The rave reviews speak for themselves: See this movie!
Like all things Pixar, the two Inside Out movies equally entertain and educate both children and adults. My excitement and enthusiasm for the sequel began about 6 months before the actual premiere. Once I’d learned that Dacher Keltner, a psychologist at UC-Berkeley and one of my biggest academic crushes, had been consulted in the making of the original film and the sequel, my educated and child-like parts grew giddy in anticipation.
When the movie finally came to local theaters, I unknowingly formed an “ideal” picture in my head around the specifics of seeing it. I wanted my spouse and kids to go with me so they could really understand the kind of work I do as a facilitator of emotional intelligence with expressive writing and coaching. I wanted them to have a visual to go along with all the dinner table conversations about all their “parts” (see IFS- internal family systems) and how hard our emotions work every day to protect and care for us. I was relying on the movie to illustrate, validate, and simplify things I say to them, and provide a counterbalance to the tenets perpetuated in standard learning environments emphasizing intellectual intelligence over emotional. As one who suffered much in my past when I tried to suppress or ignore my feelings, I wanted my family’s conditioned beliefs to be expanded too.
It was actually my spouse who suggested we go see it. I was thrilled he and our 19 year old daughter wanted to go, and simultaneously disappointed that our 22-year old son wasn’t able to join. It had been a week fraught with difficult emotions for my son and me. He’d recently graduated from college, his lease was expiring, with limited options for temporary housing before he left town for an extended period. He was less aware than me that there’d been tension between us for months, primarily due to my reluctance around having him move back home. My adjustment to the “open nest” had been harder than I’d expected, and I feared a backslide in my own ability to cope with more moving pieces, dirty dishes, bodies and erratic sleep schedules.
Looking back, I see that this fear had created a sense of urgency in me to find him some other place to live that would honor a short-term lease, while allowing him to work and learn more financial responsibility that comes with “real life” after college. In my haste for a solution that appealed to both of us, I made a colossal error in trust and judgment which led to getting scammed on Facebook Marketplace. It was my first time on Marketplace; I’d never paid attention to others’ warnings about scams there. The location and pricing of the studio lease seemed too good to be true, and that’s because they were. Considering myself someone who typically makes exceptionally sound decisions when trusting my intuition, I was ashamed I’d been suckered. But I’d been had, in front of my son, at a critical moment in his “adulting.” He had put the money down and signed the bogus lease, all at my request, even when both of us, and my husband, suspected something fishy was going on. I’d acted impulsively because of my own reticence and unwillingness to experience the negative feelings around him moving back in. My son was humiliated, but I took full blame, insisting that he’d trusted me and that I was the one who’d made the error in judgment.
Growing up, the lesson I’d learned was that it’s really hard to recover from mistakes, so it’s best to never make one. My spouse knew all about my struggles with perfectionism. So, rather than beating myself up about it, I chose to use the scam incident as a learning and bonding opportunity for me and my son, to show him that he’s not the only one who doesn’t always know what to do, who to trust, or what comes next. My spouse was annoyed, but seemed to move on quickly and agreed not to say, “I told you so.” Instead, all of us chose to be grateful we could afford to make such an error without dire financial fallout. We also pledged not to re-traumatize ourselves by rehashing the experience over and over again with friends and family. It was our little family glitch. We hugged and sighed, Onward! (Is it a breach of contract that I’m writing a blogpost about it now? I hope not. Why is what’s cathartic often fraught with caution about how to proceed?)
“What perfect timing for a night out at the movies,” I thought. I picked the theater with the lounge seats where tickets could be chosen and purchased in advance. I volunteered to get the tickets while I was already on the computer, answering emails and looking up gardening tips. We discussed whether or not to go to the 630 or 730 viewing. I hurriedly purchased the tickets. We ate leftovers at home so we could make it in time for the 630 show.
After grabbing popcorn (this was a BIG NIGHT OUT for us), the three of us approached the woman with the ticket-clicker thingy as proof of purchase. Looking at the QR code for what seemed way too long, she explained that somehow we had three seats for two different showings: one set of seats at 630, and the other set for 730. The weary wheels in my head spinned as I tried to understand. The show was about to start, and I was antsy. I finally pieced together that I must’ve accidentally bought tickets to both shows, an hour apart, but I wanted to choose my words carefully so we could indeed see the 630 show and not have to wait an hour for the next one. Then I heard my spouse mutter something along the lines of, “What the hell? You’re really blowing it this week. What’s wrong with you?”
