Better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied.

I am frequently asked, for some reason, what my writing is like/how it differs when I write essays for university. I’m not sure why anyone would want to read them, but since it’s asked relatively frequently I thought I’d post one of my philosophy ones. This was written in my first term at university, and I was taking philosophy for the first time.

‘Better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied’: Why does J. S. Mill draw a distinction between types of pleasure? How convincing is his argument?

This essay will explore J S Mill’s Qualitative Hedonism and the reasons behind drawning a distinction between the types of pleasure. It will touch upon Bentham’s greatest happiness principle based on the felicific calculus and whether this is what inspired Mill to differentiate between pleasures. I will find fault in Mill’s argument that it is an ‘unquestionable fact’ that people prefer pleasures which employ their higher faculties and in his principle of ‘competent judges’. I believe that while there could be truth in the statement that it is ‘better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied’, Mill’s arguments do not justify his claims enough.

Bentham believed in the greatest happiness principle. He created the felicific calculus, an algorithm for calculating the amount of pleasure a specific action would probably cause. A staple of this algorithm is intensity. Bentham’s use of the word was ‘probably a technical notion to sum up the degree of pleasure of an experience for a unit of duration’. However, if we think of intensity in its ordinary use to describe characteristics of experiences, it clearly would not sum up the pleasure (or indeed pain) of an experience. As Mill says, after much excitement, tranquillity is pleasurable. It would not make sense to say that tranquility is more intense than excitement, but it could create a similar level of happiness. Mill’s notion of qualitative differences between different kinds of pleasure could be interpreted as a reconigition of this (West, 1976; p.100).

Mill’s Utilitarianism is centered on hedonism:

Actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reserve of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure and the absence of pain; by unhappiness, pain, and the privation of pleasure. (Chp 2, par. 2, line 2)

However, Mill believes in qualitative hedonism and thinks that pleasures can be ranked. He believes that there are some pleasures that outweigh others, as no matter how much of one you are given, you would never give up your chance to have even only a small amount of the other.

If one of the two is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so far above the other that they prefer it, even though knowing it to be attended with a greater amount of discontent, and would not resign it for any quantity of the other pleasure which their nature is capable of, we are justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority in quality so far outweighing quantity as to render it, in comparison, of small account (par. 5 line 6).

I believe that there are plenty of instances in which an individual would not give up a certain pleasure for any amount of another pleasure. For instance, an avid reader who enjoys the occasional film would not agree to become illiterate, even if in the illiterate state he is given any film he has ever wanted to see. Similarly, a chocolate lover would not give it up for an unlimited supply of potatos, even if he could only a small amount of chocolate.

Thus the aforementioned argument can be understood in certain cases. However, my chief issue with Mill’s argument lies in his statement that:

It is an unquestionable fact that those who are equally acquainted with, and equally capable of appreciating and enjoying, both, do give a most marked preference to the manner of existence which employs their higher faculties (par. 6, line 1). 

How did he come to such a conclusion? Even if we were to disregard the fact that nothing so completely based on opinion could ever be unquestionable, to make a statement so bold would require thorough research and questioning each individual acquainted with enjoying both bodily functions and their higher faculties. Needless to say, no such measure was undertaken, which falsifies the statement. However, even if we removed the ‘unquestionable fact’ from the sentence and then attempt to indugle Mill’s argument, the statement still can be proved untrue. For instance, there are individuals who are intelligent and whose intelligence can be observed through their writings or their grades. There are such individuals who have no desire to pursue academia (which, in this case, can be considered as employing their higher faculties) even at a bachelor’s level. Some of these individuals aquire a degree regardless in order to conform to society’s expectations, or in order to get a job as we are now living in an era where university education has become the norm. However, for these individuals, their time spent studying and pursuing higher education is, at the least a waste of time, and at the most a source of anguish.  In this instance, how can we say that it is an unquestionable fact that employing one’s higher faculities has a marked preference? Indeed, it directly contradicts hedonism. It could be argued that employing one’s higher faculties does not have to be through academia – it could be through intelligent thought. However, there has been instances around the world where an individual is overwhelmed with knowledge and would like to return to a state of mind where he was unaware of certain things. There is the old adage, ‘ignorance is bliss’.

