Haircuts are the kind of initimate detail that makes me want to read blogs. And they entice some of the more photo-reticent bloggers to post pictures of themselves.
I have a new project where I'm trying to become aware of all the little details in my life that tend to disappear off my radar screen. Those lost hours of time . . . the money that just seems to disappear from my bank account . . . the habits that are so deeply ingrained that I don't usually notice them.
At any given moment, I can't tell you when my last haircut was. And the Supercuts ladies always ask. So I lie. I say, "six weeks." Even though I know it's probably been longer than that.
Fortunately, I've been getting cosmic wisdom from my Supercuts ladies lately. (I highly recommend the Supercuts at 18 Battery Street in San Francisco for both styling and enlightenment.) So last time I got a haircut, I wrote about it.
Mid-September was my last haircut. FIVE AND A HALF MONTHS!!!
I would never have guessed. I would have said three months at the outside. But see, I get my hair cut pretty short, and then it just grows forever and gets kind of long. And I guess it's just a detail I don't pay attention to.
See how great blogs are for self-awareness?
So when I got my haircut the other day, the Confucian Supercuts Wisdom bestowed upon me was as follows:
"Some people look really funny when their hair gets long."
(Pause.)
"You should really keep your hair short."
So this is my reminder to myself. Supercuts and I have a date in mid-April.
* * * * * * * * * * * *OK, I think I'm regressing to fifth grade.
Exhibit One: I wanted to get a watch. Just a cheap-ass digital. 'Cause I have a decent watch, but it doesn't fit me, and even if it did, I wouldn't want to wear it every day because I've totally busted every decent watch I've ever owned. Like, into multiple pieces.
In the back of my mind, I remembered the cool Casio calculator watch I had in fifth grade. It was totally the most awesome gadget anyone had ever seen in either my elementary school class or my Boy Scout troop. Before anyone under fifteen had cell phones, PDA's, Discmen, or laptops, I had a "hi-tech" water resistant Casio calculator watch, with 12 big chrome numerical buttons, dual-time, a stopwatch, and an alarm.
And a game.
The game was key. It was nothing really . . . just a low-tech version of Tetris. A row of numbers would gradually crawl across the watch display, and each individual number would disappear if you punched the correct calculator button in time. The numbers would appear faster and faster as the game progressed, and if the row of numbers actually reached the far edge of the display, it was GAME OVER for you.
Remember, this was the early eighties. No one had even imagined a Gameboy yet. So to be able to pull out my watch and play an electronic game while, say, canoeing on the Russian River with the Scouts, or ambling around Golden Gate Park on a school field trip . . . well, that was considered nothing short of miraculous.
Many of the guys were jealous.
The girls didn't really care.
So last weekend I had, like, fifteen minutes between activities, and I walked by a Walgreens and thought, hmm . . . maybe I can get a cheap-ass watch there . . .
I walked in, found the watch case, and . . . SHAZAM! . . . they had the VERY SAME Casio calculator watch I had as a fifth grader.
Well, almost the same. They make the calculator buttons out of black plastic now, not chrome. And it doesn't have the game. I guess they figured people would just laugh at it these days.
I can't explain it, but this watch makes me downright euphoric. It makes me happier than anything I've bought in a long time. It's so frivolous and uncool and nostalgic and so very ME. It's like I'm re-united with a part of myself.
And if people piss me off, I can pretend that it's an intergalactic communicator, and I can use it to call the mother ship to strike my enemies down. Just like I did in fifth grade.
I do miss the game, though.
* * * * * * * * * * * *I going through one of those . . . phases . . .
"Hello, WT . . ."
"Yes, who is it?"
"It's your True Self."
"Oh, hi. Wassup?"
"Just wanted to let you know . . . I've been meaning to tell you something for a while, and I didn't know how to say it politely."
"Come on. We've known each other a long time. Just spill it."
"You're kind of a control freak sometimes."
"Oh."
I know that's hard to hear, especially coming from me. But I'm just saying . . . loosen up a little.
