The Words You Should Throw Away

I want to talk to you today about the words that we chose to use in our conversations. Whether a conversation starts casually and suddenly turns serious and somber or vice versa, the words we say in our conversations always, always sound better in our mind. The life of our words is almost perfectly analogous to being a step-parent of well-known juvenile delinquent: it sounds noble, makes people believe that every parental deed you do is actually born of your own generosity rather than obligation—because, after all, the little bastard isn’t your child, but part of you knows, even if you truly do love your step-child, that your obligated by your marriage, by some, perhaps ill-advised, duty to your spouse. But you always put your best face on in front of people, shruggingly accepting their compliments about your character, relishing their small gestures of sympathy that sustain you on your martyr’s quest. And, all the while, you tell yourself that your duplicity is ok, that it is in fact necessary to keep your life as copacetic as possible. What would happen if you actually ran away from the situation or gave up on the child once and for all like you’ve often fantasized about doing? Would things be easier, or would you feel guilty about it—forever reminded, in random flashes, that you abandoned someone?

Just like this poor, hypothetical step-parent, our words exist in a constant struggle, a constant division between what we our egos tell us we should say and our sense of obligation to other people’s feelings, situations, ect. But, unlike the step-parent, our words exist in a pandemonium that is too intellectual, and too private sometimes, for sympathy. We’ve all told someone a variation of the following explanation after a misunderstanding: “I just chose the wrong words; you know I didn’t mean what you think I mean. I just can’t say the right thing to you,” and of course, you got no sympathy in return. Why? As common as this predicament is, when you’re in it, you feel utterly alone, stuffed with words that are betrayed in the very act of articulation, words that have nothing to do but fester in your mind like disembodied voices of ghosts that want you to share your physical body with them. The answer is intellectually simple, but impossible for us to ever really share with someone else: Our words are inherently duplicitous, and they deceive you and me, their creators, who hear them first in whispers more than the world that hears them in our voices. And this seems especially true when our words are intended to help someone else. When we believe our words can change someone else, sway them to adapt our perspective as their own, we become victims of a savior complex that is destined to leave us in the same place of contemplation—alone, weary, and too exhausted to listen to ourselves.

What is the mystery of this savior mentality? Well, we all know the answer: the value and the danger of the savior mentality are identical; the savior believes that something has given he or she the power to say all the words that are floating around in their minds. And, even worse, this power misleads an imminent savior into believing that their imagined words will actually persuade someone toward one decision or another. That’s tragic…quietly so. Because the savior uses every word, knows no limits, and abandons discretion in favor of “being honest”—a noxious vapor, the only one that harms us without actually harming our atmosphere.

So how is this story related to belief and accomplishment? Simple really: as you work toward changing yourself or changing someone else for the better, there are always words you should say and words you shouldn’t say—no matter what you believe your position in a situation actually is, and no matter how convincing some of the wrong words seem. When you fully believe that a mere message spoken from your mouth will be enough to change someone, you are forgetting the only useful cliché that exists in this world: Only people can change themselves, even if they need your help to do it. Your words may be good, but they will change only you—no one else.

I’m not saying don’t try to help someone who needs it, but any words or phrases that give you that feeling, that conviction that you’ve finally found the key to persuading someone should be thrown away. I can’t tell you what words to use or what feeling to trust; that’s another mystery for another day, when I am younger in mind and older in body.

-EF