Ignorance or the power of positive thinking?

This is not especially well-written, but the content is worth considering…

A life without complaints – it’s something I never considered before. Had you asked me a week ago, I would have said that it is not only impossible, but preposterous. A week ago, I would have had a complaint to offer about people who think you can live complaint free. I would have had a complaint for every second of the day. I would have justified all of those complaints with the claim that life sucks, that life is a punishment that we have to suffer through to get to the other side, that pain is a person’s natural state of being. As you can imagine, I have not enjoyed a great deal of mental health in my life.

                Life is certainly not without pain, suffering, and loss. Every one of us will have to walk through fire at some point. But I was at the point of waking up angry – angry that another day had come. In a world where so many feel fortunate to have one more day and so many would give anything to have one more day with those who have gone, I was dreading every step, laboring through every breath. I looked to medicine to help with the pain and shortness of breath. I looked to psychiatry to help with dysphoria and depression. I looked to God to help me find purpose and fulfillment. What I never tried, was to look into my own mind for the change that I needed.

                So, what changed? Did I have some sort of intense spiritual experience? Did I survive a major trauma? Find a new method of therapy? Try the perfect diet? Take a magical cocktail of psychotropic drugs? No. I simply stumbled across a book title: A Complaint Free World. Before I had even started to read the book, my perspective started to shift. I started to think of the possibility of living complaint free. The book challenges us to go 21 days without complaining, gossiping, or making sarcastic comments. Those of you who know me well, know that I would have very little left to say. I started thinking about all of the negative energy that I put out into the world and how much negative energy I draw into my life. What if, even if it required a vow of silence, I could spare the rest of the world my intensely negative thoughts and spread positive energy instead?

                Still fairly certain that I could not have a complaint free day, let alone 21 days, I shied away from the challenge. But I continued to read the book. I complained about the book. I was sure that it was just a scam to sell stupid rubber wrist bands (to be switched from one side to the other each time you complain). I was sure that people who aren’t angry are dumb or ignorant of their surroundings. The book made me downright cranky at first, but the idea kept creeping into my mind. I had to let go of my anger about the wristbands when the author advises the use of a coin for those who don’t want the wristband. I had to let go of my connection between positivity and ignorance when the author addressed the ills of the world and how a positive attitude can inspire action to resolve the issues while a negative attitude accomplishes nothing. Then, I had to accept the fact that I’m not that special. The author indicates that it takes most people 8-9 months to go 21 days complaint free. I have not cornered the market on being surly and disgruntled. There is nothing that makes me less likely to finish the challenge than any of the other grumpy Gussssesseses (I just realized I have no idea how to pluralize ‘Gus’).

                I have decided to take the Complaint Free challenge and I find that my mood is already changing after only two days. I have a St. Michael the Archangel medallion in my pocket and every time I complain, gossip, or use sarcasm as a weapon, I move it to the other pocket. It is simply an exercise in awareness. There is no penalty for complaining, nor is there some carrot on a stick that I’ll never reach. I simply try not to be negative and try to make myself aware of when I am. I am learning to convert anticipation into excitement rather than dread. I am learning to appreciate the unexpected and be flexible to change. I am learning to see the good in people in spite of their flaws. I have a tendency to view things as black and white. As soon as something has a negative quality, it must be all bad. If something is less than perfect, then it’s all ruined. Attempting not to complain has required me to see some shades of grey.

                The only downside of the challenge is that it has made me acutely aware of what a Negative Nancy I have been in the past. I have also realized how many feelings I must have hurt by making sarcastic comments or talking behind others’ backs. I’m not proud of those parts of my personality. The good news is that the Complaint Free challenge gives me a context in which to process those feelings. I am not all bad because I have done hurtful things. I am just a person who has done hurtful things. I’ve also done a lot of nice things. There is no point in dwelling on the hurtful things when I can put that energy into not repeating those behaviors.  It’s more efficient to focus on the nice things and use them as my guide.

                I know that I have only been doing this for a short time, but I really feel like a powerful change is happening. I don’t leap out of bed ready to take on the day, but I don’t feel that sense of dread in the mornings now. My face doesn’t feel like it’s sliding off my skull under its own weight. It feels light. I’m smiling more easily. My legs don’t feel quite as heavy. I have more patience for people. Interactions with others don’t seem so uncomfortable and forced. I feel like I can actually enjoy a conversation rather than pretend to enjoy it while actually wishing it would end as soon as possible. If I can make this much progress in two days, just imagine the change after 21.

