A/CONF.213/18 comunitarios de bienestar social a fin de garantizar un apoyo integral a los

You  tell  an  interesting  tale  here  but  I’m  afraid  my  research  has  revealed  some  gaps  in  your   story.  You’ve  taken  a  hole-­‐punch  to  the  truth.  You  call  this  ‘non-­‐fiction’  but  there  are   omissions  and  exaggerations.  Shall  we  begin  with  your  trip  to  Europe  in  1987?  You   described  it  as  ‘six  months  of  solo  backpacking’  but  that’s  not  strictly  accurate,  is  it?      

(Blushes)  You’re  right.  I  have  left  something  out.  Maybe  I  wanted  everyone  to  think  I  was   braver  than  I  was.  Too  embarrassed  to  admit  that  I  needed  a  buffer  for  my  fears.  For  the   first  month  of  that  trip  I  was  actually  with  Margot,  staying  in  a  university  town  in  northern   Italy  where  she  was  working.  Rehearsing  my  Italian  phrases.  Gathering  my  courage.   Sitting  alone  in  cafes  in  the  town  square  drinking  too  much  coffee  and  eating  too  much   everything.  Hovering  at  the  back  of  a  crowded  room  in  a  thirteenth  century  building  as  a   bunch  of  Italian  university  students  planned  an  anti-­‐nuclear  campaign.  Wanting  to  be  part   of  it  but  unable  to  join  in.  Missing  Andre.  Practising  for  being  lonely.  But  when  I  sat  down   to  write  about  my  memories  of  that  trip,  that’s  not  the  stuff  I  remembered.  I  remembered   what  happened  when  I  was  travelling  alone.  When  I  was  missing  a  layer  of  skin.  If  those   memories  are  true,  then  the  rest  of  that  story  was  true.    

There’s  another  omission  here.  Why  did  you  stop  working  in  radio?  You  told  us  how  much   you  loved  being  a  presenter,  and  then  later  you  told  us  all  about  the  print  articles  you  were   writing,  but  what  happened  in  between?  Why  did  a  radio  host  suddenly  become  a  

newspaper  columnist?      

(Pauses)  I  got  sacked.  They  don’t  call  it  that,  they  call  it  a  ‘non-­‐renewal  of  contract’,  but   effectively  you’ve  been  sacked.  I  still  don’t  know  why.  The  reason  I  was  given  was  that  my   program  wasn’t  attracting  high  enough  ratings.  The  boss  had  just  been  reassuring  me  that   as  long  as  they  were  climbing  steadily  (and  they  were)  my  position  was  safe.  Then  

suddenly  he  changed  his  mind  and  I  was  out.  Some  of  my  friends  favoured  a  conspiracy   theory:  too  many  strong  opinions  on  too  many  awkward  topics,  too  openly  expressed.   Trying  too  hard  to  be  helpful,  maybe.  Personally  I  doubt  it.  But  perhaps  the  reason  I  didn’t   mention  it  earlier  was  because,  deep  down,  I’ve  always  wondered  if  someone  ‘upstairs’  at   the  radio  station  could  hear  my  whispering  what  ifs.  Maybe  someone  saw  through  the   ‘illusion  of  competence’  and  decided  that  Shy  Sian  couldn’t  carry  it  off.  Losing  that  job  was   the  biggest  rejection  I  had  ever  encountered.  It  nearly  sank  me.  It  certainly  helped  to  sink   the  relationship  I  was  in  at  the  time.  I  was  in  love  with  radio  and  radio  no  longer  wanted  

me.  It  was  my  first,  maybe  my  only,  rehearsal  for  dealing  with  Tom’s  rejection.  One  minute   you’re  in  favour,  the  next  minute  you’re  not.  Inexplicable.    

I’m  sorry  to  have  taken  you  back  to  such  a  painful  episode  in  your  past.  Here,  have  a  glass   of  water.  Do  you  need  a  little  break?  No?  Great,  then  we’ll  continue.  Now  you  implied  that   Tom’s  rejection  came  as  a  complete  shock  to  you  but  surely  there  must  have  been  signs   before  that  night?  You  had  recently  been  overseas  together  having  a  holiday  by  the  sea.   What  happened  on  that  trip?    

