Waiting on Pet Peeves

I think most of us probably have at least a few "pet peeves." You know, those things that...just...get...under...your...skin and drive you up a wall.

One of my pet peeves is when I have to wait because of technology. It drives me nuts. For example, I get really annoyed when a computer I'm working on suddenly freezes up, even if it's only for five or ten seconds. Or, if my phone crashes, or is simply unresponsive for a few seconds. Or, if the batteries run out of my cordless mouse at work.

Those things might seem petty. Actually, they ARE petty -- none of those things is a Big Deal, but they annoy the crap out of me nonetheless.

On one hand, the fact that I get annoyed about certain inconsequential things is not a big deal. As I mentioned, I think most of us probably have our list of otherwise silly little things that tick us off. On the other hand, I feel like it's a pretty big waste of my energy to get all upset over these things. Aside from that, I don't do anything good for myself by letting those annoyances get the best of me: I'm pretty sure my blood pressure goes up, cortisol is released into my bloodstream, and my bad habit of getting angry gets reinforced. And to top it all off, it's really unpleasant for those around me.

Thus, I've decided it's something I can pay some attention to -- I can work to change my response to these annoyances.

My back is bothering me, and so I'm working from home today on my laptop, which is a few years old. It hadn't been booted up in a week or so, and it took some time to finish configuring, because oh yeah, I forgot it had to install those Windows updates, and then it did this weird loop back into reconfiguring itself, and then...I could feel myself getting pissed off about it: THIS IS SO ANNOYING!!

Then I noticed myself having that response, and it was like letting air out of an overly full balloon. Instant relaxation. Then, on cue, a simple thought passed through my mind: "Maybe try just sitting and waiting for the computer to finish doing what it needs to do."

So I did. I folded my hands and waited. That was it. There was no anger, no frustration...just...waiting. It was strange to feel the absence of anger in the face of such a familiar, negative stimulus, but there I was. I had freed myself from my self-imposed prison of anger.

I know I'll have to focus on letting myself out of prison over and over again before it becomes second nature, but I'll get there. And for the time being, anyway, it was progress!

And progress felt great.

Reading My Journal

Over the past few days, I've read through some of the older entries in my personal journal. It's been interesting for me, because while I certainly have memories from that period of time, my journal entries afford me a clearer peek into the machinations of my inner life. After all, throughout our lives, each of us negotiates external and internal experiences; and the details and nuances of our inner lives, given their rich and mostly private natures, are all too often obscured in our memories by the wheres, whens, and whos.

Some of the things I read were shocking to me, given the developments of my life in the time that's passed since I wrote them. In several instances, for example, I could clearly "see" the origins of certain events and avenues of personal growth which have since manifested. In some cases, it was uncomfortable to revisit old concerns and troubles -- not to merely recall, but to reoccupy them, if only for a moment. And it was truly ponderous, having stepped back into my past, to lift my eyes from the pages and return to the present -- to traverse, in the blink of an eye, personal realities separated by years. 

I found myself wishing I could somehow reach out to my younger self. I wanted to tell him that it's okay to be confused and upset about certain things, and to not have the answers to certain questions. I wanted to tell him that "this, too, shall pass." I wanted to tell him that I know now that every experience in life, painful or sublime, is part of life's Story, and that we can and do integrate every experience into the fabric of that Story -- and that it is beautiful and good and wondrous. 

None of that is to say my life is now perfect, by the way. I still have problems and confusions and frustrations and foibles, and all the rest of the "negative" stuff that comes with the territory of being alive. But what I know now, in a much richer, more integrated way, is that my life has been, and continues to be, a gift. That's the undercurrent now. And what a gift to recognize that, and to have come to a place where I can affirm that. What a gift to be here now, writing these words.

