Indifference…. we sometimes deploy it as a defense mechanism. We sometimes use it as a cudgel. Because it can be used in these ways, it seems important to be able to distinguish between real indifference and manufactured indifference. As a defense mechanism, feigned indifference – saying one doesn’t care – means they can’t be disappointed, they can’t be hurt, they can’t feel the full sting of failure because they didn’t care about success in the first place. When weaponized, our indifference is a way of telling people that they don’t matter, that they aren’t seen or heard, that they don’t register as being worthy of our attention. Genuine indifference seems to be something else – seems to be less intentional and less deceptive. Sometimes, we really don’t care. If all relationships and passions require nurturing and practice, indifference (in all its gradations) is the barren field in which nothing grows. But what if there’s a third option, way, or interpretation? What if indifference is a misinterpretation or misnaming of acceptance? What if, through the practice of approaching the world with a more zen like view, one genuinely becomes less attached to or invested in outcomes? In this case, indifference may be a way to choke back our ambitions when they become too dangerous – a throttle of sorts.
I’ve been asking myself different versions of these questions these past few days and weeks. I’ve been thinking about these things because I’ve been undertaking activities that require a level of enthusiasm and upfront interest – mostly interviewing for jobs, trying to get published, and talking to women as potential dates. In all of these domains, one must be somewhat invested in the outcome, one must have some sort of ambition, and one has to accept rejection as part of the process. For me, what gets hard to discern, is whether or not my eventual shrug-like attitude is a defense mechanism employed to steel myself against the onslaught of rejections or if I’ve actually gotten better at minimizing my expectations and accepting the course of events as they unfold – a willingness to accept all possible outcomes. What will be, will be. Another question I’ve had, the one that needles me quite a bit is: will this all change if or when I find myself wrapped up in something? Not caring is easy until we find something worth caring about – then things tend to get a little wonky.
Thankfully, or perhaps because of my years of conditioning in the trenches of capitalism, my indifference (acceptance of all possible outcomes) doesn’t come through much on job interviews. Usually, I can steer those conversations towards my curiosities about the organization or the position or the opportunities. When that happens, there’s little room for zen Matt to show up. And it’s probably best if he stays hidden for a while. Admittedly, there was one instance when my more philosophical self got the best of me. I had an interview in which I was asked what I think separates me from the other candidates. Zen Matt crawled out of the basement where he had been shackled to a boiler and said (with all sincerity) “probably not much.” Some people find my honesty refreshing, others just think I’m an idiot. In the moment, I believed and hoped that they would have several good candidates to choose from and we’d each have our strengths and weaknesses. I spoke to my strengths, but I’m not in the position to determine whether or not they are difference makers. I would hope all candidates have similar strengths. In this respect, I tend to think of myself as a floor rather than a ceiling. I’m honest, dependable, curious, and thoughtful. On good days, I might be considered articulate and creative. But I think these should be the basics. I try to do good work – but shouldn’t everybody? I didn’t get the job and I didn’t make it to the next round. I was ok with that.
In the dating realm, which I’ve been slow and cautious to enter, I feel a similar “indifference” or acceptance or dispassionate approach. While I’ve texted and talked with a few people, I ignore 99% of the people who reach out, or swipe on me, or “like” me. In over a thousand possible connections over the past few months and across a few cities, I think I’ve engaged with fewer than fifteen women. None of them for more than a few texts or a phone conversation. Not engaging is mostly for practical reasons. I am geographically ambivalent and therefore, I am neither here nor there. When my profile is in a different city, I’m hesitant to begin a conversation with someone because I still don’t know where or when I’m landing, and meeting up quickly could be a challenge. Way back, when I was living in Memphis I talked with a woman from Omaha. She almost flew down to meet me. That was the closest I’ve come to actually starting a relationship with hours of distance between us. In theory, I think it’s possible, but I suspect the logistics are too much to build the necessary intensity for take off. When I have my profile here locally, I’m hesitant to begin a conversation because I don’t know how long I’ll be here and I’m cautious to start something when I have one foot out the door (and I’ve only come across two or three people in whom I’d be interested). Regardless of geography, the few conversations I have had have gone well but also nowhere. The conversations out west usually end with a “well, if and when you get out here, hit me up.” The conversations locally have tended to just fizzle out or end abruptly (a little like being ghosted). My reaction to all of this has been a type of emotional shrug. I try to remain open to possibilities, there or here, taking a “you never know attitude.” I’m neither excited nor optimistic, but I’m willing to be surprised. Generally speaking, I’m not terribly invested in the outcomes… and I suspect people want more than that.