There are parts of my life where I often feel "out of control." No matter how much I make, I never feel in control of money. It always seems to be running away from me at a disasterous pace.
I feel like my appearance is not within my control. The shape of my body, the eccentricity of my face, the recurring acne. Most of the time I act like I don't care. But I do.
Other people intrude on my life. At work. On the street. On the news. They waylay me from that path I want to travel. They distract me from my purpose and they drain my resources. And I can't seem nto control them. (Though I have been known to try.)
That's why I think I like having this blog so much. It is entirely within my control. Nothing happens here that I don't want to happen. The people that comment here are people that I want to hear from. And on the off chance that someone unwanted should intrude here, I have the power to delete them from this corner of the universe as if they never existed.
There are other parts of my life where I feel "in control," too.
And yet . . . this whole dichotomy . . . in control / out of control . . . it's an illusion, really, isn't it?
*****
How did I get so detached from my own emotions? That's what I want to know. I want to be closer to them, because they are such great teachers.
Emotions are never in control. And they are never out of control. They have their own wisdom . . . a wisdom you may not understand, but an effective wisdom at that.
Each emotion has a purpose, a destination. Any concept we might have of being "in control" of our emotions is an illusion. We have a very small amount of authority over what path the raw energy of the emotion takes. Do we punch someone, or burst out in tears on the street, or scream, or laugh, or reach out and caress? We have some control over these things.
I read somewhere that people with Tourette's Syndrome have a certain measure of control over their involuntary outbursts and behavioral tics. In some circumstances, they can suppress them. But at the cost of a great amount of physical and psychological pain (migraines, anxiety attacks, etc.)
And I ask . . . how are any of us any different?
* * * * * * * * * * * *It's really odd . . . I'm having a great time with life right now. But I'm feeling really different the last few weeks. I think I feel something like a caterpillar in a cocoon. And I have no clue what kind of butterfly I'm going to turn out to be.
Things that usually turn me on are leaving me cold. Performing, for example. Usually I LIVE for it when I'm doing it. I certainly still enjoy it. But it doesn't feel like the brightest star in my universe these days. Other things are bringing me far more pleasure. Like reading comic books. Looking forward to the new Harry Potter. Hangin' with my husband during his free summer hours. Sitting still for hours, listening to the secrets my body has to tell me about my life and the universe. I've been doing that a lot lately.
I'm on a virtual TV fast. My TiVo told me the other day that it feels so neglected, it thinks maybe we should try relationship therapy. It helps that everything's in re-runs, but even aside from that . . . I just don't feel the desire.
And I haven't had much desire to write, either.
I'm reading blogs like crazy . . . with my handheld, I feel more connected to people in cyberspace than I have for months. But it's like I'm reading while kickin' it in an easy chair, all blissed out. All my comments get reduced to a simple, almost non-verbal, "Yeah . . . yeah."
I know that a lack of interest in usually enjoyable activities can be a sign of depression, but I'm really experiencing the opposite . . . a kind of anti-depression, a euphoria.
I used to have to work for this feeling. Now it's just . . . there. Instead of having to chase it, I find it stalking me . . . clinging to me . . . enveloping me.
I like it.
Stay tuned to see what color my wings turn out to be . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * *So I'm having one of those phases . . . we all have them. I sit down to write here, and I say to myself, "Why the hell do I do this?"
I mean, on an intellectual level, I could rattle off eighteen reasons why I blog and why it's a good thing. But where the rubber hits the road, in the day-to-day of it, the time, the creative energy, the self-imposed guilt when I don't update as much as I feel like I should . . . what's in it for me?
When I started, over a year ago, it was a lot about finding myself. The voice of William Ted was a very true part of me - several true parts of me, I guess - that didn't have other avenues of expression in my life. But, mission accomplished, I guess. Whatever it was exactly that I needed to come to terms with, I've come to terms with it. William Ted is no longer the bastard stepchild of my wounded psyche. He's the badass superstar of my so-called life. The "me" that no one knew about . . . that I barely even knew . . . is now the me that everyone gets to see.