(Pauses  again,  longer  this  time)  There  was  a  small  earthquake.  I  was  in  the  shower.  Open-­‐ air  shower.  Frangipani  flowers  hanging  above  my  head.  Feet  covered  with  shampoo  suds.   Cold  tap  on  for  the  sunburn.  The  door  of  the  bathroom  was  open  and  I  could  see,  through   the  bedroom  window,  dozens  of  tiny  fishing  boats  skimming  across  the  sea,  on  their  way   home.  I  wanted  to  be  on  one  of  them.  When  I  came  out  of  the  bathroom  Tom  was  lying  on   the  bed  reading.  His  feet  looked  so  beautiful  there  on  the  white  sheets.  He  said,  ‘I  wonder  if   we  should  be  worried.’    

‘About  what?’  I  replied.     ‘About  the  earthquake..     ‘What  earthquake?’  I  said.     ‘The  one  that  just  happened!’    

But  I  hadn’t  felt  it.  I  had  no  idea.  If  he  could  feel  it,  why  hadn’t  I  felt  it?    

I  see  what  you’re  doing  there.  Not  exactly  an  original  metaphor  but  I  get  what  you’re   trying  to  say.  I’m  not  convinced,  though.  No  tremors  even,  on  that  trip?  Would  you  mind  if   I  asked  you  to  consult  the  records  in  your  private  journal  for  this  one?    

I’m  sorry  but  I  don’t  have  to  do  everything  you  tell  me  to  do.  I  don’t  want  to  consult  that   journal.  I’m  not  ready.  I  do  want  to  talk  about  fiction  and  non-­‐fiction,  though.  Tom  mostly   wrote  fiction.  That’s  what  he  claimed,  that  his  songs  were  not  true  stories  but  made-­‐up   stories  about  made-­‐up  characters.  But  I  assumed  what  he  said  to  me  about  us  was  fact.   And  when  someone  you  love  tells  you  something  as  fact,  you  have  to  believe  them,  don’t   you?  Because  once  you  stop  believing  them  the  whole  thing  can  unravel.  So  when  he  wrote   a  song  about  a  guy  who  was  planning  to  fuck  dozens  of  women  once  he’d  broken  up  with   his  girlfriend  and  had  stopped  seeing  her  image  in  his  mirror,  I  had  to  believe  him  when  he   said  it  was  fiction.  Tom  knew  how  frightening  it  was  for  me  when  he  showed  me  those   songs.  Maybe  part  of  me  wondered  if  it  was  predictive  non-­‐fiction.  But  what  should  I  have  

done?  Checked  his  phone  messages?  Spied  on  his  emails?  Asked  his  friends  if  he  was  lying   to  me?  I  would  have  gone  mad.  He  had  told  me  he  was  true  to  me.  ‘You  make  monogamy  a   good  place  to  be.’  I  just  had  to  keep  treading  water  and  hoping  the  fear  would  pass.  I  was   so  used  to  condemning  my  own  anxieties  as  irrational,  so  used  to  being  ashamed  of  my   fears,  maybe  I  didn’t  allow  myself  to  listen  to  them.  I  still  don’t  know  if  I  was  a  loyal  lover   or  a  naïve  fool.  Probably  both.    

What  about  that  party  you  described  for  us  at  the  very  beginning  of  this  whole  saga,  the   one  where  you  had  a  panic  attack  and  drove  home  without  saying  goodbye  to  anyone.  You   told  us  you  couldn’t  find  Tom  in  the  crowd.  You  weren’t  even  sure  if  he  was  still  there.  You   were  so  caught  up  with  trying  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  shyness  thing,  you  never  

stopped  to  ask  yourself  –  where  was  he  that  night?  Why  were  you  alone?  And  if,  as  you   imply,  you  thought  Tom  was  the  ‘solution’  to  your  shyness,  why  were  you  having  a  panic   attack  at  a  party  you  were  meant  to  be  attending  with  him?  

That’s  a  triple-­‐barrelled  question,  you  realise.  Bad  interview  technique.  You  should  brush   up.  Journalism  101.  Your  interviewee  never  knows  which  question  you  want  them  to   answer.  I’m  afraid  my  answer  to  all  three  questions  is  the  same.  I  don’t  know.  Maybe  Tom   was  avoiding  me  already.  On  the  look-­‐out  for  someone  else.  Already  with  someone  else.   Maybe  my  dread  that  night  wasn’t  about  the  strangers  at  the  party  after  all,  but  about   Tom.  Sometimes  an  adult’s  anxiety  can  be  prescient  rather  than  neurotic.  Wouldn’t  that  be   ironic?  I  start  writing  a  book  about  social  anxiety  because  of  a  panic  attack  that  was   actually  caused  by  the  imminent  end  of  a  love  affair.  Serious  mis-­‐self-­‐diagnosis.  That’s   what  happens  when  you  let  amateurs  try  and  do  the  work  of  professionals.    

