I Couldn't Sleep, and Then...

I couldn't sleep, and then out of nowhere, completely devoid of context, like a hot knife through butter, a simple statement emerged from my mouth:

"Forgive yourself."

All the angry, restless, relentlessly obsessive thoughts crashed to a halt.

"Forgive yourself," the voice repeated.

"Forgive yourself."

I fell asleep.

Revisiting NGAF

Be forewarned: if you dislike strong language (cursing), don't read this post.

It's a bad habit of mine to amplify and obsess on self-centered negative feelings such as guilt. Often, I take these feelings and blow them way out of proportion until I'm a miserable and less-than-stellar version of myself. Given that it's an emotional sore spot -- or Achilles' Heel, if you will -- I keep an eye on it.

Despite these efforts, I had been feeling in a bit of a rut recently, such that my self-directed negativity had grown in strength, automation, and persistence. That, and it was compelling; I indulged it with my attention. Not fun.

Fortunately, experience has taught me that there are a bevy of resources available to help one out of such a rut. One must often make multiple attempts with different resources before one finds the right fit -- a process I usually describe as "throwing macaroni at the wall and seeing what sticks." In my case, the macaroni that stuck recently was revisiting the Honey Badger Philosophy, i.e., How to Not Give a Fuck.

Let's break it down.

The objects of obsessive guilt (and resulting self-loathing) are usually rooted in the past, i.e., on things one has done. Given that, it's important to ask and answer a fundamental and grounding question of oneself:

Q: Is it possible to travel back in time and re-do that moment?
A: No.

Okay, then. That is a fact. That is the truth.

Here's where it gets tricky.

I would argue that it's "good" to feel guilty if you've, say, hurt someone. Guilt draws upon empathy and consideration of other people -- both of which are "good" things in and of themselves. After all, guilt is a feedback system that tells us, "I messed up when I did that. I'm going to do it differently next time. I'm going to apologize and try to make amends."

Notice, however, that nowhere in that bit of dialogue are the statements, "The fact that I did that thing means that I am completely worthless. I deserve nothing but scorn and disdain for the rest of my days. I hate myself."

Unfortunately, many of us "go" into that self-loathing inner dialogue when an emotional sore spot, such as guilt, is triggered.

{Enter NGAF Philosophy}

Not Giving a Fuck isn't license to suddenly stop feeling guilty -- no way. What it is (in this case), rather, is a reminder to "stay in" Guilty Gully and refrain from indulging the next step into Self Loathing Landing.

How?

Not Giving a Fuck reminds me that I am mostly a good person. NGAF reminds me that I am a flawed human being, and bound to make mistakes; and that when I do make mistakes, even big ones, I am allowed to continue to love and respect myself even as I feel righteously guilty and seek to make amends with the ones I've hurt.

NGAF can be applied to so many situations. I recommend taking it out for a spin.

Thanks for reading.

Snapshot: Accepting Imperfection

Snapshot: "Releasing the Grip of Anxiety"

CRISIS

Today, I'm going to write about CRISIS.

I don't think it's a stretch to say most of us have experienced crises of some sort. They occur when the proverbial straw breaks the camel's back, or when an unexpected, major event occurs. Either way, when a crisis happens, it changes things -- maybe everything, or close to it -- and it cannot be ignored.

I don't have a ton of insight to share on managing crises; after all, they're each their own unique little bundle of joy (haha). Crises also tend to induce varying degrees of "survival mode" in people, and that, pretty much, is what it is. Crises can be pretty unpleasant, and all those involved do the best they can with them. 

That all being said, when a crisis occurs, the people who have to take action seem to dissociate a little bit, generally speaking, and interestingly enough. In other words, they detach a bit from the emotional impact of the event in order to preserve their decision-making abilities and get things done; and that's a good thing, in my opinion, because after all, in times of crisis, things have to get done.

(Image from Google Image search "git er done"...I couldn't help myself)

I experienced a bit of a family crisis over the weekend. (I'll refrain from sharing details, but thankfully, everyone involved is alive and relatively well.) When the crisis was at its peak, I found myself in an Action Mode state very similar to what I described above. And it was necessary and good, believe me.

What I took note of, though, and what I'd like to underscore here, was the stuff that happened after the crisis -- that is, once the situation had stabilized. 

Generally speaking, the immediate aftermath was, for me, almost equally as dicey as the crisis itself, but in a different sense. My dissociation had faded; but while there was still plenty of business to attend to, I no longer had the luxury of operating with that nice little buffer zone between myself and my emotions. Instead, I suddenly found myself having to manage my tumultuous, intense, and crisis-induced emotional responses along with my need to take care of business. 

Everyone experiences and expresses their emotions differently, especially in times of stress. I did notice, though, that it was tempting to indulge catastrophic thinking. After all, I was worried; my system was flooded with adrenaline; and my brain was teeming with unusual levels of neurotransmitters. In other words, everything in me was ready to FREAK OUT. Hell, everything in me WANTED to freak out. So whenever there was a new development, I felt myself escalating. Minor annoyances became Big Deals; passing, innocuous thoughts were Urgent Matters. 

It was exhausting, and it was unpleasant. After all, I was aware of what was happening with me, and I initially tried to do exactly what I recently warned against: forcefully change my thoughts and feelings. Oy. Mercifully, I soon realized that all I could really do was to breathe, let myself experience whatever came up, and be my own best friend. That helped -- a lot.

So. In the aftermath of a crisis, be extra compassionate and forgiving with yourself. Let yourself experience whatever it is you’re experiencing. Know that you're probably going to think and feel a lot of contradictory things, or things that surprise you, or things you wish you wouldn't. You might even feel yourself regressing, or being pulled into old, unwanted habits of communication and behavior. Whatever the case may be, have patience with yourself, give yourself “space” to exist, and know that “this, too, shall pass.” 