Mill goes on to employ his famous aphorism:

It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is only because they only know their own side of the question (par. 6 line 40).

 It is understood that being a human being dissatisfied versus a satisfied pig is on a par with being Socrates dissatisfied versus a satisfied fool. However, the problem with this is that while the former equation could be true, as Mill correctly theorizes that “few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals, for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beat’s pleasures” (par. 6, line 4), even if this is only “attribute[d] to pride” (par. 6, line 19); the latter is much more dubious, as both Socrates and the fool would be human. Mill believes that the decision over which is ‘better’ should be undertaken by a competent judge. A competent judge is one who has experienced both pleasures and has no reason to favour one over the other in terms of morality. Mill believes that once a competent judge has decided on a verdict “there can be no appeal” (par. 8, line 1), and “if they differ, that of the majority among them must be admitted as final” (par. 8, line 5). My previous argument about the measures and the research that would be needed to taken into consideration for this applies. How are we to know how many competent judges there are for a certain category in the world? Furthermore, if the difference is slight, how can we accept the majority as “final”? I also do not find the competent judge test to be very convincing. We are not aware of an individual’s reasons for their choice or preference. Mill deems that the decision should be made “irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation” (par. 5, line 4); however, this doesn’t cover all aspects of a potential problem. Decisions can rest on innate preferences. For instance, if a homosexual woman has had sexual experiences with both genders, and prefers the experience with a woman, this does not nullify her opinion simply because most women questioned are heterosexual and thus prefer men.

To conclude, I believe that Mill’s arguments do not hold up under scrutiny and cannot be fully validated. Furthermore, theories such as the competent judge test can lead us in circles. Moreover, Mill’s claim, at its very core, contradicts hedonism. While I can understand his rationale in believing that it ‘is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied’ and would certainly agree that I would not agree to be turned into a lower animal, I am not a hedonist. If I were to label myself as such, I would be on a par with Bentham, not Mill.

Bibliography:
Mill, J. S. (1998). Utilitarianism. New York: Oxford University Press.
West, H. R. (1976, January). Mill’s Qualitative Hedonism. Philosophy, 51 (195), pp. 97-101.

On split tongues.

I wonder if this is something I’m going to live with my entire life. Like a mole or a dimple. Something that, with a little bit of make up, or putting on a bit of weight, could be disguised -– but it could always come back.

I was born in an Arab country, to Arab parents. They had different nationalities, maybe they emphasized different syllables, had different slang. But they were both of the Arab world, kept most of same traditions and spoke the same language. My father was the one who moved. After twenty years in her country, his speech has changed. He speaks with her accent, uses colloquialisms, fits like a glove. He kept some words, which he passed on to us. Like fork, or spoon. Something so simple, and yet, it wasn’t until I was twelve that I even realised that my friends and I didn’t use the same word. When I heard the common, country term for it, it felt heavy in my ear. Foreign and strange. I took on my mother’s language. Despite knowing were my father came from, and always feeling a sense of loyalty to the country, I never visited. Not for a long time. I never had anything that could explain my vicious sense of loyalty, or why I would say I was half from there when someone would ask. I wasn’t, really. My father was born and raised there, sure. But it wasn’t my country.

I began to grow up, and my parents had to decide what educational institution they would place me in. Eventually, I went to a private British school. I was taught English side-by-side with Arabic for years. Slowly but surely though, English began to take over my tongue. I spoke it all day at school, with my friends, with my teachers. I did all my homework in it. My parents even liked hearing me speak it, encouraging. I discovered my love of books and my thirst for knowledge. I began to devour books, all in English. Arabic became, very fast, lost. I could speak it, of course, I spoke it at home. But being my mother tongue, I thought it was innate. Being the language we did not use for our subjects at school, I didn’t see the point in reading books in it. Very fast, my vocabulary in English grew as my Arabic vocabulary stayed utterly still.

I began writing. I wrote in English. I was inhaling books. Arabic as a class was a joke, filled with Arabic speakers and easy homework. I stopped doing it. I stopped reading in it altogether, homework assignments or newspapers. I read more and more in English. It rolled off my tongue easily. My accent couldn’t be placed, but it was fluent, it was clear. As I grew, I began to realise that I was losing a part of me, that unless I fixed it, I would be a stranger in my own community. I’d pick up the newspaper and the words seemed so odd. They looked they way letters look to a child: unintelligible. I could make them out, I could read them, but it was hard. The harder it got, the more scared I got, and the less I tried.

