Every action has an equal and opposite reaction
The other day, I got into a conversation with someone over the ends of scientific research. We both eventually came to agree that ultimately, knowledge is used to control the world around us, so as to bring about the ends we desire. If we desire rain for our crops, we must first understand what rain is, how it occurs, and what forces we could use to cause it to rain. Ultimately, we seek to bend the world to our will, and have done so with remarkable success. Virtually everything in the world that we see has the indelible stamp of man’s ingenuity stamped upon it. Our homes, our computers, our food, our transportation, and our medicines are all attempts to alter our world so as to suit our own desires better.
Thinking about this particular truth made me realize something about myself. I have long worried and wrestled over my own behaviours, thoughts, and feelings in an attempt to understand myself. My own (probably unworthy) assessment is that I’ve done a fairly decent job of analyzing my own psychology, such that I can frequently tell someone about my internal states in largely neutral and objective fashion. Until my discussion about the role of science in shaping human affairs, I hadn’t ever really understood why I was so concerned about understanding myself.
In the end, we seek to understand something so that we can control it for our own purposes. We study law so that we can use it to further our goals (making money) which usually will coincide with the goals of our client. Some lawyers will use law to further social goals of their own for non-monetary reasons. Some lawyers will use law as a weapon to hurt those whom they wish to hurt, and others will use it as a shield to prevent harm to those they wish to save.
Just the same, I seek to understand myself so as to control myself.
When I first thought about this particular idea, I couldn’t fathom why I wished to control myself, but as I thought about it more, I suddenly comprehended against what forces I was reacting.
Over my Winter Break, I spent a good amount of time with my parents. I hoped that spending time with one of their real sons would help them to get over their grief in a more helpful way than being alone in the house that Jeff died in. While I was there, I witnessed several things that brought my desire to control myself into sharp focus.
My father has an explosive temper, and he always has. I still recall times when I was a little kid when my father would scream or rip up phone books. There were times when he’d drive away and I would cry in my room wondering whether he was going to come home. When I was very young (in kindergarten, maybe, or before) I even asked my mother whether she and my dad were going to get a divorce. One particular incident sticks in my mind. My family was sitting down at the dining room table, preparing to eat a meal, when something set my father off. I don’t remember what it was that was said, or what it was that was done, but my father flew into a rage. He threw some of the dishes from the table, with the food still on them, across the room. He picked up other dishes from the table and threw them against the wall in the living room, adjoining. The shattered, stained the walls and carpet with food, and broke small holes in the walls that we later had to repair.
As my brother and I got older, most of his temper went away. I think he may have attended some anger management courses or had some counseling through the church, but he never talked about it.
Even though he’s more in control of himself now, every so often, I can see that dark rage still seething underneath his skin, just waiting to explode out. Over break, I saw that rage explode out a couple of times.
My parents own two dogs. Our dogs are old. When I say old, I don’t just mean that they are slightly old. The eldest is 18 years old, and the younger is 17 years old. The eldest, “Pinkie,” has poor eyesight and hearing, and is fairly senile. She will forget which door she’s let in from when she’s been outside and will bark at the garage door instead of the front door sometimes. She has, on occasion, appeared to have forgotten the identity of her other doggie companion, “Kee,” as well.
Kee is totally deaf now, and is nearly blind. While she isn’t senile, she has severe arthritis in her hips and walks with a limp that is quite pronounced if she’s been laying down for a while. She used to be able to go up stairs, but now she can’t summon the strength and has to be carried up a flight of stairs if she wants up. While I don’t look forward to the day, I have to admit to myself that they very likely are not long for this world. In human years, Pinkie is the equivalent of a 126 year old, and Kee is 119. At their ages, most humans wouldn’t be in quite so good condition either.
Coming along with their advanced age, though, is the difficulty in controlling their bladders. They’ve always been very good dogs, but it is becoming more frequent now that they are incapable of lasting through the night without a trip outside. Worse, Kee sometimes loses her muscle control and urinates when she’s sleeping on her pillow bed.
Over break, Kee had one of her incidents and wet her pillow bed. My father had just finished cleaning that little pet bed, and when he noticed that she’d done it again, his rage burst out of him again. He threw her outside (had it been any harder, I would have called the police to report animal cruelty), slammed the door so hard it knocked something off of the wall, and scream-threatened that he was going to go outside and kill her.
He calmed down later, but while thinking back to that instant, I realized why I’ve been so careful to try to understand my own emotions, what triggers them, how to control them, and how to avoid triggering them. I don’t want to be like my father. When I was little, my father scared me. He could go from a normal dad to a dangerous monster in just a few seconds, and that terrified me.
I don’t want my future children, or nieces and nephews, or even my new little sister to ever be afraid of me like that. To that end, I’ve tried to keep control of my emotions, but I now face a different problem. I’ve become too good at keeping emotions bottled in. I’ve become so good that I spend the better part of my life without feeling anything at all. I even wonder whether my penchant for drama is part of this psychological state… if by wrapping myself in a swirl of powerful emotions, I can somehow seek to reclaim what is locked away out of reach inside. In part, that’s what my writing in this forum does for me. It is like a tiny release valve to let off some of the internal pressure.
Many men like movies with car chases, extensive battle scenes, or high-tech machines. I couldn’t care less about these films, and instead gravitate toward movies that make me feel something. Cinema that can make me feel, whether it is the depths of sorrow or the heights of exultation, is what draws me.
By locking away my emotions out of reach, I have mastered them. I can recognize when I feel an emotion, examine it coldly, and then set it aside. It makes me level-headed during crises, but I worry that I’ve sacrificed something valuable in learning to own my mind. A teapot needs to let out some steam now and then, or else it might explode. I’m the same way.
