Reader Mail

I got my first bit of reader mail today, and here it is with my response, reprinted with permission.

Dear Doctor,

I thought I'd write you because you seem to enjoy writing, with the blog and all, and you seem open to new people. I've never been very good at having deep connections with people. My friendships are pretty superficial and every time I try to open myself up it seems to go awkwardly. I don't know if that's the type of people I'm doing it with or what. But long life story short, this inability to make close, intimate friends (or even get to know new people quickly) has contributed to a lot of my anxiety with women and social situations, hence my interest in Mark Manson's writing. 

I'm a Canadian, but I'm leaving for grad school in Germany in 3 weeks. I don't know anyone there, speak a little German, and my major anxiety about the whole thing is meeting people. I'm terrified that I won't be able to make good friends. I just stumble at getting to know them and I'm not sure how to get better at this. You mentioned in your blog post today that your skill of forming intimate, lasting friendships is notable. I want to be able to develop this skill. Do you have any wisdom to impart? Is it just being intensely interested in other people? Is it trying to make yourself as interesting as possible (Definitely don't feel comfortable with this one)? I'm stuck here and I don't really have any role models in my life that make friends so effortlessly. Your blog post really interested me and I guess inspired this email. So if you feel like writing to me about it, I'd appreciate it. Hope the weather's nice wherever you are.

D

I think that, in regards, to your problem, you're already on the right track by stepping out of your comfort zone and going to graduate school in germany.  I think the real key is exactly that: your comfort zone.  Don't tell yourself, as many do, that you are unable to make friends - it merely is a matter of expanding your comfort zone so that you feel comfortable interacting and making these sorts of intimate connections with people.  In that sense, the ability to make friends is something that can be cultivated - like working out a muscle, we can practice at it.

Here are a couple tips I have

1) Put yourself in situations where you're interacting with new people constantly.  This means not only hanging out with your graduate student friends, but also seeking out new opportunities in the new place you are in.  The internet, meet up groups, and the like can be useful for this.  This can be intimidating - I understand.  But doing this is half the battle.

2) Accept that you wont make friends with everyone and that every relationship you have will take on a different property and form.  Not only that, people will not always get along with you and you will not always get along with them.  Making a lasting friend is a combination of shared interests and ease in communication, as well as building a history together.  This makes a true intimate friendship, while not a rarity, something that must be built on.

3) The key, though, to building a truly transcendent relationship with someone is letting yourself be vulnerable with them.  This goes hand in hand with no. 2 - that you can't make friends with everyone.  Some people will find your true being - your imperfections, your flaws, the ugliness, the messiness, and the beauty that all entails - and not be interested.  But if you want to build a true bond with a friend, this is a requirement.  My best friends have seen me at my worst, and they have seen me at my best.  My roommate is one of my best friends, and he has seen me break down and cry, as I have him.  It brought us closer together, and I can safely say that it builds something authentic and real.

I hope that these tips help.  Remember that being social and building friendships takes work and practice.  You are already on the right path by putting yourself out there.  Strive for transcendence, accentuate the positive, and I have confidence that it will work out.  

Best of luck,

The Doctor

My Father's Eyes

Growing up, I remember my father as a distant, stoic figure.  He was quick to assess critiques, but uncomfortable with being affectionate and loving, as if he himself didn't know how.  He raised me and my brother with the constant specter of disapproval, which made him like most Asian fathers.  Every now and then we'd catch flashes of warmth from him; a smile, sometimes even a laugh.  When I graduated from college, I remember seeing him as I was making my walk after having received my diploma.  His eyes beamed with pride, but sure enough when I saw him later he was quick to lecture me on how I blinked too much when nervous.

Needless to say, it was hard to be close to this man.  It was even harder after he and my mother began their long estrangement.  Me, my mom, and my brother had moved back to the United States while my dad kept his job in Thailand.  The plan was that my dad would continue to work in Thailand with the goal of returning to the US eventually.  He would come visit once or twice a year.  This did not work out.  One one of his trips back, something was wrong.  My mom sensed it immediately.  He had met another woman.

It was a difficult period in which tears and recriminations pierced the thin walls of our tiny apartment.  I awoke my brother during one of these arguments and told him that I wanted to leave, even though it was during the dead of a midwestern winter.  I wanted to be anywhere but there, trapped in a prison of my parents crumbling marriage.

My mom let us know that our father had absolved himself from the spirit of their marriage contract, even if they decided to continue to honor the legal one.  She was heartbroken and spent the better part of the next decade bitterly denouncing him to all who would listen as the man who ruined her life.  For the longest time, I shared in her bitterness and empathized with her status as the scorned party.  The distance between me and my father grew into a gulf.  It would take years for that gulf to close, and this essay recounts just the last part of that story.

One of the hallmarks of growing up is the moment when you recognize the humanity of your parents.  Growing up, especially in an Asian household, the word of my mother and father was like the word of God.  Obedience was not just expected, but required.  Rebellion meant not just a betrayal of the filial bond, but also a deep sign of ingratitude, the worst of the Confucian sins.  Seeing that your parents are human, seeing that they've made mistakes, and forgiving them for those mistakes is one of the benchmarks of a matured life.

On my latest trip to Thailand, my father and I bonded like we hadn't bonded before.  Mind you, this wasn't something that happened over night, but I on my subsequent trips to Thailand over the years, I saw in his eyes the regret of a man who wished he had been closer to his sons, and the sadness of a man who didn't know how to bridge that gap.

On one late night car ride though Bangkok traffic, my dad opened himself up to me in a way he never had before.  He said that one of the main teachings of the Buddha was the fleetingness of life.  That, in any given moment, for any given reason, the end may come swiftly.  Being prepared for this inevitability is part of getting old, and that he hoped that he had done enough of a job on this earth to die, in Thai terms "eyes closed," which means to die at peace.  He told me that when he does go, he'd hope that I would return to take care of his body, but that he would understand if I didn't.

There he was, a man who was both a monolith in my life, and yet a distant source of pain and sorrow, opening himself up to me and saying something he never could before.  I'm sorry.  Forgive me.

Accepting the humanity of your parents means forgiving them for their flaws.  I told him gently that I would certainly come back for him, when the time comes that he pass.  After all, he is my father, and I love him.

I remember when I was young.  My father was not an athlete and he did not raise athletic kids, but he was always okay at running.  He would take me out to the baseball diamond at the park near the house where I grew up and we would run around the baseball diamond until we couldn't run anymore.  He would beat me, until one day, he had to quit ten laps before I did.  He put his arms on his knees and watched me keep on running.  I remember as I made my last lap, I looked at him.  He simply said, "I got tired."  In his eyes though beamed with a love and pride of a father who knew his son was growing to be something more than him.  This is the memory I choose to keep of my father.  Maybe he couldn't always be with me, but I know he was always watching me with pride and regret from the sideline.