It's almost a classic case of someone (this blog, for example) performing so well that it works itself right out of a job.
So now what?
There's definitely a social aspect to this. I LOVE the people I've met through this blog.
But as we all find, the beautiful thing about these friendships is that they exist "beyond the blog." The blogs are a great way to connect, to learn about each other. But the REAL connection happens "offline" . . . by e-mail, by phone, in person. I realize, having done this now for over a year, that I could probably still pursue and enjoy the friendships, enjoy being part of the community, without all the work of having my own blog.
This blog has always been a technical victory for me. When I started it, I knew nothing. And in this information age, it felt like I had learned the secrets of the gods when I found I could actually create a website by myself. I'm still incredibly self-satisfied with the current design of Sunshine Day, my first original design ever.
But now that I've proved to myself that I'm capable of the technical stuff . . . it again feels like "mission accomplished." Kind of a dead-end. A worthwhile dead-end, but a dead-end nonetheless. Web/tech stuff is fun, but just not my favorite thing to do. I had something to prove to myself, and I proved it.
So where to go from here? I could quit. But I don't really want to. Just because I don't know WHY I'm doing this any more, doesn't mean that I don't want to do it . . . if that makes any sense at all.
I just need to re-purpose, re-focus . . . find a new excuse for doing this funny thing that some of us seem compelled to do. I'll try different things, I'll explore new territory. Maybe there will be more blogs involved. An online fiction serial. A current events blog . . . seen from a psychic point af view. A group blog, maybe?
Who knows if any of these things will come to pass. Who knows if one day I'll just fold up this little digital tent and wander off into the sunset. But all we can do in any case is wake up each day and see what happens, right?
So, I want to hear from all of you . . . here, or at your own site. I know some of you have reached similar "existential blog crises." What keeps you motivated to continually write, link-surf, re-design, maintain, explore, express, and generally pursue this eccentric brand of digital nudity called blogging?
* * * * * * * * * * * *Revisionist history . . . I don't have pleasant memories of high school. Other than my enjoyment of the performing arts program, I only remember bad relationships, disloyal friends, ideological conflict with teachers, boredom, marijuana use, terrible acne, disappointing prom dates, and a general sense of alienation.
Going through some old stuff, I just found an article from my high school newspaper. I was apparently voted one of the "Top Ten" graduating seniors of my class. I was "looked upon with high regard by teachers and administrators" who claimed that I had "the vision, drive, and upbeat talent" to succeed in life.
Why don't I remember that? Why haven't I allowed that particular recognition to color my self-image for the last thirteen years?
Memory can be such a cunt sometimes.
* * * * * * * * * * * *Always remember . . . no matter how uncomfortable a situation gets, if you just imagine that there's a Muppet there with you, it gets better.
Or a Fraggle. Fraggles rock. (Hahahaha.)
So what were you for Halloween?
* * * * * * * * * * * *So what I'm learning is, when you feel like you've got everything completely under control . . . that's when you're really in trouble.
The human spirit is a natural anarchist. The only way to get everything "under control" is to kill it.
Or anesthetize it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *OK, by now you probably know that when I'm silent for a while, something's up. Not usually something bad . . . but something.
This time it's kind of . . . well . . . what to call it? A crisis of faith, I guess. That sounds so dramatic, but it's the only phrase I can come up with right now.
I went to a Quaker Worship Meeting last week. And I had a . . . what? A peak experience of some kind. I felt a very deep sense of identity . . . I felt that the worship style of the Quakers (aka the Religious Society of Friends) was what I had always been looking for. Or, in fact, what I had been practicing for a good chunk of my life without realizing it.
This realization was BIG. From my own life experience, I can only compare it to the day I met my husband and fell instantly in love with him . . . or the day when I realized for sure and certain that I was gay.
So anyway, the inconvenient thing is, I'm an ordained minister (a "Reverend") in another Church. And I'm really into that Church. And I feel that I have a continuing spiritual path with that Church.
