End-of-Year Resolutions

As another year draws to a close, I find myself in familiar territory.  Best & Worst lists abound, we're cranky and cold and at the mall, and we're stuck between dread and excitement about what next year will bring.  Something, or perhaps everything, about winter makes a body tired and a mind uneasy.  I think winter is trying to tell us something.  As we struggle to find the right gifts, complaining about the unforgiving cold, the cold is telling us to seek shelter and warmth, to slow down rather than sprint to the finish line.  Hibernating bears have the right idea: this is the time to think and rethink rather than act and react.  When I think about this year, I feel a lot of different things.  I have regrets, to be sure: withdrawing from graduate school, getting into a situation I should have known to avoid, letting certain people go and holding on too tightly to others.  But I also have joys: I got promoted to a position at work which I really enjoy, I've made several new friends, I've spent a lot of time with my precious family and I've renewed my interest and involvement in musical endeavors.  The trick to remembering is focusing as much on the good as on the bad, a task which seems inherently difficult for us human beings.

I have no idea what 2011 will bring, but I am more concerned about tomorrow anyway.  When we make resolutions for a forthcoming year, we are robbing ourselves of what remains of this year; we are also usually fooling ourselves.  For most of us, the act of formulating a list of resolutions is itself daunting and stressful; we worry that our lists are not long enough or ambitious enough, we find ourselves repeating goals we meant to reach this year.  Whether we realize it or not, we are composing narratives of our failings, wish lists for a perfection that does not exist.  I am not saying that we should stop trying to be better people; I am saying that one's efforts to do so should arise from an in medias res realization that one must, at that moment, be or do something more.  This moment of realization will occur for different people at different times, most likely during times of crisis.  Certainly none of us would put "Experience crisis which will make me a better person" on our resolution lists, and that is precisely why these lists are not very useful.

My advice for the seasonally disheartened, which includes myself, is to remember that we too have seasons.  This winter, try not to worry too much about what you can't control (which is pretty much 90% of everything), forgive yourself and others for this year's faults and don't resolve to change the new year before it has a chance to change you.

Emotional Hoarding

I am currently mildly obsessed with two things: TV shows about hoarding and the multi-media phenomenon PostSecret.  I have a theory that these two things are related, and that their widespread popularity says a lot about our culture and humanity in general.

If you have never seen Hoarders on A&E or Hoarding: Buried Alive on TLC, let me give you an idea of what you're missing.  A mental health specialist and a professional organizer go to a house (upon request - this is not like Intervention) and help the person or people living there clear out the clutter. By "clutter," I don't mean some loose papers and an oversized knick-knack collection; I mean piles of clothing, antiques, handbags, magazines, toiletries... and often trash, which goes hand-in-hand with things like mold, mice, mice droppings, and even, in extreme cases, dead animals.  Needless to say, these houses are uninhabitable, yet they are inhabited.  The homeowners are always initially resistant to the cleanup process even though they know they need help.  It is as though the act of throwing something away, even a piece of garbage, is an act of betrayal.  After much frustration and wasted time, the homeowner reveals a tragic circumstance which caused the hoarding to begin or get dramatically worse: the sudden death of a child or spouse, the loss of a job, drug addiction, etc.  After sharing this secret with the help staff, the homeowner often experiences a breakthough.  It is as though the secret was in the mountains of refuse, and the act of release is also an act of force which allows the homeowner to bring those mountains to the ground.  For this reason, I believe that the physical manifestation of hoarding is secondary to the emotions at its core.

If you're not familiar with PostSecret, you're living under a rock.  Kidding.  But you do need to check out the website or one of the books.  The premise is simple: you write down a secret, keep it anonymous, and mail it to the PostSecret address.  A man named Frank Warren receives the secrets and publishes them on the site or in the books.  These secrets range from mild and whimsical (ie. "I used to think teachers lived in schools" and "I wish I could go to Hogwarts") to tragic and poignant (ie. "I used to tell my brother he would never amount to anything. I still blame myself for his suicide" and "I think I'll be alone forever, and it scares me that I find this comforting").  Most importantly, the writer often expresses relief at setting the secret free.  Just as with the hoarding shows, I am drawn to these secrets because they suggest empowerment through release.  The secret itself, no matter how horrifying, is undermined by the fact that it is no longer a secret.  When an object is separated from the context it represents, it loses its potency.  Secrets and trash are inherently hidden, and things that are hidden breed shame. To break free of that shame, one must define and abandon the context in which these hidden things are allowed to exist.  It does not bring me joy to read about other people's tragedies and mistakes, just as it does not bring me joy to see someone living in filth.  What brings me joy is knowing that these things can be defeated, that we have the power to overcome these conditions.  The solution lies in abandoning your guilt and in voicing your truth, no matter how ugly or scary it is.  I admire those who ask for help and who share their secrets, and I admit that I do not do either enough.  In fact, these are two of my biggest weaknesses.  Maybe I'll send in a postcard about it.

