Somehow, I've become the guy a number of people turn to for advice on relationships and life. In some ways I'm a strange choice—I haven't actually been in very many relationships, after all—but nevertheless I'm a good choice; I pay careful attention to how people live and relate to one another, I empathize with people's pain and joy, I think carefully about what I see and feel, and I can explain things pretty well.
One piece of advice I give again and again is, "Take care of yourself!"
So many of the people I talk to tend to put other people (or other things)—whether a family member, a significant other, an organization, or an ideal—so far ahead of themselves that they neglect their own needs. I caution and counsel these individuals to put themselves in the equation; maybe not first, but high enough on the priority list that they don't neglect their own needs.
I don't insist they put themselves first because I understand what it means to love someone or something. I know that love sometimes demands we put another's needs ahead of our own. And sometimes—like when a loved one's life is in danger or when choosing between a child's legitimate needs and a parent's reasonable wants—we can and should be prepared to make sacrifices.
What we shouldn't do (but often do) is put another person's (or organization's) every need ahead of our any need. It's like a household budget: we should prioritize so that all needful things are taken care of before we spend emotional capital on things that aren't vital.
The challenge is putting our own needs in the "needful things" category. When we love someone (or something), we tend to see our own needs as luxuries... and they aren't. Our emotional investment in who (or what) we love is drawn from a "well-being account", and if we draw it down without making deposits, sooner or later the account runs dry.
It's actually really good advice, isn't it?
The irony is that it's advice I've generally failed to apply to myself. For whatever reason (probably relating at least a little to poor self-esteem), I've felt that it was only right that I put myself dead last: after family, after loved ones, after friends, after students, after institutions, after programs, after everything.
Eff that.
It just occurred to me that there's a bit of a vicious circle—a positive feedback loop—in this. By putting myself last, I reinforced the feeling that I belonged last, which made it easier to put myself last, which reinforced my sense that that's where I belonged, which reinforced the habit of putting myself last... ad infinitum.
Eff that.
I am done putting myself after everyone and everything else. In fact, I am ready to assert that sometimes, I should put myself first; ahead of everyone and everything else. Not always, but often.
Eff always being a good sport. Eff being only or mostly a giver. Eff doing what others want when it isn't what I want. Eff all that.
If I'm ever going to persuade myself that I am as worthy as I (intellectually) believe, I need to treat myself well. I need to stop doing things just to please others and start doing things to please myself. If I'm ever going to believe in my heart that I deserve the good stuff, I need to begin by giving myself the good stuff I've got.
I need to make some deposits in the well-being account, and stop writing so many checks drawn from it.
Maybe that's selfish. And maybe that's okay.
Precarious human existence.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Chorus of Crickets
When I ask my students a question and no one has a response, after a while I say, "Cricket... cricket... cricket..." When all else is silence, what is left is the sound of chirping crickets (if you live where crickets do, too).
The sound of crickets, then, is a metaphor for silence; either literal silence or the absence of meaningful response.
Like many U.S. citizens/residents, I've been conditioned to be uncomfortable with silence. In recent years I've come to appreciate silence and even be comfortable with silences that others find awkward, but some silences (as in "the absence of meaningful response") still challenge me.
It isn't simply that I find them awkward. It isn't awkwardness at all. It's the "failure to communicate" that pushes me off balance.
Long ago I learned a mantra from one of my dearest friends: "Open, honest, maintained communication." I believe in communication the way coaches believe in discipline, or music teachers believe in practice; persistent, consistent, open, honest, and maintained communication grows understanding, and understanding grows all kinds of relationships: business/professional, collegial, familial, platonic, and romantic.
Therefore for most of my life, I've gotten worried when I could "hear the crickets." I'm a pretty good communicator, so when communication wasn't happening, I'd be out of my comfort zone and I got nervous. Coupled with a poor self-esteem that tended to paint silences in the worst possible terms, that anxiety created a positive feedback loop that made me feel worse.