There’s  another  omission  I  need  to  ask  you  about.  You  tell  us  Tom  is  famous,  so  everyone   is  probably  wondering  who  he  is,  but  you  don’t  tell  us  his  real  name.  Why  so  coy?  

Because  if  you  write  a  story  that  happens  to  have  a  famous  person  in  it,  everyone  thinks   you’ve  written  a  story  about  a  famous  person.  This  isn’t  a  story  about  Tom.  This  is  a  story   about  you  and  I  and  about  shyness.  Anyone  can  find  out  who  Tom  is  if  they  want  to,  but   I’m  hoping  they’ll  read  the  book  first  and  realise  that  although  every  famous  person  is   different,  fame  itself  doesn’t  change  much.  It  always  attracts  the  same  kind  of  prurient  and   obsessive  behaviour.  It  always  draws  attention  towards  itself  and  away  from  everything   else.  It  makes  potentially  more  interesting  things  fade  into  invisibility.  And  fame  makes  

the  famous  feel  like  gods.  Perhaps  it’s  inevitable.  All  that  relentless  positive  reinforcement.   It’s  toxic.    

Let’s  move  on  to  the  topic  of  drugs.  No  doubt  some  readers  will  have  noticed  that  the  two   men  you’ve  fallen  for  hardest,  Andre  and  Tom,  both  had  drug  issues.  Do  you  see  a  pattern   there?  Something  about  your  helpfulness?  

I  didn’t  know  they  were  using  drugs  when  I  fell  in  love  with  them.  Call  me  naïve,  but  it   took  me  ages  to  figure  out  what  was  going  on,  in  both  cases.  I  didn’t  set  out  to  rescue  them.   But  maybe  there  was  something  about  their  shameful  secrets  that  drew  me  closer  to  them.   Like  Stan  Prior’s  magnets.  Centripetal  and  centrifugal  forces.  Shame  seeks  out  shame,   anxiety  seeks  out  anxiety.  I  certainly  thought,  for  a  while  at  least,  that  I  could  rescue   Andre.  I  don’t  think  I  ever  imagined  Tom  needed  rescuing.    

Did  you  think  he  could  rescue  you?    

What  do  you  mean?    

You  said  that  you  were  in  a  well  and  he  sent  down  a  rope  ladder.  Had  you  been  waiting  all   along  for  some  handsome  prince  to  rescue  you  from  your  shyness?  And  if  so,  how  does   that  fit  with  your  views  about  women  and  the  disempowering  effect  of  the  Male  Gaze?  It’s   Feminism  101,  surely,  that  women  don’t  need  the  prince’s  kiss  to  deliver  them  agency?    

Touché.  No  flies  on  you.    

And  speaking  of  rescuing,  I  can’t  help  wondering  what  impact  the  manner  of  your  father’s   death  might  have  on  all  this.  The  man  who  died  rescuing  people.  Other  people,  not  you.   The  hero  who  disappeared  from  view.  The  unreachable,  unattainable  male.    

Didn’t  I  tell  you  that  I  was  an  amateur  with  this  stuff?  Which  I  guess  makes  you  one  too.   You’re  just  better  at  bluffing.  I  don’t  know  why,  after  all  those  years  of  being  relatively   disinterested  in  him,  now  just  thinking  about  Glen  turns  me  to  liquid.  Maybe  I’ve  been   hanging  around  on  surf  beaches  my  whole  life  waiting  for  him  to  reappear.  Waiting  for  a   cold  wet  hug  from  a  guy  who  was  never  loose  enough  to  let  it  swing.  Waiting  for  someone   who  knew  me  because  I  was  just  like  him.  Someone  who  loved  me  because  he  had  to,   because  it  was  biologically  predetermined,  like  our  shyness.    

But  you  didn’t  wait  for  rescue  from  your  shyness,  did  you?  You’ve  had  yourself  on  an   intermittent  program  of  Cognitive  Behaviour  Therapy  for  decades,  trying  to  eradicate   these  fears.  Lists,  immersions,  professional  personas,  helpfulness,  exposure  therapy,   counsellors,  you’ve  tried  all  sorts  of  strategies.  Your  faith  in  CBT  is  quite  touching.   Cherchez  la  mere,  again.  And  after  the  break-­‐up  you  pushed  yourself  even  harder,  didn’t   you?  Approached  new  friends.  Got  yourself  back  on  the  radio.  Even  writing  this  book  could   be  seen  as  a  form  of  self-­‐prescribed  extreme  exposure  therapy.  Tell  everyone  everything   about  yourself  and  risk  their  negative  evaluation.  Madness.    