                I am coming to grips with the fact that I may actually become a positive person. I may start believing that life is a gift, something to be appreciated. I may start enjoying my life and hoping that it goes on for a long time. Each new day may start invigorating, rather than exhausting, me. I don’t really know this new person, but I’m looking forward to getting there. I never would have done this for myself, but the thought of contributing more hurt and negativity out into the universe was more than I could bear. It’s selfish to make the whole world the sounding board for all of my problems.

                I invite all of you to join this challenge. Just give it a go. It’s ok if you never make it to 21 days. Simply becoming aware of what comes out of your mouth is a huge start. There might be times when you think its ok to complain, go for it. But ask yourself if it’s really necessary before you say it out loud. Take some time to evaluate the situation and see if there’s really anything to complain about before you just spew negativity. Let yourself experience the positive energy that you attract when you choose to contribute positive energy into the universal pool. 

Baby's First Colonoscopy

                “Ok, there’s a gown and a robe in the tub.” The tub thumps on the small bench in the exam room. “Remove everything and place it in the tub.” She doesn’t mention my dignity, but I assume that it is to go into the tub, as well. “You can keep your bra on.” Ah, there is one last vestige of control and I will surely take it. I will be nearly naked under the thin, oversized, cotton gown, but, by God, at least I’ll have my bra.

                I slink quietly out of my jeans and t-shirt and hear the assistant’s reminder in my head, “make sure you take off your underpants.” As if I thought that was an option. Removing my clothes, I expose as little skin as possible for fear that there may be someone lurking in one of the corners; a dark, sinister presence that I may have missed when I first scanned the room for dangers. The cool hospital air raises the peach fuzz on my belly and I stop for a moment to pretend that I’m anywhere but here. I feel dwarfed by the one-size-fits-all method of assigning gowns to patients, as if donning this garment has reduced me to a child. But wait, the mess of fabric, wires, and straps wrapped around my chest reminds me that I still have some control, some independence. I anchor my thoughts on that and stand just a little bit taller.

                After about a million questions, a physical exam, and placement of an IV, I am released to the patient waiting room. Shuffling into the hall, I see my boyfriend waiting. He smiles, gently. He is a beacon in a sea of blue hair. I untangle myself from my IV tubing and sit in a lovely recliner that is more like a tilted exam table than a real piece of furniture. Easy clean up, I suppose. We don’t talk much at first, just hold hands and wait for the drugs to take me away. I overhear the ladies in the curtain area next to mine. They are wondering if they will get home in time for Wheel of Fortune and discussing the quality of the pot roast at the care center.

                “We are far too young to be here.”

                Brett nods his head in agreement and I shake mine in frustration and disbelief. I am 32 years old and I am having a colonoscopy. How did this become my life? I am not overweight, nor particularly sedentary. I go for walks on my lunch and I always take the stairs. I haven’t eaten wheat, or any other source of gluten, in three years. I should be healthy, in the prime of my life. Instead, I am lined up for a series of diagnostic tests to determine why I am no longer able to regularly absorb nutrients and expel waste.

                They transfer me to the procedure room and I feel as if there are far too many people here. How did I get in this room surrounded by four gloved and gowned figures looming over me, waiting to invade my inner sanctum? In an instant, I want to back out of the procedure. I want to thank the nice doctor, but explain that I’m feeling much better and I’m sure some lifestyle changes will do the trick. As the scope gets near, I’m ready to leap off the table… but then I slip into the sweet dreamland of conscious sedation.

                In the recovery room, the doctor tells me that everything looked good. What I hear is, “you just let this dude violate you with a length of plastic tubing for no reason.” I should be relieved that I don’t have colon cancer, diverticulitis, polyps, or any other of a host of gastrointestinal illnesses, but I’m left right back where I started – wondering why an otherwise healthy young person would be have so much trouble with the simple act of digesting food.

                After recovering from the procedure, I start to give some serious thought to this food thing. As a person with food sensitivities, I am familiar with the effects that the wrong foods can have on the body. But what if it’s more than just sensitivity resulting in some discomfort? What if our food is actually killing us? Obviously if you eat fast food every day and binge drink on the weekends, your diet is killing you. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who are really trying to live well, eat good food, and enjoy our treats in moderation? Why are we still getting sick?