Please note that those statements are written in past tense. "I got nervous," it "created a positive feedback loop," it "made me feel worse." That's how it has been in the past.
I still have poor self-esteem (though it's improving), but I am finding that silences are not creating the discomfort, worry, and bad feelings they would have in the past.
Part of it is that I've stopped trying to interpret it; sometimes a silence is just a silence.
Part of it is that I'm no longer so deeply invested in having things go "my way."
And part of it is that I have come to feel in my bones what I have always known in my head: communication is not one person saying something to another; communication is two (or more) people talking to and listening to one another, each working to make sure that what the other(s) heard is what s/he meant. If only one of the people is talking (or listening, or checking for understanding), then very little can be communicated.
Sure, silence can mean something. It probably does. But any guess as to what that meaning is will never be more than a guess. Knowing will have to wait until the silence is broken.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy the chirping of the crickets.
The sound of crickets, then, is a metaphor for silence; either literal silence or the absence of meaningful response.
Like many U.S. citizens/residents, I've been conditioned to be uncomfortable with silence. In recent years I've come to appreciate silence and even be comfortable with silences that others find awkward, but some silences (as in "the absence of meaningful response") still challenge me.
It isn't simply that I find them awkward. It isn't awkwardness at all. It's the "failure to communicate" that pushes me off balance.
Long ago I learned a mantra from one of my dearest friends: "Open, honest, maintained communication." I believe in communication the way coaches believe in discipline, or music teachers believe in practice; persistent, consistent, open, honest, and maintained communication grows understanding, and understanding grows all kinds of relationships: business/professional, collegial, familial, platonic, and romantic.
Therefore for most of my life, I've gotten worried when I could "hear the crickets." I'm a pretty good communicator, so when communication wasn't happening, I'd be out of my comfort zone and I got nervous. Coupled with a poor self-esteem that tended to paint silences in the worst possible terms, that anxiety created a positive feedback loop that made me feel worse.
Please note that those statements are written in past tense. "I got nervous," it "created a positive feedback loop," it "made me feel worse." That's how it has been in the past.
I still have poor self-esteem (though it's improving), but I am finding that silences are not creating the discomfort, worry, and bad feelings they would have in the past.
Part of it is that I've stopped trying to interpret it; sometimes a silence is just a silence.
Part of it is that I'm no longer so deeply invested in having things go "my way."
And part of it is that I have come to feel in my bones what I have always known in my head: communication is not one person saying something to another; communication is two (or more) people talking to and listening to one another, each working to make sure that what the other(s) heard is what s/he meant. If only one of the people is talking (or listening, or checking for understanding), then very little can be communicated.
Sure, silence can mean something. It probably does. But any guess as to what that meaning is will never be more than a guess. Knowing will have to wait until the silence is broken.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy the chirping of the crickets.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sauce for the Goose
I remember the summer I worked as an intern with a church minister whose calling was to the LGBT community in New York City. That experience challenged me—when the summer began, I still had some vestiges of homophobia in me (well suppressed, but present), but by summer's end it had been pretty thoroughly eradicated—and it taught me some important lessons, one of which I only got half-right at the time. I'm just getting the second half today, more than 15 years later.
We spent a lot of time at a gay and lesbian center in Greenwich Village. One vivid memory, from my first day there, is standing at a urinal in the restroom, and being greeted by a woman headed for the stalls. That's when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
That summer, I got over a lot of hangups. It only took a week or so before events like the one above became commonplace and normal. I came to be blasé about things that would previously have triggered body modesty and embarrassment. As a result of that experience, I have largely lost my self-consciousness about my body (not completely; I still worry about whether or not a woman will like it).
Even better, constant exposure to the GLBT community eradicated any remaining vestiges of homophobia dwelling deep in my psyche. I already knew (at an intellectual level) that homophobia was unjustified and inappropriate; what remained before this experience was a little of the emotional reaction that I'd been conditioned to when growing up. That embarrassing remnant was blown away that summer.