I  haven’t  told  them  everything.  That  would  be  extremely  tedious.    

Were  you  hoping  that  Tom  might  provide  you  with  a  permanent  shortcut  out  of  your   shyness?    

I  usually  felt  less  shy  when  I  was  with  him.  Something  about  being  bathed  in  his  positive   regard.  Tom  is  a  man  who  once  said  to  me  ‘I  like  who  I  am  when  I’m  with  you’.  Maybe,  like   you  and  I,  there  were  always  several  different  versions  of  him  and  one  of  them  was  always   going  to  leave  me.  While  Tom  and  I  were  emailing  each  other  during  those  first  six  

months,  I  constructed  a  version  of  him  based  on  what  he  wrote  to  me  and  what  I’d  read  of   his  published  writing,  a  version  that  fitted  what  Shy  Sian  needed.  I  thought  what  we  had   was  romantic  love.  I  thought  we  were  a  poem.  In  the  end,  though,  we  were  just  a  string  of   platitudes.    

(Silence)      

The  other  day  I  heard  an  anthropologist  on  the  radio  saying  that  what  we  call  romantic   love  is  nothing  more  than  a  ‘longing  for  association’.  The  social  scientists  always  strip  the   poetry  away,  don’t  they?  Maybe  that’s  why  I  never  wanted  to  be  a  psychologist.  If  they’re   right  about  that,  you  could  say  that  I  longed  for  someone  like  Tom  so  I  imagined  him  into   being.  He  was  always  a  fantasy  figure.  So  often  silent.  So  often  absent.  If  we’re  going  to   continue  this  amateur  psychologising,  I’d  say  that  I  projected  onto  him  a  whole  lot  of   qualities  he  never  had.  Filled  in  the  gaps  with  whatever  suited  me.  And  there’s  something   more  I  need  to  say  about  love.  You’re  not  going  to  like  this.  It  will  make  you  squirm.  The   object  of  my  love  may  have  been  imaginary  but  the  love  was  real.  It  was  the  strongest  

thing  I’d  ever  felt,  stronger  than  my  shyness.  No  wonder  I  didn’t  want  to  let  it  go.  It  was   just  misdirected.    

(Not  squirming  but  sceptical)  How  can  you  be  in  love  with  someone  for  ten  years  who  was   only  ever  ‘imaginary’,  as  you  put  it?  

Because  any  evidence  that  didn’t  fit  my  fantasy  was  immediately  dismissed.  The  version  of   Tom  that  I  fell  in  love  with  had  been  crafted  in  text  long  before  the  first  time  we  kissed.   But  our  textual  versions  of  ourselves  can  only  ever  be  partial  versions  of  ourselves  –   personas  –  just  like  you  and  me.  And  everything  that  happened  after  we  met,  I  sculpted   and  reshaped  to  fit  the  imaginary  version.  When  Tom  was  cool  or  dismissive  with  me,   when  he  flirted  with  other  women  in  my  presence,  when  he  lied  to  me  about  fucking  those   other  women,  I  edited  out  the  evidence  that  didn’t  fit  with  my  fantasy.  Because  that   perfect,  imaginary  version  of  him  was  my  safety  zone,  the  place  where  I  believed  I  was   accepted  and  loved  for  who  I  was,  in  spite  of  this  shy  disfigurement.  You  remember  how   sometimes  I  confided  in  Margot  about  how  difficult  I  found  it  dealing  with  Tom’s  frequent   long  absences,  and  with  the  way  he  always  put  work  before  everything  else?  And  how  she   once  told  me  ‘He’s  just  like  your  father,  Glen’s  work  always  came  first,  it’s  a  kind  of  deep   selfishness’.  I  didn’t  want  to  hear  those  words.  I  edited  them  out  too.  I  didn’t  want   anything  to  topple  the  giant  heroic  statues  I  had  made  of  both  those  men.  But  I  never   really  knew  Tom.  I  imagined  a  depth  of  intimacy  that  didn’t  exist,  a  strength  of  loyalty  that   was  never  there,  a  level  of  respect  that  was  impossible.  Margot  knew  Tom  would  leave  me.   She  had  even  saved  up  some  money  to  help  me  out  when  (not  if)  it  happened.  There’s  no   way  she  could  have  warned  me,  though,  is  there?    