And, of course, the Quakers - at least the ones I feel connected to - don't believe in ordained ministers . . . or honorific titles like "Reverend."
So for the next few months, I guess I'm going to be figuring out how to arrange a kind of religious "open marriage" to accomodate my connections with these two similar-but-different Churches.
Anyway, one of the things that draws me to the Friends (Quakers) is their process of decision making. They seem to feel that truth comes through many voices, and they endeavor to listen to as many of those voices as possible when making Church decisions. Many Quakers also recommend that people listen to voices in their community when making major personal decisions, in order that more voices might make the truth easier to discern.
So I figure I'll give this a shot in my own way . . .
My friends in cyberspace, my online community . . . what do you think? What do you perceive? Do you have personal experience of Quakers? Of religious conversion? Does this all sound interesting, or just vaguely schizophrenic?
Speak to me in your many voices. Help me find my truth.
(E-mail me if you prefer.)
* * * * * * * * * * * *So I'm going to miss you guys and gals . . .
Yes, I am going on "indefinite leave" from the blog world. I will still be lurking in the shadows, reading your work. Feel free to e-mail me whenever you like . . . I'd love to hear from you. And keep inviting me to parties!!!
Just about everything in my life is spinning right now . . . in a really wonderful way. As you may know, I've been on a really intensive spiritual path for the last four years. This website has been a very helpful part of that path, as have the fabulous people I have met through the great fraternal (& sororital?) order of blogdom.
But I now realize that this has been a four-year cocoon. I crawled in as a little worm, and I built a wonderful, cozy world around myself. And now I'm ready to break out, to let the cocoon dissolve around me . . . to let myself discover who I have become underneath all the layers.
So much surrender . . .
I won't be writing here. I think I'll stop writing altogether for a while. Words have become very unsatisfying to me. They never quite express the truth that is behind them.
I am seriously contemplating an extended sabbatical from theater and music. I'll be letting go of some of my involvement in my current church.
Why?
Why not?
What will I be doing instead? I'd like to get my apartment really clean for once. I'd like to pay my bills on time and have food in the refrigerator. I'd like to sit down and enjoy a few meals, instead of constantly eating on the run. I'd like to get more massages, soak in more hot tubs.
I'd like to spend more time with some of my "acquaintances" and "associates" . . . maybe upgrade those relationships into real, honest-to-God friendships.
I'd like to lay down for a long time in my backyard hammock and watch the grass grow.
I'd like to be home when my partner is home . . . to enjoy more of those random, agendaless, goofing-off-together kind of evenings. I'd like to be available to go places with him on the spur of the moment, to hop in the car and just do . . . "whatever."
I've been working my whole life to "get somewhere." And suddenly I realize . . . I'm there. For a time, at least. Who knows how long.
But for now . . . I'm done. No more reaching. No more striving. No more achieving. I've got what I want already . . . a comfy apartment, a decent salary, a wonderful relationship, sanity . . . humanity.
It suddenly seems like an incredible waste not to spend every possible moment just kicking back and enjoying it all.
So maybe I'll be back. I'll go ahead and renew the domain. Maybe one day I'll bring you funny stories of my sojourn in the arcane world of Non-blog-ia.
But, to be honest, part of me hopes that I won't. Part of me hopes that this soft, fuzzy yellow glow I feel myself stepping into will sustain me for the rest of eternity . . . that it will gradually drain out of me the angst and tension and frustration that have been the driving forces behind so much of my writing here . . . that it will free me from the incessant desire to "process" and to "figure out."
So if you don't hear from me . . .
believe me . . .
it's all good.
* * * * * * * * * * * *It's one in the morning. Do you know where your William Ted is?
Or who he is?
That, I guess is the question of the decade.
How come I always used to know who I was? And now I'm not so sure.
I guess I'm back. For now at least. I miss this, I miss you (oh anonymous and not-so-anonymous readers in cyberspace).