I hope that the popularity of hoarding shows and of PostSecret derive mostly from fellow-feeling and hope in the human capacity for growth and change.  I realize that some people may watch and read to feel better about their own lives, but I can only believe that they too will grow and change.  I can only believe.

Jobs v. Careers

The once-harmless question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" waxes more and more sinister as I creep toward the quarter-century mark.  Maybe some of my fellow 20-somethings can relate: you went to college with hopes of attaining a career, but now you find yourself with, or perhaps even looking for, a job instead.  There is no shame in this, inherently.  But then there is that question, the one we were all asked when we were younger and which our parents and other adults now ask with concern.  After explaining what you are doing now, they ask with a slight frown and knitted brows: "Well, what did you want to do when you were younger?"  This question is probably meant to help us return to our primitive states and explore long-lost dreams and interests.  But instead of making us feel inspired, it makes us feel defeated, as if our current situations are unacceptable.  Or maybe we just feel confused.  What I wanted to be changed on an almost daily basis: I had an author phase, a ballerina phase, a talk-show host phase, a zookeeper phase, a nun phase (no, really), a Jane Goodall phase, a comedian phase (helloooo SNL), a fashion designer phase.  There was no rhyme or reason to my choices then, and I can make no rhyme or reason of them now.  The only thing I can deduce is that I am fickle, which isn't exactly a helpful resume-builder or sound foundation for a career.

I think we would all agree that passion is a key element in choosing a career.  In work as well as in love, passion is the antidote to routine, the spark that keeps the fire going.  If you are sensitive, however, passion can be damning.  The line between passion and obsession is very thin, and sensitive folks are often the ones walking it.  I applaud and envy those who have always known what they wanted to do and have committed themselves to doing it regardless of the consequences, but I know myself well enough to know that this is most likely not the path for me.  Could it be that I don't have a passion for a particular career?  Maybe.  But my resistance is certainly not due to a lack of passion.  I am passionate about music and books and writing.  I would love to be a musician, a writer, or, in a perfect world, a singer-songwriter who also writes music reviews and literary criticism.  Do I think any of these things will happen? No, and not just because I'm not talented enough; the thought of doing these things for a living nearly scares the passion out of me.  When you care about something with great intensity, your expectations of yourself within the context of that something will also be great.  If your performance within that context affects your livelihood, those expectations can become crippling.  Passion should liberate, not cripple.

So what is the solution?  Is it possible to have a career you're passionate about and still be happy? I'm sure it is, but I'm not sure it is for me, and it may not be for you.  If you have a job that pays the bills, doesn't stress you out too much, is moderately interesting to you, and allows you to have a social life and some hobbies you are passionate about, you're doing very well.  If you love something so much it hurts, make it a hobby and don't quit your day job.  Live within your means and don't turn down opportunities that could lead you down a different path on principle alone.  The next time someone asks you what you're doing with yourself, don't apologize and don't make excuses.  And if that dreaded question comes up, say: "When I was younger, I wanted to be happy.  I still do."

The Good, The Bad, & The Book

In your opinion, what makes someone a good person or a bad person?  Put yourself in Santa's fur-lined boots for a minute.  Do you keep a checklist of "good person" adjectives and draw a dividing line based on the number of checks?  Probably not.  First of all, we often judge people without knowing them well enough to come up with a respectable checklist.  Secondly, people are tricky - literally and figuratively.  We are untrustworthy and unstable, prone to fits of kindness and unkindness alike.  We also intrinsically elude any kind of definition.  The preservation of our identities depends upon our abilities to adapt to a radically wide spectrum of situations.  It is not always "good" to be "good" or "bad" to be "bad"- in other (less ideologically loaded and heavily quoted) words, each of us is a good and a bad person, for better and for worse.