No  way  at  all.  But  she’s  pretty  smart,  our  mother.  Interesting,  how  you  used  the  word   ‘disfigurement’  back  there  to  describe  your  shyness.  There’s  a  psychological  condition  I’ve   been  reading  about  called  ‘body  identity  integrity  disorder’.  People  with  this  condition   sometimes  try  to  hack  off  one  of  their  own  perfectly  normal,  functioning  limbs  because   they  are  convinced  that  limb  doesn’t  belong  to  them.  They  believe  it’s  an  interloper  and   quite  possibly  dangerous  to  them.  Perhaps  shyness  has  been  for  you  like  one  of  those   unwanted  limbs.  It’s  a  perfectly  normal,  natural  part  of  your  identity  that  you’ve  been   unable  to  acknowledge  belongs  to  you,  and  you’ve  been  trying  to  remove  it  for  decades.    

That’s  a  good  theory.    

So  maybe  you  can  give  that  up  now,  that  self-­‐mutilation  thing?  And  while  you’re  at  it,  you   could  also  give  up  that  looking-­‐for-­‐a-­‐shortcut  thing  with  dangerous  imaginary  men.  Sorry,   I  don’t  mean  to  turn  this  into  a  counselling  session,  but  ever  since  I  can  remember  you’ve   been  sandwiched  between  these  two  fears  –  fear  of  people  and  fear  of  loneliness.  Leave  me   alone,  don’t  leave  me.  Maybe  you  can  stop  waiting  to  be  rescued  and  try  a  bit  of  solitude  for   a  change.  It  won’t  kill  you,  you  know.  

I  overheard  a  conversation  on  a  train  recently.  There  was  a  woman  sitting  in  front  of  me   talking  to  her  friend  on  a  mobile  –  practically  everyone  on  that  train  was  doing  something   with  their  phones  –  and  at  one  point  she  said  to  him  ‘So  what  is  your  strategy  for  feeling   safe  with  other  people?’  It  sounded  like  a  good  question  to  me.  I  wrote  it  down  in  my   phone.  Then  I  thought  about  it  some  more.  Maybe  what  we  need  is  not  just  a  strategy  for   how  to  feel  safe  with  other  people,  but  for  how  to  feel  safe  without  other  people.  We’re  so   afraid  of  loneliness.  Sometimes  the  fantasy  of  romantic  love  can  offer  us  respite,  or  a  voice   on  the  radio.  But  it’s  always  there,  waiting  for  us,  looking  back  at  us  from  the  mirror  when   all  we  can  see  is  a  reflection  of  ourselves,  alone.  

I  have  one  last  question  for  you.  Why  are  you  so  down  on  helpfulness?  Maybe  it’s  not  such   a  bad  thing,  in  spite  of  your  hostility  towards  poor  little  Beth  March.    

I  do  like  to  help.  It’s  nature  and  nurture.  It’s  in  the  genes  and  it’s  been  modelled  for  me  by   most  of  my  elders,  just  like  shyness.  And  it’s  too  late,  isn’t  it?  I  can’t  get  rid  of  either  of   them.  Shyness  belongs  to  me;  I  am  affiliated  with  it.  And  I’m  still  a  compulsive  improver.    

That  old  list  of  ours,  Things  Wrong  With  The  World,  hasn’t  exactly  shrunk  in  the  last   couple  of  decades.  The  world  could  still  do  with  some  improvement.  In  spite  of  your   reservations,  maybe  this  could  be  a  self-­‐help  book  after  all,  for  other  shy  people.  But  you   and  I  could  give  ourselves  a  break  now  and  put  that  helpfulness  energy  elsewhere  instead   of  focussing  it  on  ourselves.  I’m  a  bit  sick  of  us.  In  fact,  here’s  an  idea.  Maybe  we  could  stop   thinking  of  ourselves  as  two  separate  personas,  at  least  one  of  who  is  in  constant  need  of   improvement,  and  get  together.  You  and  I  could  just  be  me.    

Or  me.  Sure.  It’s  worth  a  try.  (Pause)  You  remember  our  grandmother  Peg  on  the  tandem   bicycle  with  her  octogenarian  boyfriend?  

So.  (Pause)  You  know  we’ll  probably  do  it  again,  don’t  you?    

What?    

That  longing  for  association  thing.