I grew still. I was a teenager, almost done with school, trying hard enough to avoid my schoolwork to take on anything else. I let it slide. I ignored the jibes sent my way by my parents. I thought I had long enough to fix it. It’ll be fine.

I finished secondary school. I got into an excellent university. I left home for a country of English speakers. I wasn’t even speaking Arabic at home anymore; I was only speaking it on long distance phone calls to my parents. I couldn’t even get through an entire conversation without peppering it with English words. My Arabic vocabulary seemed to be receding.

I wanted not to care. But I couldn’t. It was an entire language, a culture, mine. English had been something I had slipped on. It fits perfectly, but it was put on. It wasn’t just me. At the same time, I begin noticing all the words missing from my vocabulary in English. Not the big words, not the complex ones, no. Those I had a good grasp on. It was the simple words, the everyday ones that I didn’t use, because I was using Arabic. Names of vegetables and fruits. Materials and patterns, certain colours or words used in exasperation. I tried to ignore this truth like I tried to ignore my missing Arabic words. But I can’t.

Because now I have two half-languages. My English is as perfect an a native speaker’s, and yet my Arabic is atrocious. I can speak it fine (I’d be even more worried if I couldn’t!) but my writing and reading in Arabic is quite bad. One of my goals this summer is to try reading some of the newspaper in Arabic instead of English when I’m home, and maybe pick up a couple of books in Arabic and make my way through them.

The reason I find it really sad is how much I love languages. I’ve been working on my French again recently, and I want to begin Spanish (I took a class last year but didn’t stick with it, because I had a lot of other things going on) again. I figure if I’m going to delve into even more languages, my own should take priority first. The reality is English and Arabic are both my mother tongues.

On monogamy.

One topic that is always interesting to talk about — out of curiosity — is monogamy, and what one would do if you were in a committed relationship, or a marriage, and your spouse was unfaithful. 

First there’s the technicality — what do you classify as cheating? A kiss, or sex? Something in the middle? I think most people would agree a kiss, if charged with sexuality and longing is being unfaithful, but most would also forgive the indiscretion. At what point is it too much to forgive? There’s the actions to consider, and then the frequency. Is a one-night stand better than keeping a mistress? Etc. 

A friend and I were talking about relationships and marriage a few months ago, and in the age of divorce and few happily ever afters, we were also discussing what would make us leave. What would be too much to forgive? Of course, being unfaithful is not the only factor, but for the sake of this post we’re going at it from this angle. I didn’t need a second’s thought on the matter. If a man cheated on me, I said, you can beat I would not stay with him. My friend played devil’s advocate, what if you had children? What if you had no money of your own? What if he made you believe that it was because of something you had done? and so on, and so forth. I was adamant. I would not stay with a man who cheated on me. I would never, ever cheat and whoever I’m with has to abide by that principle. I must be able to expect of him what he expects of me.

My friend, to my immense surprise, was not so hard-line about it. She said it depended on the circumstances, it depended on whether he treated her right apart from that, it depended on whether it was a frequent thing or a one-time indiscreation, it depended on whether they had children — she could think of at least twenty reasons she would let it slide. I have rarely been so speechless and shocked. We grew up in a similar environment, we have been close since we were six years old, we both went to private schools, we are both clever and educated. I just couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I argued with her, and she just kept saying, it depends. It’s not like I’d stay with someone who’s truly awful. It was one of those moments when you finally begin to understand something you’ve always found utterly perplexing. I couldn’t fathom how so many women could stay in bad relationships, could abide a cheating partner, etc. And here was my closest childhood friend, who had almost all the opportunities I had, not in a relationship, but could easily envisage staying with an unfaithful spouse.