                I certainly don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do intend to find out what I can. I have realized that it’s absurd to fill your body with poison and then wonder why you’re sick. The tricky part, though, is that the poison is in more places than you think. I thought that eliminating wheat, dairy, and processed foods was sufficient.  It’s clear to me now that there’s more to it than that. Even the foods that we think are healthy are likely to host silent killers. Dyes, additives, and preservatives that we are not able to process lying in wait in the guise of health food. It’s not enough for me anymore to just look at the things that I don’t consume, I need to look at everything that I do consume that just shouldn’t go into the human body.

                My life may depend on it.

The Secrets I Share with my Cats

           As I sit in a veritable puddle of my own tears, I realize that this whole healthy relationship thing is exceptionally difficult. I suppose that everyone else has this figured out already, but I’m often late to the party. From the look on his face, I can tell that this is not nearly as bad as it seems from the inside. No, it is much, much worse. As my life rushes through my mind as fast as… well, faster than… the speed of light; It’s the speed of the darkness that’s left when the star has been dead for so long that the light has already passed through the retina, through the complex folds of my brain, through the back of my skull and beyond… as my life rushes by, it’s clear that his has suspended completely. He is frozen, mouth agape, wondering how still he must be in order to let this reality slip by and go back to the reality in which things made sense to him.

                

            But here we are. Both of us afraid, of life certainly, but more immediately, of me. Clearly I’m volatile. Clearly I’m unstable. Clearly I’m so fucked up that this man who thought that he had cornered the market on mental illness is afraid to move. But it’s beyond my control. And so I sit and cry ravines into my face while the cats bathe themselves in my lap like this is a completely normal situation. The sad truth: it is. I don’t know where all the tears come from. I don’t even think I’m a particularly sad individual, but then there they are. Out of the blue. Unwelcome guests that swoop out from my core like ephemeral demons off the tip of a flame. I’m used to it <shrug>. But to expect someone else to embrace it… that’s ludicrous. Cat ladies become so for a reason.

                 

               Back to the issue at hand, though, there is a man in my living room who loves me and does not understand what is happening. He wants to know why the fact that he would like to go feed his fish seems to be the greatest tragedy of my life. He doesn’t seem to hear things the way that I do. He heard, “Hey, I’m going to go feed my fish.” I heard, “You disgust me and I can’t stand sitting on this couch with you and your stupid cats thinking how I ended up with such a fat, useless, mean, and fundamentally uninteresting person. I am now going to lie to you about my pescal responsibilities in a desperate attempt to get out of this place.”

                

                How can he not understand that? What an idiot! Didn’t his mother teach him that every word that comes out of another person’s mouth is laced with hidden meaning and degradation? Guess she really dropped the ball on that one, eh? So he’s obviously ill-equipped for this situation and decides that dealing in reality will bring about some sort of resolution. A cautious start, “You’re upset.” I return the serve, “Whatever, it’s fine.” Ok, the volley continues,

               

                “It doesn’t seem fine.”

                “Just go, it’s fine.”

                “If it was fine, you wouldn’t be crying.”

                Oof. “Whatever, you’re going to do what you want                                anyway.”

                Ungh. “What is that supposed to mean?”

                Gah. “You don’t care what I want, so just go.”

                Fuhf. “What are you talking about?!”

                

               The ball bounces to a halt and I throw down my racquet. I don’t want to fight. I don’t know how this turned into a fight. I just want him to love me, that’s all. I want to know it in my heart. I want to not need him to say it constantly. I want to not want him to scoop me up in my teary mess and tell me that he’s not going to leave, that it’s ok to be sad, that I’m just a human being and I don’t need to have my shit together all the time… that normal people won’t circle around you like a vulture and start picking at the soft flesh of your belly before you’ve even stopped breathing. I want him to know without asking that what I know of love is not something that people would want in their lives. What I know of love is that it’s dark and ugly and painful. What I know of love is that, at worst it’s traumatic, and at best it’s distant. What I know of love is that regardless of how strong it is, it doesn’t stop people from hurting you or just leaving. I don’t want to need him to convince me that it can be different…

…But I do.

