Arbiter vs archivist. Very interesting conversation.

I had the most enlightening conversation with my T this week. I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. It helps me to use words to describe precisely how I feel and what I think.

I know, why can't I just say it? Well, I think the OCD/perfectionist in me dictates that this expression has to be exactly right.

In any case, a few weeks ago I shared one of my poems with my T and he really went on about it.

So, having spit out another opus, I drug it into therapy. I told my therapist I had decided that he is going to be the arbiter of my poetry.

He immediately countered with

"I'm no arbiter of anything"

"well" I said, "you have a file for me"

"Yes, I will be your archivist". He said.

At first the significance of that interaction was lost on me. Then it dawned on me how profound and comforting his statement was.

I don't know why I chose the word arbiter, because I've never felt judged by him in any way. But, out it came, as though I was expecting a judgement.

Instead, he reaffirmed that he will hold my story, protect it and be a witness. Wow.

Even after all these years, he can still get a wow out of me and be of immense help.

Wow - again.

That is awesome! I had to look up the word arbiter - you too smart :-) But totally awesome!

elli, Lovely!

Precision in words makes a difference -- certainly to me.

How comforting must that feel. Kept safe to freely express yourself is an awesome gift one gives another.

In some sense it does to me, too. But in another sense, I don't think we can (or at least, often I can't) really be precise (in the sense of exact or perfect). But what I often consider "good enough" others (especially therapists) sometimes consider "perfectionist" or "overly detailed" or "obsessive" or something else that to me seems dismissive and unaccepting, or even uncaring. What they consider "good enough" I may consider missing a distinction that is important to me. This conflict really surfaced with my last therapist. It was there with others as well, but perhaps not as overtly expressed. It seems to be in part a conflict in values.

For me, being very precise in what I write helps me to figure out "what" I'm feeling. I spent so much of my life denying that I felt anything, that I often have no clue what's going on in that emotional head of mine. Only "okay", "good I guess", or "bad". It seems I have the emotional lexicon of a 3 year old.

However, I have this immense adult vocabulary. I read all the time and understand, on a cognitive level, the nuances and context of words. It's so revealing to try and find the right word to perfectly describe how I feel.

It's a challenge to be sure, but truly is helping. That, along with use of imagery is allowing me, perhaps for the first time in my life, to actually express to another human what's going on with me.

Again, the fact that I feel safe enough to do it is soooo unbelievable, well, it's just unbelievable

He gets a WOW out of me, too!

Ellie....what an beautiful way to describe how theraputic poetry can be in expressing the almost unexpressable. I used to write poetry, but stopped because I was afraid someone would find it and figure me out

You are almost selling me on starting to write again.....

I'm reminded of a quote that had a tremendous impact on me:

"If we knew each other's secrets, what comfort we would find."
— John Churton Collins

I think there is some merit in being figured out, at least by the right people...

speaking for myself... I think I crave being figured out. To have someone care enough to want to figure me out. To love me anyways. I think somehow it would take away the loneliness. I feel more lonely when I am around other people, even just one other person than I do when I am alone.

At the same time the perfectionist me wouldn't feel satisfied they got anything right about me even if they took the time and made the effort to try to figure me out.

Hi elliemay, all I can say to your post is "very cool". Sounds wonderful to have that connection.

Can anyone ever really get to know another (The SS tried to)?

SYNOPSIS
James Park

Loneliness is an aching void in the center of our beings,
a deep longing to love and be loved,
to be fully known and accepted by at least one other person.
It is a hollow, haunting sound sweeping through our depths,
chilling our bones and causing us to shiver.

Is there a person, anywhere,
who has never felt the stab of loneliness,
who has never experienced
the eerie distance of isolation and separation,
who has never suffered the pain of rejection or the loss of love?

The final rupture or breakdown of a valued loving relationship,
the sudden death of someone who was close and special,
an unavoidable separation from a loved one
—these things strike loneliness into our hearts,
the intense experience of the absence of that specific person.

Besides longing for a specific person,
sometimes loneliness has no name attached.
This is the general feeling of being alone,
isolated, separated from others.

And there is a third kind of loneliness—existential loneliness—
which is even deeper and more pervasive than either of the first two.
It often disguises itself as longing for a specific person
or pretends to be yearning for contact with anyone,
but this deeper lack or emptiness-of-being
is not really a kind of loneliness at all.

Being together with other people, even people we intensely love,
does not overcome this deep incompleteness of being.
This inner default of self-hood has never been solved by relationships,
no matter how good and close and warm our relationships might be.

No hope, eh?

I think the answer to your original questions is "no" we can never fully know a person. Humans aren't static creatures, we are in constant flux, active and reactive in our environment, malleable and dynamic. The people we know are chaotic in the true sense of the word. A sliver of a perception ripples and dances in us. The essence of knowing would then have to be embracing constant change, which is of course, a contradiction.

To address your synopsis, I find the first description to be more of grief than of loneliness. Despair that follows loss and disappointment. Grief digs deep holes.

The second part, the existential loneliness of humans, is unique to some individuals. Though most of psychiatry/sociology would agree that humans are social creatures, for some, I simply do not think that is true. Some are true lone wolves so to speak. Solitary creatures forced into a world foreign to them, surrounded by those of our kind, but so very very different. If one could accept their own truest nature, what kind of joy would that bring? What kind of freedom? What kind of relief?