Even though I like for this to be a "Sunshiny" place, the truth is, I'm not happy all the time. In fact, these last several months may have been the least happy of my life. Not because anything externally happened. On the outside, my life has been moving on just fine.
But inside, that's another story. Reading back over my last entry I laugh . . . oh, if only I had known! Yes, it was time to rest, time to relax, time to stop and smell the roses, to do less theater, to ease off my Church commitments.
Little did I know that the withdrawal would be a forced one rather than a voluntary hiatus . . . that my body and mind were preparing for (sinister organ music please) a NERVOUS BREAKDOWN!!!
I love that phrase, Nervous Breakdown. Reputable websites tell me that it is not an official medical term. It appears in no diagnostic manuals. It is a term that fifty years ago meant a variety of conditions that now have more specific definitions: anxiety disorders, panic attacks, episodes of depression. And in just a few months, after a lifetime of (what I believed was) very positive psychological health, I've suddenly had them all. After living a life of boundless energy and constant accomplishment, it's like something just snapped, and suddenly I couldn't function. Getting out of bed was a major victory in and of itself . . . some days I didn't even make it that far.
I don't mean to be self-indulgent, because I know people go through this much worse than I've been going through it, and for much longer periods of time. But still . . . it's my party so I'll whine if I want to. (You would whine to, if it happened to you. Sha la la.)
* * * * * * * * * * * *Moods are funny things. They're like internal weather . . . somewhat predictable, but never 100%. You may have some sense of which direction your moods are heading, but all the complex contributing forces - your emotional high and low pressure systems, the gulf streams of habit and memory, the fluctuations in your psychological temperature and stress pressure levels - well, they mean that there are always surprises in store.
I think we tend to trivialize moods. We dismiss whole complexes of emotions by saying, "Oh, you're just in a bad mood." Someone who is considered "moody," or subject to "mood swings" is not someone who is typically respected or trusted.
And yet . . . aren't we all "moody," really? The difference from person to person is not so much how unpredictable or intense the moods are (although I'm sure there is some variation in this area), but how much a person "lets on" when moods change . . . how much they express their moods, as opposed to showing the world an unchanging, moodless mask.
I don't know if everyone is like this, but I find whole stretches of time in my life where I feel like I'm not supposed to have moods. Most jobs, for example, require a kind of consistency of focus that doesn't really accomodate major mood swings.
But work isn't the only place where moods seem unwelcome. What if you've paid a lot of money to take a vacation trip? Aren't you kind of obligated to be in a good mood? What if you have tickets to a show or event? Plans with friends? Out of town visitors? All of these things are planned in advance, when you have no idea what your actual mood is going to be. These all seem to be occasions where we are expected to disregard our actual mood and just act like we're having fun no matter what.
Of course, other people maybe don't have this problem as much as I do. One thing I've been learning, since the panic attacks started in December, is that I seem to have a higher degree of sensitivity to physical and emotional fluctuations than many people. Natural changes in my body and my feelings, of the kind that most people hardly even notice, can drive me into a full-fledged, nauseous, dizzy, fight-or-flight panic. So maybe other people don't worry so much about being in a bad mood on vacation, because maybe it doesn't make much of a difference to them.
But really . . . I mean, even apart from my personal level of sensitivity, don't moods pretty much determine our reality? I mean, my experience of whatever happens "out there" in the world is filtered through whatever my current mood is. If I'm feeling good, everything that happens has something good about it. If I'm feeling bad, everything that happens has something bad about it.
So if we don't express our moods, if we don't give others a window into the way we are experiencing reality, how is anyone ever supposed to understand or connect with us? Putting a lid on the honest expression of moods seems to be a sure-fire road to isolation and alienation.
And worse . . . what if we get so good at cloaking our moods that we convince ourselves that there's really "nothing going on" in there?
Alienation from the self seems to me to be a far worse consequence than being considered "moody."
* * * * * * * * * * * *Weird coming-of-age moment . . . watching a "My So Called Life" re-run right now on "the N" . . . and I COMPLETELY identify with the trials and tribulations of the parents.