The first time a man hit on me, I was uncomfortable. I didn't react badly—that would have been embarrassing and just plain mean—but I have to confess that it made me uneasy. I told the man that I was straight, which led to a conversation about why a straight man was hanging out at the LBGT center, and it was all good. I overcame my discomfort and everything was fine.
By the tenth or twelfth pass, I was over it. One man explained to me that a gay man's "gaydar" was just about as accurate as anyone else's—that is, not at all accurate—and that helped, too. I came to see the passes as a compliment; I didn't have to be interested in men to be flattered by a man's attention.
So there's the first half of the lesson: I learned to be flatted by a pass even if—due to sexual orientation, marital/relational status, chemistry, or whatever—I can't take what's being offered. I haven't always remembered this lesson, but it's deeply engrained nonetheless; it pops into my consciousness frequently.
The second half of the lesson—and I can't believe it's taken me this long to "get it"—is that the same is probably true of the women I might be attracted to.
I know, "Doh!"
I've always been hesitant to make a pass at a woman. Partly that's been because I fear rejection (I know, a whole 'nother kind of stupidity), but partly it's because I didn't want to piss off a woman who might not be interested.
But why wouldn't (most) women feel the same way about a (gentlemanly) pass as I learned to feel about passes by gay men? Even if she isn't interested in me—because she's a lesbian, or married, or in a relationship, or isn't attracted to me—why wouldn't she at least see it as a compliment?
Am I wrong about this?
We spent a lot of time at a gay and lesbian center in Greenwich Village. One vivid memory, from my first day there, is standing at a urinal in the restroom, and being greeted by a woman headed for the stalls. That's when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
That summer, I got over a lot of hangups. It only took a week or so before events like the one above became commonplace and normal. I came to be blasé about things that would previously have triggered body modesty and embarrassment. As a result of that experience, I have largely lost my self-consciousness about my body (not completely; I still worry about whether or not a woman will like it).
Even better, constant exposure to the GLBT community eradicated any remaining vestiges of homophobia dwelling deep in my psyche. I already knew (at an intellectual level) that homophobia was unjustified and inappropriate; what remained before this experience was a little of the emotional reaction that I'd been conditioned to when growing up. That embarrassing remnant was blown away that summer.
The first time a man hit on me, I was uncomfortable. I didn't react badly—that would have been embarrassing and just plain mean—but I have to confess that it made me uneasy. I told the man that I was straight, which led to a conversation about why a straight man was hanging out at the LBGT center, and it was all good. I overcame my discomfort and everything was fine.
By the tenth or twelfth pass, I was over it. One man explained to me that a gay man's "gaydar" was just about as accurate as anyone else's—that is, not at all accurate—and that helped, too. I came to see the passes as a compliment; I didn't have to be interested in men to be flattered by a man's attention.
So there's the first half of the lesson: I learned to be flatted by a pass even if—due to sexual orientation, marital/relational status, chemistry, or whatever—I can't take what's being offered. I haven't always remembered this lesson, but it's deeply engrained nonetheless; it pops into my consciousness frequently.
The second half of the lesson—and I can't believe it's taken me this long to "get it"—is that the same is probably true of the women I might be attracted to.
I know, "Doh!"
I've always been hesitant to make a pass at a woman. Partly that's been because I fear rejection (I know, a whole 'nother kind of stupidity), but partly it's because I didn't want to piss off a woman who might not be interested.
But why wouldn't (most) women feel the same way about a (gentlemanly) pass as I learned to feel about passes by gay men? Even if she isn't interested in me—because she's a lesbian, or married, or in a relationship, or isn't attracted to me—why wouldn't she at least see it as a compliment?
Am I wrong about this?
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Just a Few Sit-Ups...
