proud of you, or, you did a good job. Much more common were the insults, being talked down to or attacked. Our family unit existed in a perpetual state of chaos. Feelings of true community were infrequent and fleeting. As a child I remember having routine nightmares. They were vivid and intense and I'd wake up in a state of abject terror and vomit in a red bucket beside my bed. Part of this must have been fueled by the fundamental absence of safety in my family unit. The male caretaker was unreliable and unstable and I never knew whether I was getting the mean dad, or the avoidant one. Because my self worth was always under attack, I tried to carve out more objective indications of value, like getting good grades, or establishing a moral high ground. As anyone who has done the same can tell you, when you place your worth in your intelligence, it makes you very sensitive to misspeaking or being wrong -- because then to be wrong is not just to make an error, it is to invalidate your identity.
Most children lack a sense of control over their world. When you're still shitting in a diaper, you probably can't exert much control over the environment around you. As you age, you slowly acquire more and more agency and become less dependent on your parents. But, as a child with a parent battling drug-addiciton, I had a diminished sense of control. It is hard to reason with or influence the behavior of a person who is not sober. Even harder as a child. So instead, I started to learn to control my own emotions. If I could convince myself I didn't need my father's affection or approval, that he was a villain, then I couldn't be hurt as easily. While true, this just made it more important for me to get validation from my peers. I was operating from a deficit. I'd like to think most people start at zero, or maybe even with a small surplus of love and support from their parents, but because I was already 50% in the red, I wanted to be admired by my friends. This made me a people-pleaser and, at the same time, someone who didn't care about the opinions of others. This second state I would resort to if I felt I couldn't control the person's perception of me. I would use indifference as a shield to protect myself from rejection which would further harm my already low self worth. It was a vicious and fucked up situation.
[In the interest of my father's dignity as a human being, I would like to say that much repair and healing has been done between us. It is hard to be a parent. I say this as someone without children of my own. In life I believe we do the best we can with the tools and skills available to us. He wasn't a monstrous person - he was a person in pain, struggling, doing the best he could. A test of our own humanity is whether we are able to love people despite their flaws.]
The workshop was full of insightful and revelatory reflections like these.
While some were not new, this time they felt different. Perhaps I had previously rationalized and understood these things on an intellectual level, but I had never viscerally felt them. In the week and some days that have followed the experience, I've had some dreams and conversations which expanded and enriched my appreciation for the session. I'm still sorting out the learnings and trying to integrate them and make sense of all I was feeling. Now I want to write some of them down so I can refer back to them later. I should have done this immediately after the workshop and as a result of not doing so I've likely lost a bunch of observations.
Here are some thoughts:
At first I was skeptical of the circles, and even felt there was some unspoken rule where we were permitted only to speak about pains and hardships. It was not until later when I realized why this was. It is because our pains and traumas take up enormous space inside of us. They distract us, make us less available to others. When vocalizing these feelings we empty and free ourselves of them, which leaves us enough space to hold and really hear others. If we are too full of pain we cannot truly see and hear others, and if we cannot see or hear them, we cannot help them.
I told myself community wasn't that important to me to avoid the pain of not having it.
This practice of self exclusion is poison. It toxically reinforces loneliness and starves me of a sense of real belonging.
There was a moment at the workshop where we were performing a ritual out in an open field. We were moving in a circle and singing and dancing and pouring metaphorical cleansing water on each other and ourselves. Once the ritual completed we all stood in silence in the tall grass holding hands. The wind gently blew. The sun shined. Everyone looked around the circle smiling. A deep sense of comforting peace hummed inside me. I felt happy.
I wondered if we might be forming a cult. I didn't care if we were.
Speaking of cults, Burning Man was so important to me not because of the drugs and dancing and the bang and spectacle of it all, but because of the profound sense of community it offered. It was one of the few places in this world where I felt home. This was because of the kindness, warmth and kinship of good campmates and friends...the campfires of gentle people.
In my every day life I can remember moments where I experienced sensations similar to those felt while sitting in the circle - sweaty palms, racing heart, tension in my muscles and stomach. I never acknowledged these signals as messages from my body. I never recognized them as truths pounding at my heart's door trying to find a way out.
While inside the circle there were times when someone would share and it would seem as if they verbalized a kind of pain I'd never spoken before...as though they were sharing one of my feelings instead of their own. In those moments something magic would happen. I would feel such connection to them I'd want to heal their pain. I could feel love radiating out from me; my energy wrapping itself around theirs.
Only after thinking back to these moments I realized that my natural reflex was to hold and protect the person, yet I don't provide this same love to myself.
Upon further reflection I realize that by giving this hurting person love and empathy I was indirectly giving it to myself and this is why I found these circles so healing, so therapeutic. This kindness and acceptance was splashing back onto me.
Our lives only have meaning when we speak and act with others.
Our words and actions combine in unpredictable ways to create new actions, new words, and new ideas. In the absence of others, we cannot achieve this.
The most important thing in this world are the people you surround yourself with, the communities you form. Everything we do in life is contained inside of our words and actions. If a person is totally unseen and unheard, they have no real life outside of their thoughts.