Swearing Is Good For the *#$%^$@ Soul, or Something

My very proper church lady mother’s own adage was swearing was “only for childbirth, battle, and the bedroom”, which skipped her own occasional slippage that only her son’s behavior could invoke, but not a bad rule of thumb as such things go…

Elizabeth Jameson in Washington Post finds swearing not only cathartic but necessary:

Phil was a man who enjoyed living. He enjoyed it so much, he refused to wait for a funeral he couldn’t attend — his funeral — and instead threw himself a huge party before his cremation. “Roast me before they toast me,” he called it.

He was sick of people saying, “Oh Phil, I’m so sorry that you have cancer.” That kind of thing really bored and annoyed him. He didn’t want to be talked to that way. “Talk to me like that when I’m dead,” he would say.

But I, too, had a way I wanted to be talked to. I wanted a deep connection with my dear friend. I wanted Phil to discuss his feelings about approaching death. I had fantasized that we would have a profound conversation about the meaning of life, but Phil was not interested in my expectations. His version of living involved humor, not gravitas.

I was desperate to talk about big things, but he wouldn’t budge. Without tears or pity, I blurted out, “Okay, well, f— you, Phil!”

A giant smile transformed his face, and he exploded into laughter. “Thank you for saying that!” He seemed deeply relieved. “F— you too.”

Those words, both funny and intimate, satisfied both of us. Phil was still in the land of the living, his spirit and personality whole and present. If he had had the energy, I believe we would have volleyed cuss words back and forth for some time.

Through the simple act of swearing we celebrated life by breaking the rules of how one should act, especially when sick and preparing to die. We had an understanding.

A number of studies have shown that swearing in stressful circumstances can have positive physiological effects, such as increased tolerance to pain and improved stamina. I wonder now whether trading profanities could be used more widely and with therapeutic intention within the disabled community, and even beyond.

I’ve begun asking friends — particularly those living with disease or disability — what they think of embracing this kind of uncensored expression. While some can’t relate, others understand intuitively what it’s taken me decades of living with M.S. to fully articulate: that words can pierce the suffocating social pressure, that they can blunt the pains of a difficult daily existence. For me, they are something to help ease my grief over a body that is failing me.

There is no instruction manual or guidebook to navigate this journey of living with illness and death. But I’ve found that it helps to occasionally rage at my broken body and the progression of my illness, while sharing a moment of exasperation with a friend.

I used to hurl paint at a wall, bright colors laced with my frustration and anger flying through the air. Now I simply hurl words of every flavor under the sun. Sometimes, on a good day, there’s someone to hurl them back. I particularly like the salty ones.

This is of course a highly subjective and personal preference thing. I went from little swearing, to needing several F words to describe a newborn puppy (military service will do that to you), to back to rarely swearing as I had my own children and tried to be a little less of a jackass in general as I had been in my younger days. There is always the debate when doing things like editing Ordinary Times as to how much, what usage, and which words are and are not ok for a publication as respected and august as OT is. Artistically, the well-placed F bomb or dirty word can punctuate and elevate, while others it can come off as crass and low brow. Again, subjective, since we are running an opinion and observation writing website not a school for manners or religious observance.

In the hands of a brilliant writer, something as fun as the F-word can be absolute art. Observe: How to solve a murder in 39 F@#$ from The Wire

Oh, see there, age restricted, so you have to sign in to enjoy the chicken soup for the soul that Bunk and McNulty working in the F word the way Picasso worked in oils.

But as always, your milage may vary.