I fit, you fit, we all fit. Whether we like it or not.

In which I consider a fundamental fact of relationships

I remember, many years ago, in an appointment where I was discussing my parents’ marriage, my therapist’s saying, “It works for them.”

What?!? How could such painful dysfunction work for anybody?

The answer is both simple and incredibly complex.

The simple answer: Dysfunctional relationships work because the relational partners fit together.

The complex answer: Fits have convoluted histories, illogical benefits, and a great deal of power over us.

So here’s the fundamental fact: Whenever we engage in relationship, we accomplish a fit with our relational partner. We dance with them (that’s Harriet Lerner’s term; it’s a good one). We structurally couple with them (that’s Humberto Maturana’s term; he’s one of my heroes). We plug into them, completing a relational circuit that can actually feel energetic at times and fuels the work we need to get done (that’s my term!).

Here’s a positive example:

I walk into a store. I’m looking for black tights. I have a quizzical look on my face (this happens automatically; I don’t even have to try) which reflects my internal state of uncertainty. I stop in some confusion near a salesperson who is neatening a pile of boys’ T-shirts in a display case. She looks up, catches my eye, and asks, “Can I help you?” Yes, she surely can. We’re off and running.

You might be thinking, “So big deal! This happens all the time!” Yes. Because we are living organisms that fit with each other all the time. We read each other in ways we never even have to register and get our work done, choreograph our efforts, efficiently and painlessly.

Well, not always painlessly.

Here’s another example:

My young son agrees to get his hair cut. Because I hate waiting at the barber shop, I make an appointment. When the time comes to get to the appointment — the clock is a-ticking! — my son absolutely refuses to get in the car. I panic, cajole, and eventually just yell.

Where’s the fit here?

Let’s think of it in terms of an electrical circuit. I’m an outlet who’s just hanging out, thinking we’re going to go to the barber shop for a haircut. My son is a prong who does not want to get his hair cut. He fires up with a jolt of energy which, apparently, he finds difficult to contain. He plugs into me through his resistant behavior, which pisses me off, which makes me yell at him, which makes him feel bad, which (maybe) inspires him to go to the barber shop just so I’ll stop being mad at him but also forces his feelings underground.

The more this patterned fit happens, the more my son learns that (1) anger and yelling are the appropriate responses to overwhelming emotion and (2) emotions are better kept underground. Not hard to see how this relationship to emotions can end up manifesting in dysfunctional relationships with people.

The thing is, fits happen automatically. Unconsciously. They’re reactive and emotional, coming, let’s say, from our “lizard brains.”

Which leads us to the opposite of the lizard brain, which (I’m no brain expert) is something like the frontal cortex or the cerebellum or, god knows, the corpus callosum (is that even a thing?).

Point being: We’ve got these amazing brains. And we’ve got consciousness that we can use even though so much of what we do is unconscious.

So what happens to the fit between me and my son when I add my conscious brain to the mix?

The first thing that can happen, a very important thing, is that I pay attention. To his behaviors and, crucially, to my own emotions.

Let’s do it. What were my emotions at this moment of unbelievably inconvenient stubbornness and thoughtlessness by my son?

panic

powerlessness

rage

Wow! Sudden and surprisingly strong emotions! Where did they come from?

Right. The second thing that can happen is that I can get curious. I mean, it is pretty darned interesting that I’m feeling such strong emotions about a trip to the barber shop that just a couple seconds ago I couldn’t have cared less about.

So let’s get curious. By asking this simple but powerful question:

Is it possible that my son is feeling the way I’m feeling?

And then this question (because the answer to the first is usually a resounding YES):

Why might my son be feeling panic, powerlessness, and rage?

Ah. Because he doesn’t want to go to the barber shop.

Do I now know why he doesn’t want to go to the barber shop? No. But I can ask.

Which is the third thing I can do to bring my conscious brain into my interaction with my son. I can slow down, make a guess, and ask questions.

Note that I don’t get to say something like “Oh, sweetie, it’s OK. You can do this. Come on!” My work is to join with my son in his feelings. Something like “Wow. You really don’t want to get your hair cut, do you?” And then listen to him. And ask more questions. (Because my first guess might be wrong.) And work out a plan of action that he might actually try.

These plans don’t always work. But they always provide more information, more data. That I can use (with my conscious brain) to better attune the fit between my son and me. And that, by the way, my son can use — with my help — to develop reality-based, self- and other-honoring coping skills.

Let’s bring a magnifying glass to this enactment just to be sure we see the fit.

My son is flooded by feelings that he doesn’t necessarily understand and he definitely does not like. For whatever reason, he is unable to manage them. As my husband says, the emotions are a hard grain that my son just can’t chew.

So my son offloads those feelings. He does it in two ways: he acts out the emotions through his resistance — NO! Nonononono!! I’m not doing what my body is telling me not to do! — and his resistant behavior hands his feelings to me. Completely unconsciously. Emerging unbidden from his innards without his knowledge or understanding.

Why me? Why o why me? Because I’m a perfect receptacle for those feelings. I am a caring adult who (presumably) can show my son how to digest such feelings. And, as I see it, I am a developmental partner who, by modeling management of emotions for and with my son, encourages him to grow healthily.

Note that I don’t need to chew up that grain for him. I can break it up into bite-sized pieces — his bite size — and feed them back to him. We can work together on this.

If the way I fit with my son is to foist my (his) feelings back on him by yelling — which, by the way, is a perfectly normal response and is, as I’ve said, automatic and therefore un-conscious, by which I mean lacking conscious attention — then I’m starting up a whole nother enactment. I’ve missed the original mark and now have complicated the matter. And my son learns that overwhelming emotions are best dispelled through anger.

But if the way I fit with my son is to pay attention, get curious, and make a good guess about what is going on with him — “You really don’t want to get your hair cut, do you?” — then our fit is attuned. And powerful. That is, the emotional energy flowing between us powers mutual understanding, problem-solving, and healthy development.

The psychodynamic approach can take time, of course. But it can also dissolve resistance instantaneously. So often all we want from each other is to be seen accurately and accepted. Not judged. Not pushed. Not subsumed under someone else’s agenda.

It’s kind of a beautiful thing: We as living organisms are constantly teaching each other about ourselves — our needs, our expectations, our experiences — by the (usually unconscious) ways we fit together. Those of us who know how to look can use these lessons to attune our relationships. Which reduces tension and suffering and pain. And strengthens connection. And promotes healthy development. And, by the way, makes us better people.