I may have upset some people by that last statement, but I can assure you that such was not my intention.  I do believe in God and in Satan, but I am not going to get into religion here - the ideology is too overwhelming.  "The Book" in the title of this blog post refers not to the Bible (though it is an excellent book), but rather to collective works of a particular brand of fiction in which the line between good and bad is clearly delineated.  The Harry Potter series, Wrinkle in Time quartet, and Hunger Games Trilogy are three of my favorite young adult series.  Thematically, these series have few things in common, but what they do have in common is this: while or after reading them, the reader knows who is/was good and who is/was bad.  Most importantly, this distinction exists and is obvious even as the reader recognizes that the "good" characters are flawed.  We all know that Harry Potter and Katniss Everdeen can be moody and even hateful and that Meg Murry can be insecure and impatient.  And we wouldn't want them any other way.  We want our heroes to be like us, to be someone we could potentially be.  What we don't want is for these shortcomings to become the enemy, as they so often do for us.

In a previous post, I defined insecurity as fear of compromising one's ego.  If that is the diagnosis, here are some of the side effects: self-destructive behavior such as drinking, doing drugs, eating disorders, self-mutilation, etc. and antisocial behavior such as avoidance of social situations, not listening or talking to people, violence, etc.  Insecurity is our most real, most terrifying enemy.  We are the enemy.  When we fight others, we are actually fighting the parts of ourselves that feel threatened.  What is "bad" is that which does not promote or at least placate our sense of our own goodness.  This black-and-white model does not fare well in our grayscale world.  That's why fiction is much more satisfying than reality.

The outrageous success of series like Harry Potter and the Hunger Games cannot derive solely from exceptional writing or even from their remarkable heroes.  These stories depend as much upon their villains as they do upon their heroes.  Without Voldemort and his baddie cohort and the Capitol, these stories would be too familiar.  Inner conflict would become the central driving force as it is in our lives.  We've had it up to here with inner conflict!  Give us soulless snake-human hybrids and a government that puts us in an annual contest to kill each other anyday!  Anything to make us stop fighting ourselves!  We all want to be the heroes within ourselves, but we don't want to (and can't, in my opinion) destroy the villains within.  So we dream about a reality in which the presence of a separate evil renders us wholly good if we side against it.  Another reason to love fiction... not that I needed one.

Expectations

Do you remember what you were doing five years ago on this day?  Or even one year ago?  If you're like me, not only do you not remember, you also do not care to remember.  When I do think of the past, which is often, I am haunted by the mistakes I have made, the lost opportunities, and the people I have let down - especially myself.  Reflecting on the past is a paradoxical exercise: it increases the probability that we will avoid making the same mistakes again, but it also reawakens the same insecurities which likely caused us to err.  Hindsight may be 20/20, but it does not come with rose-colored lenses.

My life is not what I want it to be, but why?  I am employed, I have a kind and supportive family, and I have a few good friends whom I see occasionally.  I have a college degree and am renting a small house in a nice area.  I live in a country where I don't have to worry about constant war and terrorism.  I have access to clean water and enough to eat.  I am alive.  I am near the top of the survival pyramid, so why do I often feel like I'm on the bottom?  The answer is expectations.  This is not the life I expected to have, and so I am filled with a kind of chronic disappointment that prevents me from being grateful for my present situation.  You'll notice I said "expected" instead of "expect"; expectations inherently dwell in the past.  As the present unfolds, expectations succumb to reality and become part of an irretrievable discourse.  Of course, in our human folly, we often attempt to retrieve it anyway. 

Example: I did well in college.  I graduated summa cum laude with a BA in English and expected that I would go on to do significant work in the field of literary theory.  As it turns out, there isn't a great demand for literary theorists and critics (shocking, I know), and even if there were, the attainment of such a position would require more schooling and a level of understanding I may never, even with said schooling, possess.  These realizations would be less painful if I had not spent all my time and energy working toward this goal for three years.  My dedication to schoolwork cost me lasting relationships, exploration of other interests, and, in all honesty, my mental health.  I was lonely, self-righteous, and out of touch with reality.  It was the lowest point in my life.  So why, when I think about this time, do I feel worse about where I am now than about where I was then?  Because the expectation is still there; I cannot let it go.  I feel worse because I know I should feel better.  I am overcome with self-doubt.  I am not ready to learn from the mistakes because what if they weren't mistakes?  What if my soul-numbing dedication to literary criticism was really what it takes to be the next Roland Barthes (look him up, he's incredible) or Michel Foucault?  I don't know.  All I know is that I can't learn from this experience until I stop wishing, completely stop wishing, that I was reliving it.  I have got to stop wishing.

