The Fallacy of Sharing

Sharing with others is a fundamental human need. It goes beyond offering our money or our time. Sometimes you also have to share secrets and feelings. The need is well illustrated by the prevalence of criminal confessions: the justice system would collapse immediately if many suspects didn't volunteer their culpability to officers eager to record every word while posing as sympathetic and interested comrades in a joint search for truth and peace of mind.

In more routine encounters, especially with those with whom a future romantic relationship cannot totally be excluded, there's also a lurking trap in sharing. If we reveal deep thoughts, past blunders, foibles, secrets, fears, and feelings, the illusion of a long-term or continuing connection may quickly be created for one or both of the parties. The illusion builds hopes and expectations that, if dashed, can leave one feeling worse than ever.

Encounters in which we open up often come unexpectedly. We may begin talking with someone and risking progressively more daring disclosures precisely because our partner is new to us and we expect him or her to disappear shortly. It's the "strangers on a train" phenomenon. You can disclose just about anything to random new friends since they don't know you, they don't know others who know you, and therefore they can't hurt you by blabbing.

The depth of communication with such a new partner is sudden, surprising, and intoxicating, because it provides the unfamiliar feeling that we're totally known and understood. We've been momentarily expanded into something better than we usually are. It's then easy to want or assume the connection will continue and perhaps become more profound. Because it feels so good, we're easily tempted into thinking it must last.

I've recently seen a couple of good cinematic explorations of this fallacy. In "Once," a struggling musician meets a woman on the streets of Dublin who appreciates his music, tells him so in a forward way, and then begins talking about other things with him. Later they're alone and sharing more about their lives with each other. As the woman gets up to return to her life's chores, the musician can't stand the thought of the connection's being broken. He suggests she spend the night. She's shocked and a little angry, brusquely refuses, and leaves immediately. She hadn't needed the connection as much as he had and never assumed it would move beyond talk. Crestfallen, the musician must spend the rest of the film re-establishing the original level of trust between them and adjusting to having her as a collaborator and friend only.

In an early scene of "Dan in Real Life" (I love that title), the main character is browsing in a place that reflects his tastes: an independent book store. He can safely assume that most people who enter the store share his values. In walks a charming, slightly scatterbrained woman with a French accent, and he does what it takes to begin talking to her. They move to a nearby place to sit down, and they continue to talk. Dan opens up to her about the loss of his wife and other aspects of his life he hasn't been able to share with anyone. Naturally, he's floored a few minutes later when he finds she's already in a relationship and is reluctant to continue the sharing of such details beyond the initial encounter.

At different times, I've found myself at both ends and in the middle of this fallacy. That is, I've been the one who desperately wanted to continue building the connection, the one one wanted it to go no further, and one who joined with the partner in hoping that it could endure despite substantial practical barriers. And it's decidedly unpleasant no matter what.

While such emotional intimacy is necessary for a strong and lasting relationship, it isn't sufficient by itself. Many disappointing romantic relationships and marriages must have been built on the illusory foundation of a brief period of intense sharing. Sooner or later the secrets and the feelings are exhausted, and there you are again. If you don't have a lot more in common than a history of mutual self-disclosure, what basis is there for a shared approach to the rest of your lives?

If I had any answers to the fallacy of sharing, I'd write a book about them. I can only suggest that we move through such encounters in greater awareness of their power. It may be better to always purposely hold something back, to leave yourself wanting to say more and the other sensing that there is more to be shared. That way we get most of what we wanted from the openness (that sense of being known and understood) without creating for ourselves or the other the mistaken appearance that our lives have been fundamentally altered, for the better and forever.