One Tool
A bit of mental health humor to share on this fine Saturday evening. Enjoy.
I'd like to play a game, I call it "One Tool". Here's how it works:
Those of us with mental health issues employ various tools to tame our personal 800-pound gorillas (or avoid getting eaten by them). These tools can be anything from a particularly effective therapist, a medication, a spiritual faith, a family member, a friend, a concept or idea, a behavior modification, *anything* that you have found to be profoundly useful in your management and recovery.
I'd like you to share just ONE tool you have used that you consider important in your journey, how you came about it, and how it has helped you conquer your personal mountains.
Or at least how it keeps that ape from pissing on your rug. Because it really tied the room together, yannow?
My one tool was a single word I asked when I was 16. That word was "Why?".
I remember it like it was yesterday. Picture it, Sicily, nineteen-twenty-two... I have always been a sensitive soul, though I seemed thick-skinned, allowing momentary flashes of intense passion to get the best of me. Hell, I had to be separated from the "normal" students and put in special classes to deal with ragebrats like me. Thankfully my tantrums rarely amounted to more than bashing my head on a wall when the frustration got to be too much. Now that I think about it, that explains a lot...
One autumn evening during my 16th rotation on this rock, I found myself working on a particularly challenging (read: headsplody aggravating) wooden project in the family garage. Nothing about this project would cooperate, fighting me every step of the way. Once again, I could feel the project making me angry; no way to control the raging spirit that dwells within. I was on the verge of losing control, adrenaline mixing with teenage angst to create a petulant pubescent powderkeg. Just when I was about to fire the blasted project across the garage and smash it to bits, a wayward thought wandered in unbidden through the rage-fueled haze:
"Why?"
This thought froze me in mid-launch. Excuse me? Who are you? And why what?
"Excuse yourself!" it said. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am your pre-frontal cortex, that part of your brain responsible for higher reasoning and rational thought. And what I meant by 'why?' is: Why am I feeling this way? Why am I about to lose control? What is the source of this rage? " Okay, that last one wasn't a why, and I had no idea what a pre-frontal whatchamacallit was back then. Just work with me here.
I lacked the emotional intelligence at the time to recognize the physiological responses that were cooking up inside me, Kitchen Nightmares style, but that one word gave me pause long enough to reflect upon my actions. I ended up putting down the project (in one piece, no less) and taking a walk, brooding over this concept some more. Because if there's one thing I was good at, it's brooding.
I believe that was my first crawling pace towards taking control of my emotional being. Over the years after that inaugural moment of self-control, I developed an acute introspection, asking "why?" more times than there are stars in the sky. Why do I hate this person? Why does that bother me so much? Why do I find the other thing offensive? Why am I so angry all the time? Why is this situation causing so much conflict? Every time I found myself inside an emotional tempest, I would ask myself why I felt that way. This forced me to analyze the source of my instability to find the root cause.
I'd love to say that I quickly found the answers, identified my problems, and went on to be at peace with myself and the world. If you can believe that, then I got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. The bad news is that human psychology is a funny thing and doesn't take kindly to self-diagnosing Freudian wannabes tinkering around up there in the old noodle. The answers I needed were contained inside psychological baggage that was buried under a lifetime of dysfunction, and all I had to dig through it was a spoon. A bent spoon. And I kept losing that spoon. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to exhume this baggage and correct long-term behavior patterns and attitudes that compromised my effectiveness in life and relationships with people. Once I have my answers, I am free to ease on down the road and leave that baggage behind.
There continued to be many situations that challenged my self-control. I frequently had to call upon every ounce of restraint to keep myself in a job, out of jail, or off the street. Periodically, that call would result in a busy signal, so one out of three ain't bad is it? It was all too easy to just "let go" and allow the hot fury to blow. By the time the pyroclastic cloud had cleared and I regained some composure, that wasn't the only thing that was let go.