I’m thinking about these things because I can remember a time when I seemed to care more – when I felt less apathetic and more invested in my professional and romantic outcomes – when I enjoyed rushing towards the excitement of the new. I’m thinking about these things because I seem to have a wide open future in front of me, and I’m having trouble envisioning how I’ll live and move through those spaces. In some ways, I feel as though I’ve been deliberate in my attempts to learn to walk slowly, to throttle my enthusiasms, to become a little more dispassionate… yet I’m not sure I’ve been tested by anything that quickens the heart. When I think about these things long enough, it becomes difficult to reconcile my current self with past selves. It begins to feel like I’ve become entirely too aware of my own gait and then wonder if I’ve always walked this way or if I’ll break into my old sprinted stride at the first chance I get.
I have been feeling indifferent lately (towards a number of things), and what I’m really trying to discern is whether or not my indifference is born out of these past few years of practice or if it’s a defensive type of cynicism. What I’m trying to discern is if I want to be indifferent, but more importantly, I’m trying to figure out if I’ve changed and how. It’s been a few years since I was in an intensely committed relationship – one in which I was heavily invested in the outcome. And for quite some time after it ended, I obsessed over trying to understand my part in its failures. The best understanding I could arrive at was the classic theme of holding on too tightly to something we love. A suffocating type of care, curiosity, and passion that ironically drives the object of our affection away. I’ve spent four years trying to understand and/or correct my side of that equation – knowing (or suspecting) all along that it’s not something that can be addressed in isolation. Balancing equations requires looking at both sides of the equals sign. I’ve spent four years trying to cultivate a type of indifference that is more focused on the temporary joys of the present moment as opposed to gripping the wheel and steering maniacally towards some imagined destination. As part of that process, I retreated inward. I found other outlets. I focused on the inner self. At about this time three years ago, I wrote about not needing alone time. I was very much tying myself in knots over how to be both passionate and dispassionate. How to hold tight with one hand while letting go with the other. Wisdom seems to be about recognizing the difference and knowing when to do which.
Now, I’m trying to figure out if I’m still in that same place… still tied in those knots. A strange irony is that the path alone looks very similar to the path I think I would have attempted in that relationship. An admission or epiphany is that if I’ve held on to vestiges of that relationship, it’s because I’m better at doing things for other people than I am at doing things for myself. In some respects, a lot of the introspection and self-work has been done in an attempt to improve or build on something that ended a long time ago. I wanted to be better for her and us, or the next her and us (which, of course, is a subversive way of being better for me).
I’ll close with an over-extended and over-wrought car/driving metaphor. Metaphorically speaking, I’ve done my share of driving (new jobs, new relationships, new friends, new towns). I’ve had my share of wrecks – thankfully, none of them fatal. With each wreck, I’ve gotten more accustomed to the fact that we all have wrecks – some of them my fault, some of them other people’s fault, and some are just accidents or the result of mutual carelessness. Sometimes after a crash, I become a more cautious driver – take fewer trips or risks… Sometimes when I crash one car (a relationship or job), I take a different car out for a drive, and sometimes when everything is going well or nothing is going well, I feel like I’m either driving a whole fleet of cars or walking along the road with an empty gas can in hand.
I drove around a lot when I was dating. I met and went out with a lot of people before I got engaged. A handful of them had this spark of possibility, some of them even had gas money or a map or a penchant to explore. With them, there was a connection in which we both dared to dream a little and imagine where the road might take us – a windows down, music up type of fun. In each of those cases, I learned to care less about the destination and more about my travel partner and the condition of our car. Was it trustworthy, would it last, can it get us from place to place? After each relationship car wreck, I’d patch it up, pick up new passengers, and start over. A few years ago, the car was totaled and so as not to harm other drivers, I took myself off the road. Sure, there were repairs to be made, but in many respects, I was no longer interested in driving nor was I in any condition to drive – or at least not the way I had been (highly intoxicated). While sidelined with a suspended license, I spent my time thinking about the journey and I tinkered with the throttle of indifference (or acceptance) on my various cars. Any test drives were usually solo trips – short explorations along the continental borders of emotional comfort and soul searching.
I’m using a car / driving metaphor because in some ways, I’m giving myself license again. In the coming months I expect to hit the road (literally and metaphorically). For too long, I’ve been looking for where the car went off the road while also trying to both study the crash and ignore the skid marks. In the process, I’ve added a few reliable cars (writing and a little self discovery) to my fleet – cars that aren’t terribly fast, but can be relied upon when the others are out of commission. At some point, I wouldn’t mind driving the relationship car on that twisty road again to see who else is cruising and at what speeds. The scenery there was nice, the music was good, and the stops along the way seemed promising. But like any new venture or old habit, I have my doubts. I worry that I’ve forgotten how to drive – or worse yet that I’ve adjusted the throttle of indifference so much that the car will routinely stall out… at which point, I can only hope that I’ve brought the right set of tools with me on the trip.