Conscious Language, Anyone?
I mean, we have “conscious” everything else, so why not?
Words fall out of our mouths easily, often without forethought, and afterward, we soon forget them, but they land with purpose and weight, frequently internalized and carried for years to come. Conscious language may or may not be a thing, but I am going to posit that it’s probably the most important. I suppose that is why I prefer writing. I can choose my words with purpose and vet them before they have the chance to land on anyone.
We’ve all heard these lines before —
“I’m a direct person, I just say what I think.”
Really? Or do you just say without thinking?
“I don’t really have an opinion on the matter, I prefer to listen to the discussion.”
Is that so? Or do you think your opinion doesn’t matter?
Bear with me, because I’m about to make a sweeping generalization and claim that I know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s about how not only what we say matters, but the intention with which we say it, because, like it or not, in the same way that words can light up a person’s day, even stay with them for life, inspiring and propelling them forward, they can also do the opposite and be the very thing that sends a person spiraling into that hopeless sense of falling.
It’s that place that we all know; that tunnel with no light at the end, the room closing in, I don’t think I can breathe, there’s no way out — feeling. We’ve all been there at some point, and if someone says they haven’t, they’re lying. And words, words spoken with intent to injure, or what is more often the case, I think, words spoken without forethought as a reaction to pain, anger, uncertainty, or resentment can send us there.
I’ve been languishing the past few days deep in the space of attempting to pick apart this phenomenon, examine all the pieces, try to understand how that hopeless space comes together so quickly, so seamlessly, so completely, with seemingly little effort. How it envelopes and consumes and why, most of all, the words thrown at us thoughtlessly can come to define the way we perceive ourselves in spite of all the compelling evidence to the contrary. The shape of it is unique to each of us; the spark that lights the blaze simmers within our individual life experiences. And each of us has our own way of coping each time we are plunged into the abyss.
An oversimplification of which is, basically, fear.
For me, that fear is inextricably linked to imposter syndrome stemming from far too many words piled onto me over the years to list them all here. But it is something I’ve wrestled with my whole life — that narrative that insists that if I didn’t exist, it wouldn’t really matter. That the role I play, the impact I have on the people around me is negligible, and in actuality, they would probably be better served in life without my presence and energy. Understand that I know this is a false narrative; I’ve become well-acquainted with its inception and with the methods to successfully derail it, but that wasn’t always the case.
In the past, when I would fall into that space, and I couldn’t see my way out, ironically, the thing that would pull me out was knowing that I had to take care of my family, the motions of which were so familiar to me that I would go through them without realizing that those very motions were negating the narrative that I was momentarily consumed by.
It’s common to hear advice about overcoming fears, facing fears, being stronger than our fears. For most of us, that means running away from them, or avoiding them, or plowing over them, but none of those things take us to the source so that we can deconstruct them. Imagine, instead, we just climb inside of them, acquaint ourselves with every single nook and corner, learn the shape and the color, the texture and sound, sit down, and listen to the origin story. Because seeing the origin story clearly often confirms that it is a false narrative that has nothing to do with us and is more tightly bound to the person or situation who imposed it in the first place.
A few years ago, I had a concussion and was forced to spend an annoying amount of time in bed. With no option to read, write, or watch TV, I had way too much time to feel, and panic, and ponder, and one day, when obsessive thoughts had taken up residence and were wracking chaos in my injured brain, I had an epiphany, which I recorded and later wrote down.
“And since I had spent so much time sinking into and trying to understand the soup of feelings over the previous days, I decided to linger in that one, too, and it’s a big one — fear.
I turned on some flute music, (my favorite for brain relaxation, it always whooshes me straight to a desert landscape where I feel most connected with all things), closed my eyes, and settled into the bottomless recesses of my brain. I found myself in a deep, dark, damp pit, like an old well, with only a thin shaft of light shining down from the opening. In that hole, chained to the wall, were faces, lots of faces, gazing at me calmly.