Stress and the Fate of the Baked Potato: An Anecdotal Study

I am sitting down to a lunch of chicken breast and a baked potato, but this meal was nearly lost to me.

I have found myself cracking a little under the weight of the world. It occurred to me that I am caught in a financial Catch 22. Each month, I spend more money than I make. This is a problem. But it is not a problem of poor planning or lack of fiscal responsibility. This was, in fact, part of the plan... maybe it was poor planning. About 18 months ago I left behind the cozy paycheck I was receiving as a Driver's License Clerk for the State of Iowa for a new career at ACT. I took a $10,000/year pay cut so that I could do work that I hated less and go back to school with the hope of one day doing work that I didn't hate at all.

As the journey began, I was promised a new life full of opportunities and advancement potential. I never held back that I was not going to be a customer service representative forever. I managed to keep myself from telling my interviewers that I was destined for greatness, but I might have hinted at it a time or two. They reassured me again and again that I could move up the ranks within the organization and quickly recoup the salary difference. I'm sure that you can guess, given that I'm writing this now, that is not how this story ends. I faced constant scrutiny when I applied for higher paid positions. There were even elements of light sabotage against not only myself, but other go-getters in the department. When I applied for positions in the natural progression, I was turned down because I was overqualified. When I applied for more advanced positions, I wasn't taken seriously because of the low position I was in.

After a year of working full time, going to school, and making ends meet by taking out student loans, I finally advanced in the company. My salary was raised by a whopping $2000/year. "I would offer you more, but my hands are tied by company policy..." This is a line that I am getting familiar with quickly. Everybody would love to pay me enough to live off of, but the "company" just won't allow it. Meanwhile, I have racked up about $20,000 in student debt, and I'm running out of money to pay my tuition. I would stop going to school, but I realized that I would have to start repaying my loans, and that would actually be more expensive than covering the difference between the actual tuition and ACT's laughable reimbursement program.

For some time, I have chosen to handle this by whistling in the dark and just pretending that there was nothing scary out there. I realized that at some point, I would have to do the math. And then I did. Boy, do I wish I could turn the light back out. The situation is mathematically impossible to resolve. The outs exceed the ins. There seems to be not way to increase the ins, at least not in this company, and I'm locked into all the outs, as well. As there is still some student loan money in my account, I can pretend for a little while longer that everything will work itself out, but ultimately, the system will collapse. The money will be gone and the ins and outs will have remained the same.

Wait, wasn't I talking about a baked potato? Where am I going with all of this? Oh, now I remember. When my brains comes upon a problem, it cannot stop working until it finds the solution. This is usually one of my strengths, personally and professionally. But there is a catch. When a problem doesn't have a solution, my brain won't let it go. It continues to feed the same information in and hope for a better result or new breakthrough. This cycle happens again and again until my little neurological CPU shuts down and ceases to compute anything. You can recognize this state of being by my inability to finish sentences, my misidentification of common objects (i.e. calling a pencil a banana and then laughing until I cry), and my deeply furrowed brow.

So, this is the state in which I found myself last Friday evening while trying to prepare to leave for the weekend. I knew that I needed to start with dinner. It's one of my rules for prevention a complete mental breakdown. When you're not sure what you should do about anything and you don't know why and you're standing in the middle of the living room starting blankly, you should try to eat something. It helps. I made some chicken breasts and baked potatoes. I even had the foresight to make an extra of each for a lunch on a later day. Look at me go, I got this life thing down. I ate my little home-cooked meal, rinsed my dishes, and started to put away the leftovers.

Then something happened. A catatonic event. Perhaps, a wormhole or fold in the universe. Maybe even an alien abduction. I only know that was folding some laundry when I was struck with a feeling that I might not have finished a previous task. I walked back out to the kitchen and saw a lonely chicken breast on the counter. Yes, that was it. I was putting away the leftovers. I must have put away the potato and forgotten the chicken. I put the chicken in a container and put it in the fridge. But something looked strange. There was no metallic bundle sitting in there waiting to be reheated. The potato... was gone. Just gone.

Hrmph. Where could a potato go? I searched all 904 square feet of home sweet home and found nothing. I looked on all the counters and the coffee table. I thought I might have carried it with me into a bedroom, so I searched the side tables, the ironing board, the computer desk... bookshelves? Why not, I looked there, too. I was out of ideas, anxious to leave, and totally paralyzed. I stood in the unidentified space between the kitchen and living room staring blankly feeling like I was losing control over my life because of a single baked potato.