Moreover, when I kept repeating my stance, she called me unreasonable, unrealistic and naive. She said I didn’t know how the world works and that if put in the situation I’d behave differently. I said no one ever really knows how they will behave, but I know how I want to behave. And I know if he can’t keep himself in line, then I don’t want him. And then she said something else, something that surprised me even more — she said, Men aren’t like women. Sex can easily be something they can’t control. How would you know if it’s something he really wanted or if the other woman manipulated him? I actually had to stop and control myself. I was so close to screaming at her. There are biological differences between men and women, but none of these permit a man to cheat and think it’s okay, so long as he still loves his wife. Let me tell you something: if you cheat, you don’t love the person that you’re with enough. It’s as simple as that. You could argue with me until you’re blue in the face, I will not change my mind. Maybe you can accept it, maybe you can lower your standards and be with someone who does not love you the way you should be loved. That’s a choice. Some people accept what they think they deserve. But it remains: if s/he cheats, they don’t love you enough. Period.  

We eventually had to change the subject because I was getting really angry and frustrated with her. A few weeks later, my mother and I had watched some crappy movie, and basically, the woman agreed to take back the man who had cheated on her, after him ‘proving his love’ and all that kind of bollocks. I was not impressed. I gave my mother a summary of the conversation my friend and I had, and I said, can you believe it? And my mother said, well, yes. She didn’t say what my friend said, but her only line was: would you prefer to have a husband who had another woman, and was perfectly pleasant to you, took care of you and loved you; or, would you prefer a man who was completely faithful, but didn’t care about you, or was verbally or physically abusive, or any number of other things?

I told her I wouldn’t stay with either man, obviously. It’s just amazing sometimes to hear what people think. It’s one thing to expect those answers out of someone in a dysfunctional relationship, it’s just mind-boggling to hear them out of single, strong, educated women.

[Sidenote: This is a post on monogamy. I am only talking about people who agree to be faithful to each other. Polygamy is a whole different ball-game and I won’t pretend to understand or speak about it beyond my experience.]

On death, part two.

The next two deaths I experienced were in the following year, within three months of each other. They were less hurtful merely because the people who passed were old, and I was not so very close to them. It was still a stark reminder of mortality, and of the flimsy connections were make during life. It was my great-grandfather who passed away, a very lovely old man who lived quite close to us and who we went to visit every now and again. It was always done with ceremony, for some reason, despite the fact that we do not usually stand on ceremony in my family. There is always politeness and respect for elders, but rarely ceremony. The news of his passing was distressing, in a way that the sudden demolition of the pyramids would be — they have been there as long as you have ever known, and even though you may not visit them daily, you always know you could. I was not heartbroken, but I was incredibly sad, and as the family gathered and mourned together, I found myself watching the children more times than not. Even those of them who had seen him on a daily basis were running around, laughing and screaming and asking all the adults why everyone was suddenly wearing black. They sat in their mother’s laps eating sweets or ran around the garden throwing toys at each other. I think every wake should have children, there is no bigger contrast. When I played with the children, or even just handed them something they wanted, I felt my heart quieten.

When he passed we were told immediately, and we made our way over to his house. The coroner had just removed the body, if we had been fifteen minutes earlier we would’ve have had a chance to say goodbye. I struggled with my own thoughts over whether or not that was something I would have wanted for weeks afterward.

The second person who passed was his wife. She wasn’t my great-grandmother, she was my step-great-grandmother, which when you realise how ridiculous that sounds excuses my calling her his wife, instead. I didn’t know her well at all, and was only sad to the extent that my family who were related to her were sad. Regardless, her passing brought the whole family together again, under the same roof, for another period of mourning. There was some mutterings of at least they passed on together and other such consolatory things people say when people die. We have a three-day wake and the close family mourn for forty days. I went every day for the wake, and then once a week until the forty days were over. Toward the end of them, they were more a large gathering that continued grief, and her death she had brought us together, however briefly.

I remember when I left on the fortieth day thinking, that’s enough, now. That’s enough death for a while. But it wasn’t, yet. I had another year ahead of me.

On death, part one.

I recently read The Year of Magical Thinking and for the first time in two years, I let myself stop and really think about death and grief. I haven’t really written about my experiences, except privately, and those notes and poems are so sporadic and badly written and unclear. 

It has been two years since anyone I’ve known personally has passed away. But before that, for three years, someone I knew passed every six months. It was a painful period in my life and it still affects how I live and how I feel about a lot of things.