I remained a complete jerk even while striving not to be: using people, snarking bosses, burning bridges, losing jobs, overstaying my welcome at whatever shelter I could find. If these were the results of actually applying myself at this, shudder to think where I'd be if I were to stop trying! Still, I accepted each episode as a lesson, so I continued looking within myself for answers. It kept me occupied while looking for new employment.
The good news is that I'm slow, but I'm good. Almost two decades after my first "Why" moment, "That's why" responses followed. A slow drizzle for a while, then answers started pouring down on me like sweet, sweet rain. After digging through a lifetime of mental malfunctions, familial foul-ups, and mixing metaphors, that baggage contained a wealth of answers...not to mention a few skeletons I thought were left in a closet back in Jersey. I'm STILL sorting through them all (the answers, not the skeletons); cataloging, collating, cross-referencing and depositing into this mental filing cabinet of mine. Once I had them, I moved on, where I carry nothing that might be a load.
The biggest triumph out of this effort is that I can now maintain almost Vulcan-like control over conditions that used to trigger intense rage episodes. I can analyze multiple facets of many interpersonal and intrapersonal conflicts without toxic resentment clouding my judgment. Asking "why?" allows me to cognitively retrieve and process a solution or three based on previous experience, where I can then re-file it back as a new experience for future use.
While I may have forged a Spock-worthy composure, I'm still only human. Once in a while, a perfect storm of environmental, interpersonal, and emotional turbulence will form that breaches the walls of my newfound discipline. This new temperament helps to deflect and minimize the guilt and shame that follows after the storm has receded. Once the muddied waters of the aftermath retreat, I simply stand up, accept the consequences with grace, and hide the bodies. They'll keep the skeletons company.
In conclusion, I continue to ask "why?" several times a day. The difference this time is that more often than not, I know where to find the answer. I might not have it right away, hell it might not even be the right answer, but at least I know where to look. There could very well be more answers, hidden away somewhere in the nooks and crannies of this noggin of mine. For now, it's better than the subconscious detritus I had to dig through to get here.
Only next time, I'll make sure that my spoon is too big.
HMTB, signing off.
I'd like to play a game, I call it "One Tool". Here's how it works:
Those of us with mental health issues employ various tools to tame our personal 800-pound gorillas (or avoid getting eaten by them). These tools can be anything from a particularly effective therapist, a medication, a spiritual faith, a family member, a friend, a concept or idea, a behavior modification, *anything* that you have found to be profoundly useful in your management and recovery.
I'd like you to share just ONE tool you have used that you consider important in your journey, how you came about it, and how it has helped you conquer your personal mountains.
Or at least how it keeps that ape from pissing on your rug. Because it really tied the room together, yannow?
My one tool was a single word I asked when I was 16. That word was "Why?".
I remember it like it was yesterday. Picture it, Sicily, nineteen-twenty-two... I have always been a sensitive soul, though I seemed thick-skinned, allowing momentary flashes of intense passion to get the best of me. Hell, I had to be separated from the "normal" students and put in special classes to deal with ragebrats like me. Thankfully my tantrums rarely amounted to more than bashing my head on a wall when the frustration got to be too much. Now that I think about it, that explains a lot...
One autumn evening during my 16th rotation on this rock, I found myself working on a particularly challenging (read: headsplody aggravating) wooden project in the family garage. Nothing about this project would cooperate, fighting me every step of the way. Once again, I could feel the project making me angry; no way to control the raging spirit that dwells within. I was on the verge of losing control, adrenaline mixing with teenage angst to create a petulant pubescent powderkeg. Just when I was about to fire the blasted project across the garage and smash it to bits, a wayward thought wandered in unbidden through the rage-fueled haze:
"Why?"
This thought froze me in mid-launch. Excuse me? Who are you? And why what?
"Excuse yourself!" it said. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am your pre-frontal cortex, that part of your brain responsible for higher reasoning and rational thought. And what I meant by 'why?' is: Why am I feeling this way? Why am I about to lose control? What is the source of this rage? " Okay, that last one wasn't a why, and I had no idea what a pre-frontal whatchamacallit was back then. Just work with me here.