Enough about me.  What I want to say is that we cannot escape our pasts, but we can make an effort to keep them from ruining our presents.  We can do this by keeping expectations where they belong - in a time and place that used to be but no longer is.  Please know that I am not advocating giving up on your dream - how could I when I haven't truly done so myself? - rather, I am advocating living a healthy and loving life that you won't regret in the future.  For many people, such a life is the dream.

Analyzing Anger

The highly sensitive person's greatest fear is conflict.  Fears of public speaking, large crowds, and even making major mistakes in front of others do not compare to the dreadful prospect of confrontation.  I have been thinking a lot about conflict and anger lately because of their recent prevalence at the bookstore where I work.  A co-worker and friend of mine was recently the recipient of a customer's wrath (a strong word, but sadly appropriate), and I felt confused and sad by the incident itself and by the fact this sort of thing seems to be a growing trend.  I am not going to enter the recession = more bad moods discourse because angry people were angry even when their stocks were up.  I am convinced that the issue is internal.

Anger is an inevitable human emotion.  The root of anger is expectation, and the most sensitive person in the world has expectations.  When reality does not mirror or exceed our expectations (which is the case about 99.9% of the time - call me cynical), uneasiness results.  We feel slighted, unfulfilled, let down: we have already started down the path of anger.  Remember Robert Frost and the road that diverged in the woods?  I think that road is a fitting analogy for anger.  After our expectations are shattered, we walk in silence - heads down, hands in pockets, scowls affixed on our faces - until we reach that fork.  The signpost reads "Self" and "Others," and we must choose.  The choice is this: will I direct my anger inward or outward?  The HSP almost always opts for "Self" and continues walking alone.  To others, this individual's conflict is invisible; to the individual, the conflict is very real and sometimes very painful.

For the HSP, the pain of self-directed anger, however acute, is preferable to the other option: anger directed at others.  If you read my last post, you may remember my theory about context: those on the low end of the sensitivity spectrum perceive their egos (or selves) as the supreme context; all else is content which is subject to the authority of the context.  As such, anything which threatens the autonomy of this context, whether it be a person or a circumstance, is at fault.  Because circumstances cannot respond to anger, the angry individual chooses another person on whom to project his or her feelings.  The term for this reaction is insecurity - a defense mechanism used when one's own ego is perceived to be vulnerable.  The next time someone projects anger onto you, try to remember that behind the apparent confidence (the raised voice, the insistence that he or she is right), there is fear.

So, HSPs, take heart.  Your fear of conflict does not make you weak; it makes you wise.  Mahatma Gandhi, famous for his dedication to nonviolence, said: "As heat conserved is transmitted into energy, even so our anger controlled can be transmitted into a power that can move the world."  Some conflict with others is inevitable, but those who seek to resolve and control their anger by taking a solitary walk - I mean this both literally and figuratively - have a kind of power lacking in those who confront and attack.  When we internalize our anger, we stoke fires within - the fires that fuel our visions for a better world, our efforts to affect change, our art, our very souls.

Setting the stage

My favorite SNL skit is Will Ferrell as James Lipton, host of Inside the Actor's Studio. The look, the intonation, and the laugh are spot-on. The dialogue is funny, sure, but my appreciation extends beyond content to the context which frames it. Let's say Will Ferrell decides to laugh less like James Lipton and more like himself or Ron Burgundy or Elf.  Funny?  Probably.  But it is not what the situation calls for, what it deserves, and so it is not done.

If you are a highly sensitive person, you may find it helpful to think more in terms of context and less in terms of content.  To the HSP, content = stimuli and stimuli = stress.  To all but perhaps the most devout hermit, content (and lots of it) is unavoidable.  The average person, it seems, is able to filter the constant inflow of everyday stuff - the ringing phone, the barking dog, the tailgating driver - without much effort or distress.  In fact, it seems like many people actively seek stimulation rather than try to deal with it.  What else could explain the phenomena of texting while driving and owning two or more dogs?  If you will allow, I believe the average person does not think in terms of context.  The self (the ego) is the only context, and content is subject to the sole discretion of the ego. Context modifies content absolutely.

