emotions

One of the authors we respect, Dewey, of DeweyWriter, has allowed us to post the
following essay. It includes some of his personal history, plus a discussion of the
importance of being allowed to express our emotions, and helps us understand why
boys are expected to be "macho." It's a valuable piece for boys, men, and parents.

My name is Dwayne, a.k.a. Dewey. I’m a 32-year-old white married man with
two children, living in the San Francisco Bay area. I’m an author, but I have a
day job as a project manager for an automation firm. What follows is my life
up to this point, then I’ll get to the subject at hand. Please bear with me.

I grew up in a rural southern Oregon town on the California border of
approximately 5,000 people, where the major industries were fishing, lumber,
and tourism. The town was at least 50 percent retirees. Oregon’s schools are
funded by local property taxes, which were put up for a vote every year. Since
the retirees didn’t want to spend money to educate someone else’s kids, the
measures were regularly defeated. This resulted in funding shortfalls in the
schools, causing cutbacks in everything from class offerings to bussing to
sports.

Another result of the population imbalance was that the town had nothing for
kids to do. There were no meeting places where they could get together. There
was only one playground in the whole area that wasn’t locked up at night due
to insurance reasons, and it consisted of a bare lot with some swings and a
slide.

The older residents of Brookings were very vocal about “the kids” being in the
way, skateboarding, or doing anything else they considered disruptive. This in
turn created a huge antipathy for anyone older than our parents.

As a child, I grew up in a home where emotions were, if not forbidden, then
frowned upon. Let me clarify. Happy, good emotions were allowed, but were
not abundant. If I was angry or frustrated, I couldn’t express it. I was
expected to suffer in silence.

My father is a Viet Nam veteran. His upbringing and, later, training in the
military taught him that emotions were a danger. Emotions could kill you in
the field. The only useful emotion was anger and rage. So what did he do? He
suppressed his emotions completely, except for anger. What that meant for
me as a kid growing up was I could expect nothing but anger from my dad. He
very rarely told me I did a good job, or he was proud of me. The only thing I
could be sure of was his rage if I stepped out of line. For the rest of my family
(my mom and sister), we lived under the shadow of a volcano, knowing it was
going to erupt, but not knowing when.

Being children was out of the question for my sister and me. We didn’t have
that great a relationship anyway.   When we were children, we fought loud and
often, so we regularly incurred our father’s wrath. We learned to keep to
ourselves as much as we could, when we could. I turned inward. By the sixth
grade, my preferred hobbies involved reading alone in my room and tromping
through the wilderness near my Grandparents’ homestead just outside of town.
I had very few friends, and was considered a geek and a brain, neither of which
engendered respect from 12 year olds. If someone needed help with their
homework, then it was fine, but outside of that, verbal, mental, and sometimes
physical abuse were normal. I won’t go into specifics.

The abuse started in kindergarten. Like I said, I was an outcast, and didn’t
play with others much. I quickly learned to hide my emotions from others,
because they made me even more of a target. As years passed, the same type
of abuse occurred daily, as long as I was in school. My self-esteem suffered
greatly, though I didn’t realize it until much later.

I carried over my habit of suppressing my emotions into my home life. It got
worse after a confrontation with my father which led me to believe I couldn’t
show any emotions at all. I was twelve at the time, and I took it to heart.
From that point on, I showed no emotion of any kind anywhere.

Meanwhile, in school, the abuse continued. I learned to “not hear” comments
made around me and keep walking as if nothing had happened. But I did hear
them, and they did hurt. My self-esteem plummeted to new depths. I felt I
was useless, worthless, and that I didn’t matter in the slightest.

My parents knew something was wrong, but not what, exactly. They asked
some questions, but being the teenager I was, I told them everything was fine,
and they took that at face value. Inside, I was seething. I hated school. I
hated the people who tormented me. And, somewhere deep down, I think I
hated my parents because of their inability to help me.

I was diagnosed as moderately clinically depressed in the eighth grade. I had
Algebra after lunch, and I got a migraine every day. I couldn’t concentrate in
the class, and I would ask to go to the office for Tylenol or something. The
teacher eventually had enough, suspecting I was faking, so they sent me to the
school psychologist.

I don’t remember much about the school shrink, except that she didn’t seem to
help much. I don’t know if my parents were told I was seeing her or not. I
remember going to the doctor to be evaluated too, but nothing was done. I
didn’t take any medications, anyway.