Whether you’ve seen the movie or not, hopefully you’ll understand that Anger was ignited by this off-handed comment. I seethed as we found our way to our seats in the dark. I couldn’t explain myself and didn’t want to disturb other patrons already enthralled in the previews, so I left my husband and daughter in the theater, went to the ticket counter, explained what happened, and the vendor graciously forgave my error and refunded me for the 730 tickets. This felt like a win overall, but Anger still steamed. I went to the bathroom, practiced deep breathing, then returned to my seat. Anger surged at the realization that the movie had already started, and I’d missed the beginning. This got Disgust’s attention, seeing as how passionate I’d been about seeing the movie and now everyone else was watching it but me.
I whispered to my husband that I’d refunded the tickets, all the while wanting him to apologize for what he’d said and tell me, “It’s totally ok. Don’t worry about what happened with the tickets. We can afford it even if we hadn’t gotten the refund. Everything is ok. I love you.” Instead, he smiled and offered me some popcorn. Without thought, Anger, Disgust, and Sadness all teamed up. I refused, crossing my arms. I couldn’t let go. He later tried to hold my hand, and I told him I wasn’t ready yet. I spent the rest of the movie distracted, taking the whole script on screen and rewriting it in my head to apply to the situation between him and me. I wanted him to do the same, see how I was feeling just like Riley was feeling at certain times, know what I needed, and repair the emotional wound inside me. Meanwhile, my daughter kept eyeing me and mouthing, “It’s ok. Let it go.” I couldn’t.
Irascible as we exited the theater, I ranted in whispers in the lobby and as we walked to the car, vehemently explaining how I’d felt ashamed and alone, confused why he’d always told me to allow myself to make mistakes, yet ridiculed me when I did. I knew he was fully aware of how mortified I’d felt for the FB Marketplace scam, what a hellaciously emotional week it had been, and here he was shaming me for my mistakes. Sadness pleaded with him: Can’t you see your own hypocrisy? Anger wanted answers.
Once we got home, my despondent daughter went upstairs, recognizing that it didn’t seem likely we were going to have a “nice family night” after all. Ugh- what wacky, effed-up example of a “model emotional life” I’d been for the next generation despite my long-planned vision! After a few moments of silence, my spouse very tenderly said, “I didn’t know what to say to make it better. I didn’t know what you needed to hear from me. I tried to show you love by reaching out for your hand. I tried to give you space. I let you rant. I had a confusing week too. I made mistakes too in the way I responded to the ticket mishap and the scam. I’m sorry it all got so messy.”
And only then could I feel empathy. I’d been so attached to my own version of truth, I couldn’t see his. When we are feeling most worthless, we are often unable to give or receive empathy. Forgiveness descended on both of us there at the kitchen island under the light fixture with half the bulbs burned out. We reached out to hold onto each other in the aftermath of the emotional exhaustion. By some good fortune, our daughter saw us embracing from the stairwell.
Fast forward 6 weeks: I asked my son to go see the movie again with me. We decided on a Saturday matinee at the same theater. I made sure I only bought one set of tickets, and we arrived in plenty of time to get popcorn, go to the bathroom, and watch all the previews. I wanted him to have his own experience of the movie so I hadn’t told him much about it beforehand. Quickly, I sensed the movie seemed new to me too. I’d missed so much of it the first time. At several moments, he leaned over to me and covered his eyes during cringe-worthy moments when Riley was socially awkward or trying too hard. He grabbed my hand at one point, as if we were going through a haunted house together, so scared he wouldn’t survive to see Riley’s emotions save her from total collapse. As the movie played, bittersweetness wafted over me at seeing him really GET the concepts, what I’d wanted so badly for my whole family to experience and understand. This person from whom I’d felt estranged during his college years was still who he’d always been: a highly sensitive, psychologically aware guy who saw himself, and all people, in the animated teenager on the screen. He wasn’t alone in the world, and neither was I.
I’ve since recommended the movie to all of my friends. I’ve even made it a requirement for those in my current small group, Reflective Writing for Moving through Shame into Self-Assurance, with one added caveat: see the movie alone. Julia Cameron has long advocated for the power of the “artist’s date” as a way to foster one’s own creativity, defining such a date as doing anything from going to a park and looking at clouds, to attending a symphony, just doing so alone. When we’re solitary in the presence of visual art, music, theater, nature, we take in the whole experience without the distracting input of what those beside us think or how they’re experiencing it. Deeper meaning is invited in: contemplation, reflection, absorption and processing inside ourselves first, a chance to pause, turn our insides out, see who we actually are, what we actually think, feel, like or don’t like, without added input from others. Such opportunities expose us to glimmers of universal emotional life, alter the matrix of our conditioning, and enable us to connect with ourselves in a rich way that often ignites a desire to connect with others in an equally meaningful way.
Of course you can absolutely see the movie with others! And, whether at the movies or in any other context, it’s essential to remember that each person comes with their own internal emotional family that’s equally important, even if it isn’t the same, as one’s own. We aren’t always going to understand one another. Empathy is about having the willingness to try, often miss, and keep trying until the gap between us can be lessened.
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