I think we all need to be reminded of these things sometimes. That life unfolds ever onward, with or without our approval. That we will always have problems, perhaps, but that the nature of our problems is temporary. That, despite the fact we don't always perceive it, we can, and do, change (as do the shapes of our lives). That our cynicism, which would have us believe certain things about our nature, and the way life will unfold, is very possibly wrong. That each of our lives is comprised of a series of intertwining stories, which are inextricably linked to other people's stories -- and that none of us knows for certain whether any given event is at the beginning, middle, or end (or all three).

Thank you for reading today.

Loss and Grieving

Coping with the loss of someone or something important is one of the most difficult tasks a person can face. It is in our nature, after all, to get attached to things; and, to put it clinically, when the object of our attachment is gone, we suffer. Its absence leaves what feels like a gaping void in our hearts, and the grief can be overwhelming, all-encompassing.

We get attached to people, places, and things. We get attached to our routines, our opinions, our beliefs, our goals, our homes, our lifestyles, our expectations.

It's almost as if we're lined with an adhesive, we get so attached to things.

And that's okay.

Attachments really only become an evident issue for us when we experience suffering. Fortunately, the consideration of suffering is a road well-traveled by our forebears, and we can all lean on their wisdom and guidance for assistance. The Buddha, for example, addressed the matter of human suffering in great detail. Regardless of your religious or spiritual identity / orientation, and even regardless of whether you believe in a higher power, are agnostic, or are atheist, The Four Noble Truths are useful guides in view of suffering. I recommend taking a look at them.

I'm not here to promote Buddhism, though. I'm here to talk about what it feels like to lose something, to grieve, and to heal.

Loss can make one feel utterly empty. It can feel shocking, unreal, and overwhelming. Loss can incite feelings of incredible sadness and longing. It can feel as if one's entire world has ended, and has been swallowed up, furthermore, by some deep and terrible void. It can feel like it's never going to end, and that there's no hope. Chances are good, actually, that a major loss will incite any combination of those experiences in a person. 

Grieving -- something which follows and emerges from loss -- is a process. And as with any emotional process, it's a safe bet to expect some tumult; that is, a person who is grieving will probably experience a wide spectrum of feelings, and will very possibly be on the proverbial emotional roller coaster. What's more, each person's grieving process will "look" different, and will span any number of days, weeks, months, or years, even.

Are you familiar with the concept of the Five Stages of Grief (as articulated by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross)? They can be a useful guide for better-understanding the grieving process. One thing I learned, though, is that the stages do not necessarily occur in order. Oftentimes, a person who is grieving will, for example, experience several stages simultaneously, or will revisit stages as time goes on. That fluidity between the stages is important to keep in mind, because it can otherwise be very confusing and disappointing if one finds themselves "regressing."

Another important consideration is that different cultures have different perspectives on loss and grieving. ("Culture," in this case, can refer to groups big and small, from entire populations on down to families.) There is extraordinary diversity among attitudes toward death, for example. There are rules and guidelines among different cultures, both written and unwritten, which inform the processes of grieving and letting go.

At any rate, that brings us to the question, what does it mean to heal in the wake of a loss? The thing that keeps returning to my mind around this question is a metaphor I learned as an intern mental health counselor:

Imagine your heart (not the organ; rather, your center of feeling) is a glass. When you suffer a major loss, it's as if a large, foreign object is uncomfortably wedged into the glass. What many people hope for is that, over time, the foreign object -- the burden of the loss, the pain and suffering -- will shrink. While that may be so, there's a better way to think about it: imagine that the glass, your heart, expands over time, thereby more comfortably accommodating the sense of loss.

I love that metaphor, because it's true: Loss doesn't entirely go away, but our abilities to accommodate it and integrate it into our daily lives do expand.

We cannot help but be indelibly changed when we experience loss. But we aren't forever diminished by loss, either. No. Instead, we are transformed by loss. If we attend to our suffering in a compassionate manner, we are transformed into beings with greater capacities for love, peace, self-knowledge, understanding, forgiveness, acceptance, and compassion. We are transformed into more complete versions of ourselves -- as if a layer of steam has been wiped off a window.