When did I cross that line?
* * * * * * * * * * * *Jung had a “nervous breakdown” after he ended his discipleship to Freud. (As I think I’ve mentioned before, nervous breakdown is not currently recognized as a medical term. Nervous breakdown is how drama queens like myself describe garden variety depression and agoraphobia.)
I’ve seen Jung’s condition described as a “creative breakdown.” As soon as it he became functional again, he charged head-first into becoming the Next Big Thing in Western Clinical Psychology.
I’ve been feeling remarkably creative lately, and in my less jaded moments I wonder if I’ve had a “creative breakdown” like Jung’s, of which I am now reaping the benefits.
Of course, such celebrity comparisons are dangerous. For every Jung who made it through the madness, there’s a Nietzche who didn’t. And then there’s Mary Kay Bergman. In my lowest moments in March, I thought of her. One of the most talented voice-over artists of a generation, she performed all the female voices in the South Park series up until around the time of “Bigger, Longer and Uncut.” Her four bravissima vocal performances in the song “Blame Canada” were certainly what launched that song into an Oscar nomination. She was famous and beloved by South Park fans everywhere. She and Trey and Matt were heading for unimagined heights together. And then she shot herself. Because she couldn’t handle the psychological pain she was in.
I can’t say that I ever actually moved into the territory of “suicidal thought.” But I guess I peeked over the border a little bit in order to see what color the grass was on that side of the fence. Laying in my bed (after going to the emergency room and finding out that what was wrong with me couldn’t be helped by a physician) I thought, “I never understood how someone could do that. But now I guess I do. If I knew I was going to be in this much pain for the rest of my life . . . I guess the prospect of living would not seem terribly attractive.”
A fleeting thought . . . like the comparison of my breakdown to Jung’s . . . like my Catholic realization that the greatest suffering of my life has fallen at the time of my thirty-third birthday - thirty-three being the age that Jesus traditionally was when he was crucified.
(I read something on the internet about a priest who had suffered both major clinical depression, and painful third degree burns to his genitals. When asked which experience he would choose to repeat - if he were somehow forced to - he said he would opt to be burned again. He said that following the burning, while he was in torturous pain, he felt he had an inner strength that carried him through recovery. During the depression, though, he had nothing. He felt bereft of resources, as if he had completely “lost his faith.” And that internal pain was far more crushing.)
I’ve had a strong desire to write - one of the reasons I’ve returned here. But my fiction projects aren’t taking off. I’ll feel manically inspired for a few chapters, and then I’ll turn all dark German existentialist and say, “Fuck eet. Vhat does eet all matter? We’re all goink to die anyvay! Thees piece of crap fiction ees an insignificant fly-turd on the diseased carcass of humanity!”
So I’ve resorted to “noodling,” like a pianist randomly plunking out impromptu snatches of tune on a keyboard. Writing whatever I feel like writing, instead of what my plot outline dictates.
What I’m discovering is that right now in my life, I only have the patience to write critical, incendiary commentary. I seem to be all about the manifesto. Only something that charged can make me feel like the time spent at the keyboard is worthwhile.
Now, the more rational parts of me incessantly register their opinion that the idea of me writing any sort of significant “manifesto” is as ludicrous as the comparison of my nervous breakdown to Jung’s. And yet . . . those thoughts are there. I can’t discount them just because they sound stupid.
So, on with the manifesto. I’ve been immersing myself in research materials, and I feel a passion that I imagine Walt Whitman must have felt while writing his most dynamic poetry . . . as if what I’m writing is an infected tooth that must be extracted. No matter the pain of getting it out . . . the pain of keeping it in is far more dangerous.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I've been doing some creative self-examination lately, inspired by a book I'm reading, "The Structure of Magic." I'll write more about the book later, because I find it fascinating.
I've started to give myself "homework," to help shift my reality a little, and I thought this would be a good place to write it down so that I remember.