It was a few weeks before my birthday. I was about to turn fifteen. We were in the car and my mother’s phone rang. My great-uncle (who, by calling him “great-uncle” sounds like he was old, but he wasn’t. He was in his late forties) had been rushed to the hospital. All I got from it was that it was something in his brain and my mother sped to get us home and wouldn’t let me go to the hospital with her. When he’s a little better, she said. We can’t have the entire family turning up, it’s too many people. So I sat at home and waited.

She came back and told me he was okay, there were problems and complications but he was sitting up, he was speaking, and he told her to get her ass home for dinner. I felt a bit better. I asked when I could go and she said not yet.

I think it was a week later that I came home and my mother wasn’t there. I called her and she rejected my call several times. When she finally got home, I knew straightaway. He had been scheduled for surgery and the surgeon had done something wrong. He was in a coma but had too much intercranial pressure and they were worried. I told her I wanted to go see him, and she said I shouldn’t see him like this. I fought her and lost. I should have shouted, I should have thrown a fit, I should have made her take me. But it was her uncle and she was tired and upset and I wanted to be accommodating.

A few days later he was dead. He was my favourite great-uncle, he was one of my favourite members of my family. I was his favourite niece, to the point where he was asked to stop being so biased. He was an even bigger bookworm than I was. He bought hundreds of books and didn’t have the space for them, he made his children share rooms and had three rooms full of books in the house. Not libraries with shelves, but books just piled in heaps. He bought books he didn’t have time to read. He used to pinch my nose all the time when he’d say hello. He’d kiss me twice. When he would come over for meals, the rest of the extended family would be there and after the food, after tea, he’d grab my hand and pull me outside and we’d stroll around the garden. He’d smoke a couple of cigarettes and I would always, without fail, steal the rest of his packet and throw them in the bin. He said if anyone finally made him quit it would be me. One of the thoughts that crossed my mind when he died was I don’t have a single photo with him where it’s just the two of us. And then I thought, he’ll never be at my wedding.

[In between these two deaths the other life-changing event that happened to me was that I moved out of my mother’s house and into my father’s.]

I was fifteen and just about to sit my end of year exams. I hear the front door slam, and when I looked at the time I realised it was early for my father to be coming home. I went to his room, where he stood, looking shell-shocked and taking off his tie. I asked him what was wrong.

“I’m going to Dubai.” This wasn’t unusual. He was in Dubai often for business, and two of his best friends lived there so he tended to stay an extra night sometimes to see them.

“When?” 

“Tonight.” This was news. He normally told us a week in advance when he had to leave, and he’d often find out the day before, but he rarely just came home and took off. I asked if everything was okay, and he said, “Your uncle’s sick.” [In the Arab world, as a sign of respect, you call everyone who is significantly older than you uncle or aunt, especially if they are family friends. Here, my dad was referring to one of his best friends. He named him, obviously.]

I was shocked, and upset, and told him I’d help him pack. But the way he spoke, and moved, I could tell it was more serious than he was letting on. He wouldn’t look me in the eye and he kept fidgeting. So I asked how serious it was, and what exactly was wrong. My dad got angry, and snapped that he was in the hospital and he just had to go see him. I got more and more confused. Eventually, after I asked him several more times what was wrong, my dad said:

“He’s dead. He died yesterday. I just found out.” I couldn’t speak. Words can’t express the stream of thoughts that blurred my mind, the immediate onset of tears, the dry mouth. The way my dad broke this news to me would be the way he would break the news of other deaths, too. I hated it. I hated that he made me feel hopeful and the crushed. While my mind was like a fast-forward movie reel and I was trying to figure how he could’ve died, I suddenly realised that my father had started crying. I had never seen my dad cry like that before. I stepped forward and hugged him, and he was convulsing and shaking. I got even more emotional. 