I lacked the emotional intelligence at the time to recognize the physiological responses that were cooking up inside me, Kitchen Nightmares style, but that one word gave me pause long enough to reflect upon my actions. I ended up putting down the project (in one piece, no less) and taking a walk, brooding over this concept some more. Because if there's one thing I was good at, it's brooding.
I believe that was my first crawling pace towards taking control of my emotional being. Over the years after that inaugural moment of self-control, I developed an acute introspection, asking "why?" more times than there are stars in the sky. Why do I hate this person? Why does that bother me so much? Why do I find the other thing offensive? Why am I so angry all the time? Why is this situation causing so much conflict? Every time I found myself inside an emotional tempest, I would ask myself why I felt that way. This forced me to analyze the source of my instability to find the root cause.
I'd love to say that I quickly found the answers, identified my problems, and went on to be at peace with myself and the world. If you can believe that, then I got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. The bad news is that human psychology is a funny thing and doesn't take kindly to self-diagnosing Freudian wannabes tinkering around up there in the old noodle. The answers I needed were contained inside psychological baggage that was buried under a lifetime of dysfunction, and all I had to dig through it was a spoon. A bent spoon. And I kept losing that spoon. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to exhume this baggage and correct long-term behavior patterns and attitudes that compromised my effectiveness in life and relationships with people. Once I have my answers, I am free to ease on down the road and leave that baggage behind.
There continued to be many situations that challenged my self-control. I frequently had to call upon every ounce of restraint to keep myself in a job, out of jail, or off the street. Periodically, that call would result in a busy signal, so one out of three ain't bad is it? It was all too easy to just "let go" and allow the hot fury to blow. By the time the pyroclastic cloud had cleared and I regained some composure, that wasn't the only thing that was let go.
I remained a complete jerk even while striving not to be: using people, snarking bosses, burning bridges, losing jobs, overstaying my welcome at whatever shelter I could find. If these were the results of actually applying myself at this, shudder to think where I'd be if I were to stop trying! Still, I accepted each episode as a lesson, so I continued looking within myself for answers. It kept me occupied while looking for new employment.
The good news is that I'm slow, but I'm good. Almost two decades after my first "Why" moment, "That's why" responses followed. A slow drizzle for a while, then answers started pouring down on me like sweet, sweet rain. After digging through a lifetime of mental malfunctions, familial foul-ups, and mixing metaphors, that baggage contained a wealth of answers...not to mention a few skeletons I thought were left in a closet back in Jersey. I'm STILL sorting through them all (the answers, not the skeletons); cataloging, collating, cross-referencing and depositing into this mental filing cabinet of mine. Once I had them, I moved on, where I carry nothing that might be a load.
The biggest triumph out of this effort is that I can now maintain almost Vulcan-like control over conditions that used to trigger intense rage episodes. I can analyze multiple facets of many interpersonal and intrapersonal conflicts without toxic resentment clouding my judgment. Asking "why?" allows me to cognitively retrieve and process a solution or three based on previous experience, where I can then re-file it back as a new experience for future use.
While I may have forged a Spock-worthy composure, I'm still only human. Once in a while, a perfect storm of environmental, interpersonal, and emotional turbulence will form that breaches the walls of my newfound discipline. This new temperament helps to deflect and minimize the guilt and shame that follows after the storm has receded. Once the muddied waters of the aftermath retreat, I simply stand up, accept the consequences with grace, and hide the bodies. They'll keep the skeletons company.
In conclusion, I continue to ask "why?" several times a day. The difference this time is that more often than not, I know where to find the answer. I might not have it right away, hell it might not even be the right answer, but at least I know where to look. There could very well be more answers, hidden away somewhere in the nooks and crannies of this noggin of mine. For now, it's better than the subconscious detritus I had to dig through to get here.
Only next time, I'll make sure that my spoon is too big.
HMTB, signing off.