Then I saw it. Shining in the early evening sun. A foil-wrapped potato sat in the middle of the living room floor. I shook my head and fought the urge to scold the potato. I put it in its rightful place in the fridge and took a deep breath. I was free to live my life as planned. Free to leave for the weekend without fear of a potato rotting in some dark corner of my home. To top it all off, I was confident that I would have lunch for at least one more day.

So, here I am. Sitting at my desk, still making a ridiculously small amount of money, worrying about how I will keep going. Still trying to solve this problem with no solution. Wondering how I got here, how many wrong steps led to this place. But for today, I am grateful. For today, I have what I need and I am enjoying a satisfying meal of leftover chicken breast and a baked potato. I came so close to going without, but I dodged fate this time.

Sometimes when a problem has no solution, and you give up and stare blankly at the living room floor, you find exactly what you need. So, don't worry if your load is so heavy that you're cracking up, just go with it and be grateful for every single potato.

Heidi and the too small box

So, there’s this box. I’m not sure who determined its dimensions or why it has to be box and not a sphere or a freeform blob. But there it is. From the day that you were born, you were expected to fit into the box. As an infant, there was plenty of room. You could fit comfortably in the box along with all of your thoughts and actions. You could scream and cry and crap your pants and it was all ok, because it all fit in the box.

As you grew, there became less and less space in the box. Your body still fit, perhaps some occasional loud laughing or temper tantrums, but every day, someone expected you to reign in more and more of your behavior. Don’t run in the house. Use your inside voice. Keep your hands to yourself. Suck it up. Quit acting like a child. Be seen not heard. Stop crying or I’ll just keep spanking you. Maybe my box was smaller than some, larger than others, but we all knew we were supposed to pull our arms and legs in close, duck our heads and just fit in.

It became clear to me, that I was struggling to accomplish this task. I wondered if there was something wrong with my box, or if it was the wrong box entirely. I would wrap my arms around my bent legs and will myself to fit. Stay in the box, just stay in the box, if you do nothing else today, by God, just stay in the box!!!!

Boom.

It always happened like that. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep myself inside. I would lose my grip on my legs and they would shoot out the bottom of the box. Standing to collect myself, my head would pop out of the top. Frantic, scrambling to get back inside, my arms would flail out. Everyone would see. They all looked at me through their peep holes as they sat comfortably in their seemingly appropriately sized boxes. I could hear the murmur as they all wondered, “What is wrong with that girl? Doesn’t she know she’s outside of her box?”

A teacher, an aunt, a concerned adult would finally come over and say, “Honey, you need to get back in your box.”

“I know, I know, I know!! But it doesn’t fit!”

Eventually, I got stronger. I could hold myself in the box for longer periods of time. But there was even less extra room than before. All my thoughts echoed around and the volume increased exponentially. Then, as every muscle began to shake with fatigue, the vibrations of body and sound were too much for my ragged, little box. Unlike the slow unfurling of my youth, my quivering adult self would explode out the seams in every direction. There was no time, no hope that I could slink back into my box unnoticed. A radiant ball of energy would rip the box to shreds and I would stand naked, fully exposed, no doubt in anyone’s mind that I did not fit.

I keep piecing my box back together; wrapping it with duct tape, fortifying the seams with leather and steel. But the result is always the same. The longer I stay in the box, the bigger the explosion when I can’t contain myself anymore.

The question that strikes me now: how do I get rid of the box? How do I find a community of others who couldn’t stay confined to their boxes either? Is there a way that we can all live as beautiful, radiant balls of creative energy without the world around us telling us constantly that we need to get back in our boxes?

I think that modern society has made it extremely difficult to shed our boxes. I think that this is a tragedy. I think that if we were to come together and let our collective light shine, we could do something really beautiful. We could shine brighter and brighter until we became one with each other, one with nature, one with God… a perfect manifestation of the human spirit.

But for today, I will fold myself back up into my tiny box. I will sit quietly and try to quell the vibrations that threaten to burst out. For today, I live in this world of gainful employment and fiscal responsibility. Today, I live in a world where it is far more important to fit in than to see the infinite possibility of your unleashed potential.

