1
" I was struck, though, that even as the women share their experiences, they seem to remain essentially alone in them. They tell their stories, but they do not seem to connect with the others in doing so, and in the end, the film depicts confession as empty. These women open themselves up but do not receive compassion, understanding, or closeness in the space they have freed. I wonder if this is in part why I didn't tell for so long, because of the fear of the hunger that might remain even after disclosure. "
― , Empty
9
" It was one thing to recognize...the defining experience of my adolescence, but as a woman in my forties I hesitated to name it as the central aspect of my identity...The stories we tell about ourselves - whether for forty-five minutes at a stretch or over hundreds of pages - shape our self-inventions. What I have come to realize is that if...is at the core of my identity, it's because I've allowed it to roost there. And that the purpose of therapy isn't to ratify this identity but to redefine it.
The story I am figuring out with J. differs from the one in these pages. I fear that I might look back at this book and think: That's all wrong. Holy shit, that's so offensive! That's blind, naive, strange. You only scratched the surface. You left the most important part out...I know that will happen, and that knowledge is tormenting. But if you wait until you understand everything, you never say anything at all. You step down from the stage and spend the next thirty years wondering what would have happened if you'd revealed yourself. ..
Those sensations I always craved, light, relieved, unburdened: These are associated with the telling of secrets. But I am finding more sustenance in other sensations: transparency, alertness, generosity, and an interest in what else might be possible.
For years I came up with excuses about why therapy wouldn't be right - e.g., I didn't want someone else's language. I didn't want a psychological vocabulary replacing the words I might find to understand my experience. But, also, the illness kept me from it. The same old story: It was a risk to let anything, or anyone, in. It might contaminate me. It might compromise my integrity. But what, after all, was really compromising my integrity? The...I tried to contain in just the right prose remained in control of me.
I was still determined to go away and address this on my own without anyone knowing. I wanted to solve it in the notebook I wrote in by a little arched window and come down from the tower graceful and renewed...But now that I have finished this book, I see that I have not ended the story so much as claimed it. "
― , Empty
17
" I knew that my remaining "preoccupation"...was not normal. I tried to fix it, and I couldn't. At the same time, I believed someday I would fix it and that fixing it would fix everything, would be the transformation that would lead to all other transformations, to wisdom, generosity, maturity. That's what I thought even through the writing of this book. That's what I thought until I met J.
...I was telling her the metaphor I had for the...stuff, which is something from sound editing: The...stuff was a track that ran in my brain under all the other tracks. Sometimes it would get so loud that it would drown out all the other tracks; sometimes I could lower the volume, but I was never able to remove the track from the session. Deleting the track was the wrong idea, J said; lowering the volume was good, but the main thing was to boost the other tracks. Develop other strengths and ways to cope; raise the signal on all I'd neglected. This had seriously never occurred to me...it wasn't subtraction that I needed; it was addition.
How could I raise the signal on the other tracks?
"Who's the engineer?" J. said. It was just the right question. "
― , Empty
19
" Writing...is in a way a renunciation of empty...Because I'll fill the blank white pages, I'll fill the emptiness in; and inevitably I will get it wrong, it will not be perfect. I'll feel somehow as if I've ruined it, as if I've wrecked it; and I will have to live with that. I will have to learn to live with something other than the blankness and the possibility of a future in which everything is exactly right. I will have to learn that I can feel regret, disappointment, discomfort; that I can have those feelings, any feeling, and still be okay. And maybe, finally, I will learn to feel full. "
― , Empty