Thanks for reading.

Releasing the Grip of Anxiety: Acceptance & Compassion

I want to write about anxiety. First of all, everyone feels anxious periodically. It's part of caring about things, and it's part of being human. Like other emotional experiences, anxiety provides us with important feedback in a given situation. It's adaptive, it's necessary to our well-being, it's valuable, and it's good. There's nothing wrong with anxiety in and of itself.

Some of us, though, experience anxiety to a disruptive, invasive, and even debilitating extent. And of course, this can be an occasional experience, or a persistent one, or one that waxes and wanes, or one that eventually disappears altogether, etc. There's a lot of variation with it.

Anyway, how do we differentiate between normal/healthy anxiety and problematic anxiety? My view, in general terms, is that anxiety (or any experience, really) is an issue when it persistently, invasively interferes with one's ability to function in a personally satisfying way.

(Incidentally, my view is pretty common among mental health professionals, and it more or less jives with how the various mental health "disorders" are defined by the DSM-IV-TR, which is the clinical reference guide used by mental health professionals in the USA [and some other parts of the world].)

There are many so-called Anxiety Disorders in the DSM, and for brevity's sake, I will not discuss them all here. And besides, that's enough about the problem of anxiety -- let's move into a discussion of ideas and solutions.

I think anxiety's roots are in avoidance. That is NOT to say I think it is a person's "fault" for having a problem with anxiety -- not at all!! Here's the thing: I think we all want to feel good. So when something really bad happens to a person, they do the best they can to move on with their life. And sometimes that entails developing new sets of beliefs about themselves, and about life in general; and sometimes it also entails compartmentalizing or otherwise pushing aside one's thoughts and feelings.

That all makes sense, especially in view of our intuitive desire to feel good. "Avoidance," then, in this case, is about avoiding that which causes suffering. The problem, though, is that it doesn't really work -- at least, not when it comes to the often messy reality of our inner lives. That's what I meant when I posted this image a few weeks ago:

What disruptive anxiety "says" to me, then, is that the sufferer probably has some inner "stuff" they need to approach and consider in order to truly move on. In other words, one's past must be accepted and released before one can truly occupy the present in happiness and health.

I'll be straight-up with you: The process of approaching one's "stuff" is usually pretty scary and uncomfortable; and that can seem a little counter-intuitive, of course, seeing as how the ultimate goal is achieving a greater measure of peace. 

The thing is, that's okay. Sometimes, that which seems paradoxical conceals a deeper truth. 

Take it slow. Whether you choose to undertake the process on your own, or with another person's assistance (i.e., a counselor), make sure you're in a safe, secure place in which you feel as free as possible to express anything that comes up. Also, set an expectation for yourself that it won't necessarily be a linear, quick-fix process -- and setting that expectation is important, by the way, because it invokes the keys to release: Acceptance and Compassion.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that self-directed Acceptance and Compassion are ALWAYS harbingers of positive things to come in terms of peace, happiness, well-being, clarity, balance, and achievement. 

Here's the beautiful thing: we don't necessarily have to like something in order to accept it; and we don't necessarily have to agree with someone's actions in order to show them compassion. 

In other words, it's okay to say, "Wow, that thing that happened was really unpleasant. It was really painful. I really wish it hadn't happened." You can retain that basic attitude and still, at the end of the day, augment it with acceptance: "But it did happen. It happened. I survived it, and I'm sitting here right now."

We all have aspects of ourselves which we don't like. We've all done things we regret. We've all done things which, even today, make us feel sad and guilty to ponder. We've all done things in violation of our senses of right and wrong. And we've all had bad things done to us.

While that stuff isn't great, it doesn't mean we deserve to forever languish under the burden of displaced torment.

I firmly believe that we are all worthy of happiness and peace -- which means that we are worthy of acceptance, worthy of compassion, and worthy of forgiveness. 