Bring on the Braineaters

At some point, I promise to lay off the whole zombie thing, but I figured it was a good place to start. I have evaluated several scenarios for the demise of the human race, and I think Zombie Apocalypse might not be so bad. Think about it; do you really want to die slowly from starvation or disease? Do you want to descend into total violent chaos and watch people, with their souls intact, start to turn on each other? Do you want to see the energy crisis hit critical mass when people still refuse to give up their cars, their iPads, their single family homes?

I feel like zombies would be more efficient, and less spiritually devastating. The zombie perpetrators would just be soulless beings. It would not be at all surprising or depressing to see them turn on the unaffected human beings. The number of zombies would increase exponentially and, in fairly short order, there would be no more brains to eat. The Earth could go about rebuilding itself from all of the damage we have inflicted and evolution could bring about a new dominant species that, hopefully, is comprised of better stewards of the planet than our own.

You may find yourself wondering, "Why, Heidi? From whence comes this brilliant revelation?"

Good question, guys. You are, so far, a fantastic audience.

I quite recently returned from a trip to Brazil as a part of an MBA global learning opportunity. I expected an opportunity to see the economic parity between the rich and poor in Sao Paulo. But what I saw, went far beyond what I was prepared for. The streets were littered with the homeless. It didn't matter if you were in the wealthy part of town or the favelas, there were people slumped against the wall on every block. Sure, there was some evidence of drug and alcohol abuse, but many of the people were simply disabled and unable to do manual labor. How can a person with one arm and no college education make it without any assistance from the government or their community?

What's more, we were explicitly instructed not to give them any money and not to make eye contact. Isn't that my decision to make? If I have some money, very little money mind you, and I see someone who has nothing, is it not my right to tip the scales just a little bit toward balance? There is a square in front of a great cathedral in historic Sao Paulo. Homeless people gather there. Some to beg. Some to sell their crafts. Some, I suppose, just don't have anywhere else to be. As a man makes beautiful grasshoppers out of palm fronds, our group is rushed off the square by our guide because it is "too dangerous". I have a photo and a memory, but what does he have for his efforts? Nothing. He may starve in that very space with a palm frond still in his hand while tour guides tell North Americans and Europeans to just step over him and hurry back onto the bus.

So, clearly I saw the poor, but what of the rich? You can't really see it on the street. Nobody appears to have much money. A lot of young people are selling art or busking for money. Those in the middle class don't generally have cars or own decent houses. The city infrastructure cannot support the 17 million people who live there, so the plumbing backs up, the city stinks, and the roads are in a perpetual state of disrepair. So where is the money? Ah, this is where my affiliation with a business school comes into play. I visit the board rooms and factories of agribusiness companies, investment banks, insurance and oil companies. The money was just hiding. These people do not walk the streets of Sao Paulo like the rest of us. These people hide in their offices and meet with wealthy foreigners before driving to their homes outside of the city.

Brazil's largest oil company spends roughly $36 billion US dollars per quarter on operating costs. This generates a net profit that hovers around $2 billion US. Some quarters they experience net losses close to $1 billion US. In the grand scheme of things, they really aren't generating much profit. What they do generate goes to the government and a handful of high level executives while the losses are passed on to small investors and tax payers. In pursuit of these profits, the company is willing to devastate entire towns or areas of natural vegetation to establish massive refineries. They are willing to drill in theoretically "protected" off shore areas where humpback whales go specifically to breed. It's like a giant walking through a village and destroying everything in it's path to get to where it wants.

Clearly, this is not a sustainable model. This system will certainly outlive its usefulness and leave us, along with every other life form on the planet, in a state of total crisis. Competition for resources will reach a fever pitch. The peasants will surely revolt. Armies will lash out in final attempts to control the populace. People will die violent and painful deaths. They will turn on their fellow man to save their own lives because, as a people, that is all we know. If we don't change the system, if we don't embrace the power of collectivism, of cooperation, we will not know any solutions when the current system fails. We will all be sitting on the square with a palm frond in our hand wishing we had given dois reais (about a dollar) to the man who is about to kill us for our last loaf of bread.

So, bring on the zombies, I say. Take your final days with your loved ones in peace and comfort. And then let them eat your brain. Don't fight it, it might be the best we can do.