A few closing thoughts. If other people are involved with you in a crisis, know that they’re going through their own versions of the experience, and that they, too, are probably thinking, feeling, saying, and doing things that are unusual, unwelcome, or unfamiliar. Or maybe not. Either way, extend to them the same senses of compassion and forgiveness I described above.

Love

Implausibly, crazily, I find that I'm writing this post from a coffee shop in Boulder, Colorado. It's mid-February, and chilly, but the sun is blazing away in the sky, as it does most days here. Those things aren't necessarily remarkable in and of themselves, but for a kid from upstate New York who has spent basically all his life living in the Northeast, the change of venue -- exemplified by the blissed-out scene I just described -- has been amazing. (The Northeast is awesome, by the way; but it's good for me to be doing something different.) And so, unsurprisingly, perhaps, I find myself thinking about love.

Many people have expressed brilliant things about love in literature and the arts, but for now, I'm thinking of a few things said by one person in particular: Khalil Gibran. Are you familiar with his book, The Prophet? If not, go to a book store, buy it, and read it. I'm not kidding. It contains within it so many pearls of wisdom, and so much guidance for the intrepid life traveler; it's an invaluable resource for anyone willing to consider its content. Anyway, The Prophet has chapters, as do many books, and his section entitled, "Love," is a source of inspiration right now. (I found an excerpt of it online, here, for your reference.)

The passage should be read in its entirety to be fully appreciated, but here's a choice excerpt nevertheless:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden. 

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Naturally, those words will evoke different impressions and interpretations in each of us. The messages, however, are clear. And I want to be clear, too: as I sit here thinking about Love, I'm not only thinking about romantic love. I'm also thinking of the love we infuse into our deeds; our dreams, hopes, and goals; the words we utter; and the thoughts we think. I'm also thinking of the love we experience from the sights we see; the sounds we hear; the textures we feel; and even the very air we breathe.

Love is everywhere, both within our hearts and minds, and in the world and universe which surround us. "But wait," you might say, "I'm heartbroken and angry; I'm tired of myself, and of the pain which others inflict upon me. I'm tired of being disappointed and hurt. How can you say that love is everywhere? I don't see it. How do I find it?" 

Good question. Think on this quote by Rumi: "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

Think about the meaning of those incredible words for a moment. It may be one of the most powerful things you ever realize -- it certainly has been for me. Namely, the onus is on each of us to open our hearts to the love within and without. It is no one else's responsibility. The power, and the responsibility, are yours, and only you hold the keys to it.

And now think about the implication of Rumi's words in tandem with those of Khalil Gibran. Here's what I think: Love is the Driving Force of Life. Love is powerful and pure. Love utterly raises us up and utterly tears us down. It makes us feel as though we have everything, and it makes us feel as though we have nothing -- and that we are everything, are nothing. It's tempting, then, to build those barriers, those defense mechanisms, and those cynicisms against love. It's very tempting, because we don't want to get hurt. Sometimes, though, we must hurt in order that we may learn and grow. Sometimes we must hear the thing we don't want to hear, or experience the disappointment we don't want to experience, that we may learn and grow. If we follow love, and love hurts us, then it is our task to hurt, learn, and open ourselves right back up to love's re-entry into our hearts. It is only thus that we will proceed; moreover, if we follow those steps, we must trust that we will proceed intact, with ever-growing capacities for wisdom, understanding, compassion, acceptance, and forgiveness. It is thus that we will become ever more efficient conduits for Love.

Life, and everything that happens to us in it, is a gymnasium in which we train to become better conduits for Love. It's a process, replete with apparent highs, lows, setbacks, and progress. And it's all good, if we let it be as such.

Forgiveness

Have I written about forgiveness here? I think I've mentioned it, but I haven't really delved into it as a topic. I think this is a good time to start.

Forgiveness, both of others and of oneself, is one of those concepts that isn't often really explained or examined; it's taken for granted. You don't need to dig too deep into literature, spiritual/religious texts and sermons, or even conversations to hear about it; and yet, what is it, really? How does it work? How do I do it?

My take on it all is that, when it is discussed, forgiveness is often represented as a rather finite, cut-and-dried act, as if one simply forgives another person or oneself of a transgression, right then and there, and moves on. I don't think that really cuts the mustard, especially for the big stuff.

Coming back to those angst-addled questions above: I think the process of forgiveness is deeply personal, and largely undefinable in general terms. I think it's a messy, confusing process, featuring cycles of peace, conflict, progress, and regression, not necessarily in that order, and occurring, often, simultaneously. Our logical, conscious reasoning, as I'm sure you know, can be astonishingly out of step with our feelings -- in general, yes, but certainly while we're in the process of forgiving: we might be able to put the transgression(s) into perspective logically, grasping the fact that we should (beware that word) release it and put it behind us, but find ourselves angry, hurt, and ruminative nonetheless.

Oy.

The thing about forgiveness, though, is that we can fuel its progress with our intention. If we continue to choose to seek forgiveness, we will find that we're ultimately moving in its direction. Perhaps one day the forgiver will find that something has "clicked," and that they have, in fact, utterly forgiven the transgression. Or perhaps it will remain a struggle that requires periodic fine-tuning and revisiting, sort of like how a car requires a tune-up every so often.

That latter example speaks to me. I find that the anguish of certain transgressions rear up in my heart sometimes, and require that I take a little time to accept my discomfort, give it a think, give it some compassion, and move on with my day.