Years ago I caught Richard Jeni on TV, joking about the difference between the way men and women in our culture view their bodies.
Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."
Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.
So why am I writing about this?
We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.
For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.
A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."
The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?
I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:
Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."
Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.
So why am I writing about this?
We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.
For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.
A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."
The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?
I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:
I'm just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Perseverance
In my previous 'blog, a commenter correctly pointed out that I have tried before to make changes, and I've failed. He wasn't suggesting that I not try; rather, he was noting (correctly) that I've been here before.
It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.
I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.
It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.
I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.
Thomas Edison had something to say about the importance of perseverance. He said, "I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward." He said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." He said, "Nearly every man who develops an idea works at it up to the point where it looks impossible, and then gets discouraged. That's not the place to become discouraged." He said, "Many of life's failures are men who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."
I don't intend to give up.
I am not certain that I will succeed in my attempts this time. I am optimistic—optimism is an integral part of the success I am seeking—but I am not certain. What I do know for certain is that I will not succeed if I do not try.
My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?
I say, "Hell, no!"
The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."
My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?
I say, "Hell, no!"
The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."
Affirmation
So this self-esteem thing; as I continue to grapple with it, I've moved steadily from depressed through frustrated, and now I'm just flat pissed off. I refuse to be held hostage by my gut. I'm not putting up with this any more.
I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.
Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.
I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."
For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.
Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.
I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.
Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.
I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."
For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.
Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Switzerland (resurrected from my MySpace 'blog - dated November 25, 2007)
Sometimes bad can foster good. As I reflect in incredulous gratitude on a big change in me over the last two months, I find myself pleased that some good came of being the way I was before.
The lack of confidence and assurance that's been a fundamental part of who I am for most of my life has very little in the way of an "upside." It's kept me isolated, earned me a reputation among some as aloof or arrogant, kept me from asserting myself in any number of circumstances—generally, it's been a millstone or albatross around my neck. And yet…
And yet it has helped shape me as a gentle man. It has helped me accept even painful decisions by others without animosity or recrimination. It has made me one who tries to see the other side, even if the "other side" causes me pain. It has made me a man to whom every relationship is precious, and it has made me a man who (for the most part) refuses to blame others just for having the gall to disagree with me.
I believe that good persons of conscience can and do disagree with one another. I believe that good persons of conscience sometimes even dislike one another. I don't, however, feel any compulsion to demonize those who disagree with me; to vilify them or cast aspersions on their intelligence, character, or morals. I don't have to be right, and even if I am right, I don't have to rub anyone's nose in it. If they are not deceptive or malicious, I can respect the dignity and humanity of even those with whom I strongly disagree.
Yet this belief, which I now hold strongly, started as a belief that if something went wrong, it was my fault; if I disagreed with someone, I was in the wrong. If, in the course of a friendship or relationship, I got hurt by another's choices, I always believed it was my fault—that I had myself to blame. And if I was the awful person who caused all this mess, I didn't want my awfulness to cause the other person to suffer guilt over it, so I made excuses for them.
Pretty neurotic, huh? Only in order to make excuses for them, I had to understand why they did what they did, and I learned something—once I did understand, I couldn't imagine blaming them for what they did.
Their reasons weren't always great reasons by my lights, but they were always understandable reasons. And if I could understand their reasons, even if I didn't agree, I couldn't get angry about it.
Even though I no longer blame myself, I don't automatically blame others, when they say or do things that bother or hurt me. Although I suddenly and surprisingly find myself self-confident and assured, I still have the habit (and I think it's a good one) of understanding, or trying to understand, why others make the choices they do. I still have the habit of… empathy.
It would be emotionally satisfying, when someone made a decision that hurt, to decide that he or she was an idiot, a demon, a monster, a you-name-it… but it wouldn't be true. And if it isn't true, is it something I want to buy into?
No, I don't think I do.
And that, Wayne , is why I'm Switzerland
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