This week, I'm working on dealing with physical pain and discomfort. Throughout my life, I've had lots of chronic discomfort. I don't know that I'm that different from anyone else, but when I put together the laundry list, it seems pretty long: headaches, indigestion, nausea, dizziness, shortness of breath, muscle tension, feelings of deep physical exhaustion, allergies. I've spent a good chunk of my adult life trying to find ways to manage and alleviate these frustrating conditions.
The problem is, the human body is a really complex system, and no matter how much I've read, how much I've learned, how many "cures" or "therapies" I've tried, how many pills I've taken or how many doctors I've visited, I haven't found a reliable way to keep these things from happening, or even really to reduce their frequency much. And along the way, I've kind of made things worse for myself by creating compulsive superstitions about things that MIGHT be causing me problems.
For example, I've been afraid of popcorn for several years now. (This, in itself, should be a sign that something is deeply wrong. No one should fear popcorn. It's mostly air for god's sake!) On one of my pre-teen birthdays (11th? 12th?) I remember sitting down in front of the TV with a huge bowl of popcorn and gobbling it down entirely by myself. And then suddenly, I was running to the bathroom, completely sick to my stomach.
Years later, when I started having drastic stomach problems which kept me from eating on most days, someone told me that corn was a food that many people were allergic to. I had been drinking two corn-syrup-filled Snapples almost every day, and when I stopped drinking them, the stomach problems seemed a little better. And then I remembered the popcorn-barfing incident on that long-ago birthday and I thought, "Ah, yes! I must have been allergic to corn all this time. If I just avoid corn and all corn-related products, I will be fine!"
It didn't turn out to be that easy. The sickness continued. Although not drinking the Snapples definitely seemed to help some, it could have been all the sugar that was causing the problem, or maybe just the fact that when I was full of Snapple, I had less room available for more nourishing foods. Or it could have been a complete coincidence that the symptoms were somewhat relieved at that particular time. There was no conclusive reason for blaming the corn.
But the easy solution of believing that my suffering was caused by a particular single thing was so seductive that corn became the first food on my "trouble" list. Then I started to try to determine which other foods were contributing to my symptoms. Onions . . . mushrooms . . . wheat . . . cheese . . . garlic . . . pasta . . . tomatoes. This quest developed into a kind of eating disorder. I began to believe, with very little reliable evidence, that certain foods were making me sick. (For a period of time, I even suspected that drinking water might be upsetting my delicate system.) But avoiding those foods did not necessarily make me well. So in trying to manage my diet this way, I was stressing myself out, limiting my ability to get proper nutrition, not enjoying meals . . . and I was still feeling sick.
So, the net result of my elaborate attempt to alleviate my suffering? More suffering.
That's just one example. During some periods of my life, trying to manage one physical discomfort or another has become obsessive for me. And this intense feeling of needing to figure out how to control my body was definitely a factor in my recent sojourn in panic attack land.
What I've realized now is that if there is some way to reliably manage the onset of these various discomforts - to keep myself from getting a headache, or feeling nauseous, or having painful muscle tension - I don't know what it is. That being the case, these conditions are completely beyond my control at the moment. It is theoretically possible that they could be within my control at some point in the future, but they aren't right now. So my homework this week is to not waste time and energy worrying or even thinking about any possible future onset of physical discomfort.
Instead, if I should experience discomfort, my job will be to do anything that I know of that will reliably alleviate the problem and make me feel more comfortable.
You see, I get so obsessed with causation, that when I have a headache (for example), I fixate on trying to figure out WHY or HOW I got the headache. In the meantime, I forget to do something simple like relax, rest my eyes, or take an Alleve. It's an almost monastic masochism . . . some part of me figures that if I persist in the suffering instead of taking advantage of a "quick fix," I will be more motivated to solve the problem "for good."
But the reality is, being in pain makes any problem harder to solve. And this problem may not be solveable. It may, in fact, not even be a problem. It may just be something that happens. In that case, if I decide to suffer until I find a solution . . . well, I guess I'll be suffering for the rest of my life.
And that doesn't sound very fun.
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