The thing I am most frightened of in all of this, though, is that there may be a chance that this is how my father started. I’m frightened that the only thing standing between me and him is my willpower and resolve to not let the emotion out. And it’s tearing me apart.
Thinking about this particular truth made me realize something about myself. I have long worried and wrestled over my own behaviours, thoughts, and feelings in an attempt to understand myself. My own (probably unworthy) assessment is that I’ve done a fairly decent job of analyzing my own psychology, such that I can frequently tell someone about my internal states in largely neutral and objective fashion. Until my discussion about the role of science in shaping human affairs, I hadn’t ever really understood why I was so concerned about understanding myself.
In the end, we seek to understand something so that we can control it for our own purposes. We study law so that we can use it to further our goals (making money) which usually will coincide with the goals of our client. Some lawyers will use law to further social goals of their own for non-monetary reasons. Some lawyers will use law as a weapon to hurt those whom they wish to hurt, and others will use it as a shield to prevent harm to those they wish to save.
Just the same, I seek to understand myself so as to control myself.
When I first thought about this particular idea, I couldn’t fathom why I wished to control myself, but as I thought about it more, I suddenly comprehended against what forces I was reacting.
Over my Winter Break, I spent a good amount of time with my parents. I hoped that spending time with one of their real sons would help them to get over their grief in a more helpful way than being alone in the house that Jeff died in. While I was there, I witnessed several things that brought my desire to control myself into sharp focus.
My father has an explosive temper, and he always has. I still recall times when I was a little kid when my father would scream or rip up phone books. There were times when he’d drive away and I would cry in my room wondering whether he was going to come home. When I was very young (in kindergarten, maybe, or before) I even asked my mother whether she and my dad were going to get a divorce. One particular incident sticks in my mind. My family was sitting down at the dining room table, preparing to eat a meal, when something set my father off. I don’t remember what it was that was said, or what it was that was done, but my father flew into a rage. He threw some of the dishes from the table, with the food still on them, across the room. He picked up other dishes from the table and threw them against the wall in the living room, adjoining. The shattered, stained the walls and carpet with food, and broke small holes in the walls that we later had to repair.
As my brother and I got older, most of his temper went away. I think he may have attended some anger management courses or had some counseling through the church, but he never talked about it.
Even though he’s more in control of himself now, every so often, I can see that dark rage still seething underneath his skin, just waiting to explode out. Over break, I saw that rage explode out a couple of times.
My parents own two dogs. Our dogs are old. When I say old, I don’t just mean that they are slightly old. The eldest is 18 years old, and the younger is 17 years old. The eldest, “Pinkie,” has poor eyesight and hearing, and is fairly senile. She will forget which door she’s let in from when she’s been outside and will bark at the garage door instead of the front door sometimes. She has, on occasion, appeared to have forgotten the identity of her other doggie companion, “Kee,” as well.
Kee is totally deaf now, and is nearly blind. While she isn’t senile, she has severe arthritis in her hips and walks with a limp that is quite pronounced if she’s been laying down for a while. She used to be able to go up stairs, but now she can’t summon the strength and has to be carried up a flight of stairs if she wants up. While I don’t look forward to the day, I have to admit to myself that they very likely are not long for this world. In human years, Pinkie is the equivalent of a 126 year old, and Kee is 119. At their ages, most humans wouldn’t be in quite so good condition either.
Coming along with their advanced age, though, is the difficulty in controlling their bladders. They’ve always been very good dogs, but it is becoming more frequent now that they are incapable of lasting through the night without a trip outside. Worse, Kee sometimes loses her muscle control and urinates when she’s sleeping on her pillow bed.
Over break, Kee had one of her incidents and wet her pillow bed. My father had just finished cleaning that little pet bed, and when he noticed that she’d done it again, his rage burst out of him again. He threw her outside (had it been any harder, I would have called the police to report animal cruelty), slammed the door so hard it knocked something off of the wall, and scream-threatened that he was going to go outside and kill her.
He calmed down later, but while thinking back to that instant, I realized why I’ve been so careful to try to understand my own emotions, what triggers them, how to control them, and how to avoid triggering them. I don’t want to be like my father. When I was little, my father scared me. He could go from a normal dad to a dangerous monster in just a few seconds, and that terrified me.
I don’t want my future children, or nieces and nephews, or even my new little sister to ever be afraid of me like that. To that end, I’ve tried to keep control of my emotions, but I now face a different problem. I’ve become too good at keeping emotions bottled in. I’ve become so good that I spend the better part of my life without feeling anything at all. I even wonder whether my penchant for drama is part of this psychological state… if by wrapping myself in a swirl of powerful emotions, I can somehow seek to reclaim what is locked away out of reach inside. In part, that’s what my writing in this forum does for me. It is like a tiny release valve to let off some of the internal pressure.
Many men like movies with car chases, extensive battle scenes, or high-tech machines. I couldn’t care less about these films, and instead gravitate toward movies that make me feel something. Cinema that can make me feel, whether it is the depths of sorrow or the heights of exultation, is what draws me.
By locking away my emotions out of reach, I have mastered them. I can recognize when I feel an emotion, examine it coldly, and then set it aside. It makes me level-headed during crises, but I worry that I’ve sacrificed something valuable in learning to own my mind. A teapot needs to let out some steam now and then, or else it might explode. I’m the same way.
The thing I am most frightened of in all of this, though, is that there may be a chance that this is how my father started. I’m frightened that the only thing standing between me and him is my willpower and resolve to not let the emotion out. And it’s tearing me apart.
posted by The Academian | 11:09 PM
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