I felt misplaced for weeks. I wanted to fly to Dubai as well, but I had exams, and my dad flatly forbade me to go. This man was a good man. He was a wonderful person and my entire family got along with his. He had two children, a son a year older than me and a daughter a year younger than me. They are family to us, and I love them as much as I love my own brothers. I suddenly realised I had to call them. I spoke to his wife. I spoke to his daughter, both of whom were tired of crying, quiet and obviously sad. Then Mo* came to the phone. I had just told him I was sorry when I broke down. I cried and cried. And to this day I’m embarrassed and upset with myself for making his own son have to comfort me instead of having it be the other way around. He told me it would be okay. I cried. I spent a lot of time on the phone while they were at the wake (wakes go on for three days in Muslim tradition). I sat my exams. Mo sat his, and aced them, to everyone’s astonishment. To me, he said he did them to make his father proud. To everyone else, especially his mother and sister, he was a rock. He took care of everything. Sixteen and a role model. To me, he spoke about his father for hours. He told me how he passed away, which everyone else had refused to talk about. We talked and talked. Months passed. I remember the next time we went to see them. I remember seeing my uncle’s empty chair, not hearing him berate my dad, not forcing us to go out and have a good time and keep the adults away. I saw the football in the garden and couldn’t kick it around. I couldn’t eat at the dinner table with his usual chair empty. They moved out of that house soon after, and I was secretly glad. Glad for them, because those things affected them mostly. But glad I didn’t have to deal with it. 

I don’t even remember that summer.

On flirting.

I’m a bit of a flirt. I don’t mean to be, it’s just how I am. It’s not gender-specific, either. I just tend to be overly friendly and chatty and people occasionally misconstrue this as me hitting on them. I’ve had many, many conversations with people about it and back when I had a regular “gang” of friends, they were tasked with pinching me or pulling me aside if I was doing anything that to normal eyes would be seen as flirting. This meant they spent more time pulling me away from people than doing anything else.

Most girls, who know I’m straight, and who are (for the most part) straight themselves, split into two categories: those who like the easy warmth, and those who find it uncomfortable and tell me to stop. My gay girlfriends all love it (though granted most of my gay friends are guys, so this isn’t saying much) and find it fun to flirt knowing nothing can come of it. My gay boyfriends are all (except one) much more flirty than I am, so they probably wouldn’t be friends with me if I wasn’t so flamboyant. 

The problem really arises with straight guys. A lot of guys immediately think I’m hitting on them, and they either rise to the occasion (which of course puts me out) or decide the way to deal with it is to avoid me. Once they realise I’m like that with everyone, they tend to be hugely embarrassed (as they should be, forming immediate assumptions), and don’t mind it. A few feel uncomfortable or have girlfriends who tell me to back off. And when I remember, I do. But it’s that in-between stage before they know it’s just part of what I’m like that it’s both amusing and frustrating to witness. 

Very few guys will just ask me point-blank. I suppose that’s understandable though it would solve everything if they did. But a few have. The most amusing anecdote (for me at least) involves my friend Lee*. When we first met, it was with a large, rowdy group and everyone was laughing and having a good time and you couldn’t really differentiate one between the other, except in terms of sober-drunk scale. Doing the usual university introductions we exchanged what year we were in and what course we were doing, upon which we discovered we were in the same year and we both did Psychology. A few weeks later we were walking out and bumped into each other and we walked into town together. When we got in, we realised we wanted to keep talking and were both hungry, so we went into a little cafe and spent three or four hours chatting away. This birthed a semi-regular outing for us.

A couple of weeks after we began this, we were walking home. After a brief lapse of silence, he says, “Do you mind if I ask you something a bit strange?” I said, no, of course not. Upon which he replied, “Do you fancy me?” Now, I’ve had this happen several times, as I said, but I still find it hilarious and I unfortunately burst out laughing. He asked what was so funny. 

“I just don’t fancy you at all. Sorry.”

“No that’s good — it’s just, you flirt all the time.”

“I’m like that with everyone. Everyone I like, anyway.”

“Like?”

“Not fancy, just people I like. People! Normal people.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to make you feel common.”

“See what you just did there?!”

“Did what?”

“You called me babe! And then you made a flirty comment!”

“I don’t mean anything by it.”

“And what about when you linked arms with me?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t think about it. I’ll let go if you want me to.”

“No, I don’t, it’s just… well, what about when you ruffled my hair? Or when you said I reminded you of a guy you used to like? Or when you said I couldn’t leave without a kiss?”

“You make it sound so dramatic. You just gave me a peck on the cheek. Look, Lee, I’m sorry. I’ve pretty much always been like this. I wish I could say I’ll be different, but I know I won’t. I could tone it down but I can’t just stop. It’s not who I am.”