Things are not so straightforward for the highly sensitive individual.  Although the ego acts as a context, it is not really the only context at work.  When the HSP encounters an unfamiliar or distressing stimuli, or simply too many stimuli, the stimuli itself becomes a kind of context.  The HSP self, realizing that the stimuli cannot (or will not) change, adapts to fit within the parameters of this new pseudocontext.  As such, context modifies content, but content also modifies context.  In literary theory, this is called irony: the ability of a poem to derive its true meaning by operating on two distinct but mutually supporting levels: as a whole and as the parts that construct it.  I digress.  My point is that sensitive people are not inherently able to separate their inner selves from the external selves and objects they encounter.

Is this inability to remain detached a tragic flaw?  I don't think so.  I think it is a gift that can seem like a curse if not understood and managed properly.  Fellow HSPs, I encourage to hone your acting skills.  I have worked at the same bookstore for about two years, and I still get a nervous sense of anticipation when I walk through the front doors. What could happen today?  Will I have to deal with a nasty customer? There is always a fear of the unexpected, the root of which is the fear of failure.  I fear that I will fail to perform properly when faced with the unexpected.  I fear that I will allow an unpleasant stimuli to define me as a weak, defensive person, and I am terrified of becoming that person.  But before I resign myself to this script, I set my own stage: I remind myself that I am competent and can deal with this sort of thing.  I put on my smile and laugh my best James Lipton laugh because that is my job.  In a way, I detach myself from myself - I assign myself a more confident role - but I am still myself, as I must be.  We all know it is Will Ferrell behind those glasses and that beard, and this knowledge makes us appreciate what he is doing all the more. 

Do you see where I'm going with this?  The people you meet who are worth anything will appreciate you not in spite of your sensitivity but because of it.  They will understand and appreciate how hard you try without demanding that you try so hard.  Friends, my advice to you is to be who you are, and let that self be adaptive and forgiving of itself and other selves.

Are you highly sensitive?

If you are, join the club. If you are not, I am sure you know people who are, and they would appreciate the fact that you are reading a blog that concerns their condition. I hesitate to use this term - condition - because it is so serious, but to those of us who identify ourselves as highly sensitive (a crowd of about 50 million according to my admittedly limited research), this sensitivity thing is serious business.

The term sensitivity is complex and misunderstood, as are the people who exhibit it. How many times have all of us said, while rolling our eyes, "Don't be so sensitive!"? How many times has someone said this to you? I do not pose these questions to test your sensitivity level; I pose them because they prove that sensitivity is not something that is or isn't - it always is. No matter how insensitive a person seems to you, he or she may be considered highly sensitive by someone else. Perception dictates judgment, and judgment, sadly, dictates reasoning. If we all understood that sensitivity exists on a spectrum rather than a see-saw, we would understand ourselves and each other better.

Indeed, all humans are sensitive to some degree because we have senses. When our bodies respond to stimuli, we have no control over this response. We all learned early (hopefully with minimal injury) that hands and hot stoves do not mix. After the initial bodily response occurs, our subconscious mind takes over, reacting not only to the stimuli, but also to our own response to this stimuli. In this way, emotional sensitivity and visceral sensitivity are intrinsically linked. If a person with low to average sensitivity hears a loud siren, the bodily response will be momentary discomfort at the heightened noise and the emotional response will be minimal; perhaps the person will think "That was pretty loud" or even "I wonder what happened?" and then go back to his or her business. The highly sensitive person, on the other hand, will biologically react more strongly to the stimuli; thus the emotional response is stronger. He or she will likely be unable to concentrate on the task at hand during and for several moments after the stimuli appears. To the subconscious, this strong visceral reaction signifies cause for a strong emotional reaction; the person may worry that someone he or she knows, or even someone he or she doesn't know, is seriously hurt. As a highly sensitive person, I am prone to this kind of jumping to conclusions. After a few minutes, the individual likely returns to equilibrium, but again, I can only speak for myself through my limited perception.

Speaking of conclusions, here's mine: I am not an expert on sensitivity, or on anything. I am struggling with my own sensitivity - its presence and influence on every aspect of my life - and I hope that this blog will serve as a forum for like-minded and/or interested individuals. My plan is to share my observations of daily life, pop culture, heavy issues, etc. in a way that facilitates the acceptance of sensitivity as an asset rather than a curse or an excuse to live a sheltered life.

Let me know how I'm doing. And more importantly, let me know how you're doing.