After all, none of us is perfect. Let me repeat that (in all caps): NONE OF US IS PERFECT. (You might not like it, but you have to accept it.) What that means, in part, is that we periodically make big mistakes. Sometimes we screw up and hurt other people; sometimes other people screw up and hurt us.

The only thing to do is practice acceptance and compassion.

And it starts with us. It starts with each of us giving those things to ourselves, first and foremost. It starts with each of us being the kindest, most loving friend to ourselves that we can imagine. 

You, Dear Reader, are worth it. I know it in my bones. 

Thank you for reading this post. I hope you have an awesome day. 

Change

I took a trip home to upstate New York this past week to visit with family and friends. It was great to see everyone, truly. But it was an unfamiliar experience for me, too, because I've never lived as far from home as I do now, and I haven't ever gone as long as I did, furthermore, without coming home for a visit. In that regard, it was an unexpectedly strange experience: things were familiar, but I wasn't. And it wasn't a major shift I perceived within myself, either; it was subtle, as if a sea captain had changed the ship's course a mere degree or two.

Awareness of the role I've played in relation to my family and friends kept occurring to me during my visit, which led me, in turn, to consider more generally the nature of self in relation to the external world, and the roles we assume in all our social interactions. (Not coincidentally, a book entitled, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life by Erving Goffman is coming up on my reading list.) I also found that I was revisiting what I learned in graduate school about Murray Bowen's Family Systems Theory (click here to learn about it from his organization -- it's very interesting stuff).

I digress.

What I found during my visit was that I was able to sort of measure my personal change based on the subtle dissonances I perceived in my cognition and emotional processing while in (temporary) relation to my surroundings back home. Actually, I don't think I measured it as much as I simply perceived it. Old habits of mind, imperceptibly shed since moving to Colorado, felt unfamiliar. I was caught off guard by them, too, because I hadn't even realized I was shedding them.

It dawns on me now that this post is about change, plain and simple. I'm changing, and my trip home helped illustrate the fact.

You know what? That's a validating thought, and I think it's pretty damn cool. Change can be difficult to contend with, you know? It requires, by definition, that something be altered, and most of us tend to like our familiarity. Moreover, it seems to me that this little realization of mine is in keeping with the nature of life, which is, after all, a continual process of things changing. To build walls against change is natural, I suppose, but change must be yielded to, sooner or later. Huh.

I'm grateful to be getting out my own way, and letting myself be moved, consciously, by life.

Leaps of Faith, Hamlet, and Action

It's difficult sometimes to know whether to make a change or to stay the course. Rational decision-making processes generally feature some combination of weighing pros and cons, "gut" feelings, goals, and potential consequences of the options in play; i.e., one engages a variety of thought experiments in attempts to gain clarity amid confusion.

These attempts can be frustrating, though, because they often lead the intrepid thought-experimenter right back into their quagmire. The truth is, none of us can ever clearly ascertain the outcome of any decision. We can't predict the future with certainty. Many of us guard against that by proceeding methodically, and accounting for possible outcomes to the best of our abilities.

Sometimes, though, you just have to leap.

It's easier said than done, to be sure. Taking a leap of faith evokes a lot of negative feedback, both from within and without. Our conditioning, experience, and belief systems might protest, "this is crazy!" Our loved ones, along with societal norms, might send us the same messages. Such feedback can be paralyzing, and stop us in our tracks. I'm reminded of one of my favorite quotes from "Hamlet":

And thus, the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of Action.

Granted, Hamlet is referring to suicide, which I do not recommend or condone. That aside, however, these words remind me that sometimes one must simply ACT. Sometimes, one must fly in the face of convention and make a change, and let the chips fall where they will. Sometimes such behavior represents the deepest act of self-regard possible; for by doing so, one is proclaiming, "This situation is unacceptable to me, and I can't go on like this. I have to do this for my own well-being. And I trust that I will successfully navigate the consequences, and that I will be happier, healthier, wiser, and better for having done what I did."