“No, it’s okay — I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” He offered me his arm and kissed the top of my head, “So what’re you like when you actually fancy someone?”

“I get shy.”

He burst out laughing, “Are fucking kidding me? What the fuck are you like shy? I want to see that!”

“Well, not shy shy, but I actually don’t talk all the time and I’ll blush occasionally. And I won’t be able to have him so much as touch my arm without me giggling.”

“I can’t wait to see this,” he said, shaking his head. A couple of months later, I was on a date that was kind of uncertain, but the guy I was with I definitely liked. Lee happened to be at the same bar we had stopped at, so I introduced them. Sam* said something and I laughed, and then pulled me toward him to ward off the crush of people. When he put his arm around me, I blushed a little and couldn’t really look him in the eye. When I did look up, I saw Lee looking at me, smiling. He gave me a little nod and wink and left us. He texted me later that night, okay. I see it.

*names are changed to protect the guilty.

porretts-deactivated20100808 asked: I found this by total accident but it's hard to just stop reading, keep up the great work!

Thank you, I appreciate it. 

On friends.

All of the posts here are birthed from something personal, but this is probably the most personal content-filled. I wondered whether I should post it, but hopefully you won’t think it too impertinent of me.

Friendship is a funny thing. Well, people are the real funny thing, but it wouldn’t matter so much if we all didn’t want to connect. I’ve been thinking about real friendship a lot this year, because I’ve been through a lot and I realised that the people I wanted to be there to catch me weren’t. Some were expected, and some utterly unexpected. It made me go through several life-changing events alone. In a way, I’m glad I did. Everything I did I can defend, or at least explain. I did it because it’s what I thought was right for me.

There are people who make you despair for humankind. There are people that are just apathetic. There are people you don’t expect anything out of, because you know it’ll never come to any good. But the ones that break your heart are the ones that win you over, only to turn around and leave you in the cold.

There’s a guy, for instance, who I met last year when we were both fresher’s at university. He was incredibly lovely, we got along, and once we broke away from the group we were in we realised that we got along together much better than with the rest of them. We started going out just the two of us. We would talk for hours and hours. We got to be close, but not very. We didn’t see each other often, though when we did we tended to sneak off by ourselves. This January, he had a birthday party. It was in the middle of exams, so he didn’t expect many people to turn up, and thus decided to just have it at the pub instead of deal with cleaning up a mess. The kind of person he is, even during exams, 30-40 people turned up to wish him a happy birthday. Everyone bought him drinks and at one point there was so many lined up that he told people to just take them. We don’t hang out with the same people at all. Of all his friends, only two are also my friends. He knew this, but asked me to come anyway. I loved him enough to not miss it. Besides, I am extremely talkative, and not in the least bit shy. It didn’t take me any time to start chatting to a group of his friends. Despite this, he stayed by me most of the night. He talked to me and every time someone interjected in our conversation he’d steer it back towards us. He made sure I had a beverage at all times, whenever he went anywhere he made sure to tell me first. When I pointed out that I was hoarding him, he said there was no one else he’d rather be talking to. I was there for several hours, and it got to the point where I was ready to head home. He was upstairs, so I rang him to tell him I was going. He told me I was forbidden to leave without saying a face-to-face goodbye. He met me outside, and pulled me into several long hugs, told me I was a great friend. I told him I hadn’t done anything forty other people hadn’t done. He said I had. He kissed both my cheeks and told me he loved me, and for a minute or two we just stood there, in the cold January air, foreheads pressed against each other, smiling. It was probably one of the moments I’ve felt most content, loved and safe this year. [I interject to point out we are not in love with each other, it’s just a friendship thing].

But then, after that we had a break before our lectures, and I spent it in London. He came to my birthday party, which incidentally was at the same pub in February. After that we went back and forth making and canceling plans — generally, I was the one making them and he was the one canceling for some study or work or busy thing or the other. Eventually I gave up. I could have called, or Facebooked him. But I was so tired of making the effort with everyone and wanted him — and several other deadbeat friends — to make the effort for me. I didn’t speak to him again until Saturday.