One day in the middle of the eight grade, I had finally taken enough of the
verbal taunting from two of the worst of my antagonists. They both stood
about six feet tall, and I was lucky if I broke five feet. In the hall one day they
made a particularly cutting remark, and I whirled on them and told them,
(Ahem) “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll rip your balls off.”

I don’t know who was more surprised, me or them. I guess I convinced them I
would do it, because the hazing died off, at least the direct face-to-face
hazing. I still had to deal with the stuff I overheard, or was meant to
overhear. The only place that people couldn’t touch me was on the baseball
field. They would try, but baseball was the one thing I knew I was good at, so
I was able to ignore most of it.

High school changed things. I wasn’t the target as often as I had been in
grade school, but some people still took their shots. I kept to myself for the
most part, but inevitably the opportunity for abuse would arise. It was
particularly brutal in the locker room. I didn’t gain my adult height until I was
18. At 14, I was about 5’2”, and weighed 115 pounds. I was slow in other
areas of physical development as well, a fact that did not go unnoticed. By my
Junior year, I was so frustrated that I began to lash out, not at others, but at
myself. I never hurt myself physically, but mentally I was more brutally
abusive to myself than any of my antagonists.

After I graduated high school, I joined the United States Navy. I trained as a
Reactor Operator (yes, the nuclear kind). As long as I was in the schools,
everything was fine. When I got to my aircraft carrier, however, I felt like I
was in grade school all over again. I was too serious, I suppose. I took my job
seriously, and wanted to do it as we were supposed to: By the book. It was
nuclear power, after all.

What I didn’t know was there was well-entrenched apathy already in place.
People did what was “good enough for government work,” and didn’t try to do
their jobs well. I was the butt end of jokes, practical jokes, and verbal
harassment. I would be ridiculed for going that extra distance to make sure
everything was just right. I would look things up in manuals for my own
knowledge instead of trusting what I was told by other, “more experienced”
operators (who were wrong more often than they were right), and would be
derided as not trusting them (which I didn’t except in a very few cases).

It was here in the Navy that I lost my altruistic attitude towards human
nature. I learned that I couldn’t take people at their word, and that I couldn’t
trust myself with anyone but myself. Authority figures, who I assumed would
be honorable and trustworthy, turned out to be nothing more than opportunistic
assholes who would backstab me at any moment. I used to go out of my way
to help people before I got to the ship, but no more, not while I was there.

There again came a point where I was virtually immune to everything going on,
between my not hearing things and a certain measure of competence at my
job. By the time I left the ship in August of 1995, I was one of the top five
reactor operators on board. Maybe the top two or three. Perversely, this
brought people to me when they needed help. I angered a lot of people when I
told them no, specifically for the way they had treated me.

Okay. Almost done with the history.

About six months before I got out of the Navy, I met and fell in love with a
beautiful woman. We were married eighteen months later, after I got out of
the Canoe Club. What I didn’t realize, or rather couldn’t realize, was I was still
turned off emotionally. I didn’t make things easy for her. After being re-
diagnosed with severe clinical depression, I went into counseling. The only
thing I got out of it was medication that mellowed out the deeper episodes of
depression.

We had a daughter in September of 1999, after three years of infertility
issues. The emotional price we paid to get our first child was horrendous. Our
marriage was pushed to its limits, but we held it together.

In January of 2000, I had an emotional breakdown. I was in Portland, Oregon
for work at the time. I read an on-line story that touched my heart deeply. It
made me realize that I had been hiding from myself for twenty-eight years. I
had refused to see what was right in front of me. All the signs were there, all
the indications, but I never put them together. I am gay. The story I read
finally put that word together with what was inside of me, and at the same
time penetrated the walls I kept around my suppressed emotion. It came
gushing out. I was crying for four days straight, and couldn’t work. I spent
those days in bed. My wife couldn’t do anything to help me at that long
distance, and I wasn’t sure I wanted her to see me like that, anyway.

I made it home that weekend and saw a counselor, whom I continue to see.
We talked a lot about what had happened with me, and what I was going to go
through in the future. The way he explained it made sense.

There was a dam that held back all the emotions I’d suppressed in my life.
Sometimes, I would rage, almost out of control, and some of the pressure
would be taken off the dam. What had happened to me was the dam had
finally given way, allowing some of those emotions to surface.