I realized abruptly that they were the faces of my fears, because what better thing to do with your fears than to lock them away where they can have no power over you? I glanced up at the weak shaft of light and then back at the faces. They were not at all frightening. One of them looked directly at me and smiled purposefully, “You know, it doesn’t have to be dark in here; you have the power to let in the light.”
I have the power to let in the light.
I glanced up at the opening to the pit, with the intention of moving the lid aside just a bit, but in an instant, it seemed, the pit was gone; I was blinking in full sunlight, my fears right there with me, chains disintegrated.
And I thought, okay then, now what?
And I know it might sound crazy to say that my fears continued to speak, but they did. “We aren’t meant to be overcome or conquered; we must be embraced. We don’t detract from the whole; we are just as much a part of you as your hopes, and dreams, and aspirations. Give us a seat at the table; hear what we have to say. Have a chat with fear and discover its purpose. As a part of the moving whole, we must have a say, or the whole cannot function as a complete entity.”
I sat bolt upright, paused the music, and tried to reorient myself with my physical reality as the metaphysical had just knocked me on my ass. I noted the sound of the wind whistling in through the screen and took in the reds, oranges, and yellows that adorned the tree line outside my window. Having grounded myself in the now, I allowed my thoughts to return to the message I’d just received from my subconscious. My fears don’t diminish me or make me less than; they just are. And they’re strong, and they’re powerful, and it is a strength and a power that I can use. They can guide me.
I imagined my fears lined up outside my office door like so many applicants waiting for an interview.
Damn, I thought, this could take a while.
A lifetime, to be exact, and I have, by no means, had a chat with each of my fears, but I feel an enormous weight has been lifted simply knowing that I don’t have to fight against them because in fighting against them, I was simply fighting myself and that’s futile.”
I’ve tried to apply that message I received from my subconscious those years ago, but it isn’t an effortless endeavor. Because I have also come to understand, throughout a lifetime of learning, that much of the time, the voices of unreason are so much louder than the voices of knowing. The voice of intuition isn’t the one that yells; it whispers. It doesn’t jump up and down begging for attention; it is attention, persistent, gentle, reliable, and undeniable. So many times, when swept up in the chaos of living, the only voices we manage to notice are the ones that jump up and down and yell.
And so, know thyself becomes imperative.
And I know now when I’m being sucked into that place, I can recognize the familiar heaviness, the weight that literally settles into my body and makes it difficult to lift my legs. And I say “sucked into” because it feels pointless to try to resist — there’s a momentary sense of powerlessness that has been so established it may as well have been written into the universal laws as predictable as the earth orbiting the sun.
I used to resist, to try to mantra my way out of it, to deride myself — sinking into the shame of it all. But I’ve grown much more adept at looking into that hallow face and saying, “Ah, you again.” And then I walk the familiar path of how I’ve learned to cope — that strategy that I’ve developed that gives me the space to wallow for a moment or two before pulling myself back to the reality of what I know is true.
I cannot stress the importance of that space, nor the necessity of putting a clock on it. When I take a day to feel sorry for myself, I know that when the sun rises, that time is up, and I must drag myself out of my pity zone, whether or not I’m ready, and fake it till I make it, something I’ve discovered actually does work. Somehow, pretending to believe a thing for a while makes it easier to internalize until it is no longer pretending.
We are all human, and the nature of being human is to be flawed. No matter how conscious we are, we will never always get it right. That’s okay. Being human also means that we all have an unreal capacity to heal. When we let our words fly without intent, and they land with deep injury, it can be just as impactful to take responsibility for the pain we’ve caused. That simple act of acknowledgment and remorse holds the same amount of weight.
That old adage sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me is some serious bullshit.
We would all be well served to remember that, and also that thoughtless words hurled in our direction are generally the ones that we must allow to evaporate and be absorbed back into the ether. It is a choice to let fly those words, but as we grow stronger in our sense of ourselves, we come to understand that it is also a choice to bear them.