This Saturday, after my exam, I was in town looking at a book stall when he saw me from a coffee shop across the street. He called me and asked me to go see him. Within minutes, we fell back into our easy talkative state, and three hours later we realised it was dark out. He asked to show me where he was living next year, so we went to see his house. We went to the supermarket together and bought some groceries, then we walked home. His dorm was closer than mine, so I told him it was silly for him to walk me home and walk back. He hugged me and told me he had missed me. I told him he had been a crap friend, but that I had too. We had both gone through a lot these past couple of months. We made a promise to spend an entire day together next week. Earlier tonight I called him to check in and we spent an hour on the phone, first talking about serious things and then just watching stand up comedy and parodies on YouTube together. We laughed a lot. We renewed our promise for our day date.

I just wonder, though. I care too much most of the time and when a friendship goes sour, I’ll often feel the strain the most. I guess that’s just how I am. I love my friends and I am fiercely loyal. Time and time again people show me that they are not. A couple of weeks ago, I was willing to give this guy up. But we’re both still the same people and I don’t want to let him go. What does that make me? What does that make him? Is it fair for me to say he was a shit friend? He isn’t responsible for me. I don’t know if I expect too much of people or if it’s people that keep falling short of who they should be. But for right now, things are back on track for us and I’m not mad or frustrated enough to turn this into a “thing”. 

On Tourette’s

A little disclaimer type thing: I am not an expert on Tourette’s, I am merely a curious second-year Psych student scribbling down some thoughts.

“Tourette’s syndrome is characterised by an excess of nervous energy, and a great production and extravagance of strange notions: tics, jerks, mannerisms, grimances, noises, curses, involuntary imitations and compulsions of all sorts, with an odd elfin humour and a tendency to antic and outlandish kinds of play.” —  Oliver Sacks

I had a friend in high school who had Tourette’s. I still know her, but she lives thousands of miles away and we only touch base with each other once or twice a year.

Tourette’s is a curious disease. I met my friend, let’s call her Ochre, when I was 11. She didn’t have a debilitating form, but it was present and it was obvious. She got bullied at school, despite those of us who were close to her protecting her. I will not pretend she was my best friend. In fact, we fought a lot. We were both best friends with the same girl, and with kids sometimes being jealous over your friend spending more time with someone else is stronger than the feeling of jealousy in a relationship. But we were in the same group, and our group was close. 

I didn’t understand the disease at the time. I don’t know why I didn’t look into it more, or speak to her about it more. My normal personality traits should’ve taken one route or the other. I think I felt like it was personal to her, and any knowledge I collected wasn’t mine to collect. For my part, I didn’t think her Tourette’s was a problem. So what if she twitched while she wrote? So what if she had to blink her eye twice as much as the normal person, or mutter under her breath? I didn’t see why people would want to bully that. What was worse, sometimes, were the people in our class who treated her perfectly normally when she was there, but the minute she’d leave the room they would start to talk. 

When we were about 14, she left for about a year to get treatment. Again, knowing it was sensitive, we didn’t talk about it very much. We (being our group) sent and received letters, told her we missed her and continued to defend her against any ignorant idiots who wanted to make fun of her. I know she got surgery, though I’m not sure what kind, and I know when she came back she was on medication. The medication decreased her symptoms, but they didn’t disappear completely. At the time, I didn’t know what she was on, but research gives me a pretty good idea of what she was probably on.

Tourette’s is fascinating. Prominent neuropsychologist A R Luria said:

“This is truly of a tremendous importance. Any understanding of such a syndrome must vastly broaden our understanding of human nature in general … I know of no other syndrome of comparable interest.”

There have been many notable people who have Tourette’s. One that interests me is Samuel Johnson, a man I admire. It’s diseases like this that trigger my curiosity and passion and convince me psychology is my path in life.

I wish Tourette’s had more exposure with realistic outcomes explained. Ochre is a girl like any other. She has annoying traits and she also has an enormous talent for art. I never differentiated her from the rest of based on her Tourette’s. Her case wasn’t mild, but wasn’t vicious, so I know it might be easier for me to say it didn’t affect the way I saw her. Some people with Tourette’s embrace it as part of their lives and don’t want you to overlook it. But there needs to more conversation about it.

endlessbloomability asked: I just stumbled onto your page, and just wanted to say that I love your entries. I read the first, and then finally had to make myself stop. I especially loved the entry on books, because that is exactly how I feel. Thanks!

Thank you, I appreciate it :)