That was four years ago. I still struggle to experience my emotions as they
come up and not suppress them, but as time goes on it gets easier. I can tell
immediately when I do bury them because my stress level skyrockets.
Sometimes a situation will come up, or I’ll be listening to a song or watching
TV, and the next thing I know I’m in tears. I know for a fact I’ve cried more in
the last four years than I have at any point in my adult life, and much of my
childhood, for that matter.

The most interesting part of this was sometimes I couldn’t put a name to the
emotion when I did feel an emotion. Was it anger? Fear? Pain? Longing?
Happiness? When you don’t feel your emotions, when you’re used to
suppressing them before you can feel them, you either don’t know or forget the
depth and breadth of the human emotional response. You forget how to label
your emotions. It sounds strange, but it’s true. And because you can’t name
your emotions, you’re not sure how to deal with them.

I tried to hide my realization from my wife, but through my own (sometimes
terrible) mistakes, she discovered my sexuality. Even now, three years after
she found out about me, we work to keep our marriage alive. After much
heartache, we discussed our situation and both made a commitment to stay in
our relationship. I still consider myself to be gay, but I love and can love my
wife. Certain sacrifices are made by both of us, but we are constantly
communicating and that makes what could be an impossible situation workable
for us. It’s not easy, but we are both committed to our family and each other.

(Authors Note: In the text that follows, I am discussing cultural roles and any
implied criticism of any kind is for effect only. I didn’t create these roles, I’m
just analyzing them. I apologize in advance to anyone I may offend. That is
not my intention.)

Finally, to the reason you’ve been reading this. What happens when we
suppress our emotions?

First and foremost, you don’t experience joy and happiness like other people.
It may seem like you’re experiencing those emotions, but in reality, you’re
skirting them, just catching the fringes. I rarely smile, because this is my
reflexive Modus Operandi. I’m very rarely, if ever, so happy that I show it
beyond a grin.

Secondly, you don’t experience anger like other people, or all you experience is
anger. Anger is the only permissible emotion, because people recognize it and
know how to deal with it. Think about this: Why are we so uncomfortable
when someone around us cries? Pain and sadness and grief are not emotions
that people want to deal with in their own selves, much less anyone else, so
we try to shy away, to avoid.

What does crying imply about the person? Is it different if a man cries than if
a woman cries? Of course it is, we say.

But why is it different? Society says so.

Because men are supposed to be strong, like the rock of Gibraltar, never
yielding to the pressures of life.

But I ask you: Why can’t a man be emotionally affected in the same way as a
woman would be in a given situation, in the eyes of society? Or a better
question would be, Are they affected in the same way? My answer is
absolutely, unequivocally YES. However, how men and women react to their
emotions is largely dictated by the rigid gender roles they were raised with.

For example, the men of my Grandfather’s generation, those that fought in
World War II, were taught from the beginning to be stoic, unmovable. To be a
man, you had to be unaffected by anything that happened, including fighting in
the bloody battlefields of Asia and Europe. When these men came home, they
quietly reassumed their roles in society, and nothing was ever said about what
they experienced. My father’s generation, those raised in the ‘50s and early
‘60s, were much the same way.

Enter the 60s, the drugs and the war, all of that. Mixed messages were sent
throughout the era to the young men and boys. What are we to do? Are we to
be like our fathers? If not, then what are we to do? For a large number of
these people, those questions went unanswered in the chaos of the peace
movement.

I wasn’t there, but in my opinion, a large number of those young men and boys
in the 60s found a way to express their emotions with chemical assistance.
Otherwise, they were much like their fathers.

Now we have my generation. We were also sent mixed messages. The
shockwaves from the ‘60s were still rippling through the fabric of America.
Feminism took root, and bra burning parties were commonplace. It was here
where the “sensitive male” requirement was born. Boys were still raised with
much the same expectations of their grandfathers’ time, and as we grew older,
we were assailed with the idea that men had to be sensitive, which goes
directly against the traditional male gender role straightjacket, which confused
things even further. Now we were supposed to be strong and sensitive.   They
aren’t opposites, but it is difficult to reconcile two nearly conflicting traits.

