Quick—think of the last three social events you attended. Anything at all: a wedding, a night at the pub, dinner at someone’s home, a walk in the park with a friend, a chat by the water cooler. Why did you participate? Select one:
The first option accounts for the majority of most people’s social encounters. Even if we include events such as funerals, we often go because we want to attend, pay our respects, and comfort the family—rather than out of a sense of resentful, foot-dragging obligation.
Sometimes there are a few events in the second category as well—times when we put in an appearance mainly to avoid disapproval for not attending, or as part of a social trade-off. Your spouse attended your company’s Christmas party, so you go to his or her departmental summer barbecue. Fine. Of course, etiquette in these situations often demands that the motives be disguised. “I didn’t want to come, because your dinners are so boring, but I felt I must” is seldom the kickoff to a sparkling evening.
Using the principle that others are, in many respects, like us, we can conclude that most people socialize with us because they want to do so, not because they should—and that if they came out of obligation, they might not really be fully present in any case. A hidden, inward part of them would be at home watching the hockey game.
When we find ourselves tempted to ask, “Why don’t you ever visit (or call or write or invite me to dinner)?” we could use this as a cue to turn the situation around and answer our own question. Why don’t they? We could put ourselves in the role of our companion and replay the last few encounters. What would those evenings have been like? How enjoyable would they have been?
Doing this, we can sometimes become uncomfortably aware that we are relying far more on the other person’s loyalty than on our own role in the exchange. We were drunk or critical or late or inconsiderate or monopolizing or silent or selfish or manipulative—and it would be difficult for anyone to have said that the time spent with us was enjoyable.
This route to unhappiness involves assuming the opposite: that people seek you out due to a feeling of obligation—out of a belief that they should do so, not because they anticipate a pleasant exchange or a positive outcome. No matter who it is—friends, siblings, a spouse—you should believe and assert that they should invite you out, drop by, or engage you in conversation simply because you have a relationship with them, not because they anticipate the exchange to produce any of the myriad forms of human enjoyment.
Demand this from them. In fact, demand more. Expect them to share your political views, tolerate your narcissistic self-focus, and defend you without question to anyone who voices their displeasure with you. Expect them to behave with you the way you would like to believe you do with them. Award yourself extra points if you can come up with a good rationale dictating why they should be even more loyal to you than you are to them.
The great thing about this strategy is that it absolves us from examining our own role in the relationship. When there is no knock at the door, we are free to rehearse our resentment at their inconsideration without having to look in an unflattering mirror.
Surely, you are tempted to say, surely we can find misery both ways. By putting the responsibility squarely on their shoulders, we can savor our embitterment. And by examining ourselves we can feel inadequate and offensive, and we can embark upon a session of self-criticism and self-loathing. But take the next step in the chess game. Understanding our own role in the problem, we might choose to become better companions. No such risk awaits us if we blame others entirely. We will confront them for their fickleness, make our next encounter with them even less pleasant, and magnify the problem—potentially until they abandon us altogether.
If you can master this strategy, you will be in good company: thousands of friendships—and families—are dissolved in precisely this fashion.
Parents of adult children often use this technique. They seek to increase the frequency of visits with their offspring through the generous use of guilt:
Aware of long-ago nights changing their child’s diapers and tending them when they were ill, they dwell on the accumulated debt that they perceive their son or daughter has built up, and they wonder when it will all be repaid.
The answer, of course, is never. Grown children are all too aware of the mountain of debt they owe their parents—and the futility of attempting to pay it off. When have any of their parents’ friends ever said to their own children: “Consider us even—you no longer have to do anything for me”? Never. Parental sacrifice is a thousand-year mortgage. It can never be paid off, so many offspring feel it’s pointless to try.
If these frustrated parents were to shift their gaze onto their own behavior, it might suddenly become no great mystery why their child never calls, writes, or visits. The interactions are so suffused with guilt, anxiety, and manipulation that positive feelings are snuffed out completely. Some empty nesters could give lessons in how to ensure that a child moves away as far as possible and loses the ability to telecommunicate.
“But wait,” comes the objection. “I don’t have to entertain them. They’re my family and friends. If I can’t be myself with them, who can I relax with?” Sadly, if being oneself means becoming a fountain of guilt, unsolicited advice, ill-disguised criticism, or outright hostility, the answer is clear. No one.
Of course, sooner or later we will be bed-bound with a cracked jaw, unable to speak, make canapés, or perhaps even listen to their problems. Fine. By that time, we may have enough money in the relationship bank that we can make the occasional withdrawal. It is only if we make withdrawals continually without ever making a deposit that we can claim to have mastered the misery-inducing art of alienation.