The way boys have been raised in this country for at least the last fifty years,
and likely the last 150, has placed we men in a straightjacket. Or path is pre-
determined by society. If we stray from that path, our peers immediately do
what they can to put us right. If someone sticks out, they are the subject of
ridicule, and are beaten into submission in most cases.

Example: A boy wants to learn to play the violin. His peers hear of it, and the
boy is immediately reviled as a ‘Pansy,’ or even worse, ‘fag’. (Authors note:
No offense is intended or should be inferred by the use of the term ‘fag’. As
above, I use them to make a point, nothing more.) Boys go out of their way to
prove they aren’t homosexual, and use any means to get their point across,
including physically beating any other boy perceived as having stereotypical
homosexual qualities.

Another example: A child is precociously intelligent. He does extremely well
in school. Others derisively label him ‘brain’, and taunt him mercilessly,
generally making fun of him until he withdraws into himself, and starts to
suppress the pain he feels. (Yes, personal experience.) In response, the child
begins to make mistakes in his schoolwork, both consciously and unconsciously,
to rid himself of the label, which is impossible, because the children in his class
already associate him with the term 'brain.'

Okay, a bit off subject, but you can see how someone could be prompted to
swallow their emotions rather than subject themselves to further ridicule.

Now, back to the original question: What happens when we suppress our
emotions?

My father suppressed his emotions from at least the time I was born until
today.    I described how he was when I was growing up above. Now what real
effects did this have?
1) Low Self-Esteem.
2) He alienated his friends, and lost them.
3) He alienated his son for over 17 years.
4) He alienated his daughter for nearly 23 years.
5) He lost his job because he exploded at his boss.
6) He almost lost his marriage.

In short, he almost lost everything worth anything in his life. He’s still
struggling with it, but with the aid of a counselor and retirement, he’s
improving. My dad and I came to an understanding shortly before I left for the
Navy. Now we’re friends, and he’s a good grandfather to my children. I like my
dad. He and my sister are on much better terms now, too.

I suppressed my emotions until I was 28. What did it cost me?

1) My childhood.
2) I don’t make friends easily.
3) Very low Self-Esteem.
4) I almost lost my marriage.
5) Years of happiness and joy.

My whole point, and I’ve finally made it here through all my ramblings, is that
emotions aren’t meant to be buried.

Did you know that infant boys are more emotional then infant girls through the
first 18 months of life? Then we teach them “Big Boys Don’t Cry,” and “Don’t
be a cry baby.” By the age of seven, boys realize that they have to be “men”.
They have to be macho and follow the traditional male gender role as dictated
by society. It’s proven that a boy who is allowed to experience and express his
feelings will be better adjusted in adult life, but the vast majority don’t get
that opportunity.

If you are a father, or will be one some day, I beg and plead, don’t force your
sons, or your daughters for that matter, to hide what they’re feeling from you.
That way only leads to pain. Be careful, because it’s so easy to stifle a child’s
emotions because they may be frightening to you, and you don’t know how to
deal with them.

Be honest with yourself. Look in the mirror. Are you suppressing your
emotions? Are you burying your anger and frustration deep inside? I
encourage you to find out if you are. Once we are aware of what it is we are
doing, we can work to change it. Assess the relationships you have. Do they
reinforce old habits and behavior, or are they providing you a safe place to
experience this new way of looking at your emotions?

It’s not an overnight switch. I still find myself suppressing on a regular basis,
but I recognize it when I do, and I can try not to do it. It will take time, but
trust me, the fight is worth it.

Lastly, before I sign off, I encourage everyone, regardless of age or status, to
read these two books:

“Real Boys” by Dr. William Pollack. (Henry Holt and Company, 1998)
“Raising Cain” by Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson (Random House, 1999)

Both are in paperback, and run in the $15-$20 range. Trust me: buy them,
read them. They explain in different ways what I’ve mentioned about gender
roles and how boys are taught to stifle their emotions. They will explain why
we men are the way we are. I can’t recommend either of them highly enough,
and I recommend they be read as a set. If you know a boy, love a boy, were a
boy, or even are a boy, these are for you. Parents, doubly so. (Did I
recommend these books?)

Well, that’s it. It’s been a long, rambling road, but I’m finally done. Please
consider what I’ve written seriously. It can change your life, or the life of a
man or boy you love, for the better.

Take Care,

Dwayne a.k.a. Dewey
E-mail: dewey@deweywriter.com

1/24/04