Yes, I can? Affirmations for the pessimistic

You regular blog readers may find this hard to believe, but I am not a naturally optimistic person. My inclination is to always look on the shadow rather than bright side of life. (Listen carefully to the Monty Python song, though, and my inner moroseness seems positively cheerful in comparison.) I could blame my upbringing or my birth order or a host of other things, but what ultimate good would it do? Our culture loves to keep us stuck in these blame games, and has industries dedicated to helping us wallow more.

Photo credit: GaborfromHungary from morguefile.com

But tossing on a clown costume and faking perpetual cheer isn't going to be sustainable either. I believe we have to own our temperaments and figure out how to be functional within them. We need to develop adaptations, like the deaf with sign language, rather than remain cut off in some way.

(BTW, I'm not talking about clinical depression here. That's a bigger, more deeply biological problem than mere pessimism.)

The pessimistic outlook often presents itself as "realism." A hope or dream begins to form, and the pessimistic mind will quickly devise an elaborate deconstruction project, bent on showing you how that hope or dream is unrealistic.

A pessimistic mind has to be combated with affirmations based on tangibles before any truly optimistic thoughts can make headway. It's one of the reasons I love the Psalms so much. The psalmists have their share of Yippee, yay, hallelujah moments, but usually in the midst of reminders of things God's people have endured with God's help. Our memories are short, so actively reminding ourselves of our own histories can be a helpful way of getting a grip on hope.

So when your inner pessimism responds to "Yes, you can!" with "No, I can't!" try mulling these thoughts.

• I am really struggling with fear of ___. I'm going to journal about that, consider worst-case scenarios, and come up with a plan to take small steps anyway.

• I don't really know where to start with this, but I remember other times I was a newbie, and eventually I got more competent. Who taught me then? Who in my life could teach me now?

• I haven't done this exact task before, but I did this other hard task ___. What lessons can I take from that?

• I don't know if I have the stamina for the hard work. But I know that stamina grows, and that the biggest effort is just starting. I remember another time I had to overcome inertia and what I gained.

• If this fails, I don't want the effort to go to waste. How have I become stronger, wiser, or more compassionate from setbacks I've suffered before?

• I struggle to believe in myself, so I am going to ask these people who care about me, [NAMES], to check in on me and affirm me.

• I am struggling to be patient and wait for results. What other good things in my life came later than I'd hoped, but were perfectly timed just the same?

• I feel like a failure compared to ___. But everyone struggles with this. Who could I encourage today who is younger, less resourced, less experienced, less skilled, etc., to keep on keeping on and see hopeful signs in the progress they are making?

• I worry that I am becoming jaded and bored with this, but I might find it more exciting if I helped a newbie gain skills and confidence. What younger or less experienced person in my life would I like to mentor?

• I feel stuck today. What skills do I have that I didn't a year ago? Five years ago? Ten years ago? What skills do I hope to have in five years? What small steps might help me gain them?

• I'm scared of doing this alone. What other times have I faced hardship and got unexpected support? How can I better ask for support instead of expecting it to magically appear? 

As you can see, pessimism requires thoughtful answers, not chirpy quips. Pessimism wants to go deep. So maybe we should stop calling it "pessimism" and give it a new name. Any suggestions?

Which of these affirmations speak most to you?

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H: Having it out with Melancholy

by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)

If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.
—A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard

  1  FROM THE NURSERY

Photo by damoiselle at morguefile.com

When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.

And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.

You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."

I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.


           2  BOTTLES

Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.


3  SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND

You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.


           4  OFTEN

Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep's
frail wicker coracle.


5  ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT

Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors -- those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.


       6  IN AND OUT

The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .


           7  PARDON

A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.

We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.


           8  CREDO

Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.

Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can't
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call
for an appointment for help.

There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.


  9  WOOD THRUSH

High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome

by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

Source: poets.org

I hope you'll forgive the length of today's offering, because it's a powerful piece. Researchers have found a strong link between depression and creativity, so it's a small wonder that many writers and poets struggle with this illness. Many, like Sylvia Plath, take their own lives. This poet, though she struggled with depression her entire adult life, died of leukemia, not suicide.

Her snapshot approach with the stanzas is striking and worth emulating. When trying to tackle a large topic that has many faces, giving us facets rather than an integrated narrative is quite powerful. That she ends with a scene of finding tranquility and beauty (thanks in part to the medication Nardil, an MAOI) gives the piece a hopeful air. The "unholy ghost" of depression may come again tomorrow, but Kenyon is determined to keep fighting it.

What lines or images stand out to you?

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Inner pain and the myth of "safety"

Many of us have suffered great difficulties and hardships, and as a result we've developed an internal organ for processing pain I call The Inner Fist. The Inner Fist clamps around that set of hurts and keeps it "safe"--unprodded, airless, always raw.

image: wikimedia commons

When anything comes at us that feels like the clenched pain--rejection, violation, terror and the like--the Inner Fist hits back. When it hits inside, it punches holes in our confidence, pummels our joy, hammers home the thought that, as usual, the universe and its creator are against us. Sometimes the Inner Fist hits outward, making us lash out at others or become pleasure-chasing addicts.

The Inner Fist strengthens itself by drawing around it expectations that we believe will make the hurt inside magically dissipate. As writers, some of our fist-builders are thoughts like these:

"I will get published and...
...I will have honor instead of shame"
...I will have worth instead of worthlessness"
...I will have abundance instead of deprivation"
...I will be popular instead of ignored or bullied"

Can any publishing experience bear the weight of expectations like these? Not likely. So the Inner Fist goes on punching us inside.

Unclenching the Inner Fist is the heart work of a lifetime. Until you grant access to the pain--to God, yourself, others--the Inner Fist will remain a destructive force in your life. It requires great courage, grace, faith and hope. It is the only path to peace and to creating great art that changes lives. That changes the world.

What unclenches the Inner Fist are ordinary graces--things like delight, wonder and play; learning, mentoring and teaching; communicating with open honesty; freely giving you time, skill, creative output and praise with no expectations simply because it's fun and makes you feel alive. Above all, the gracious work of love--God's, your family's, your friends', and yours for them--builds skin over the raw places.

At times these winds of grace may feel like a tornado. They may feel like self-immolation. Like tossing your possessions out the window. Like standing yourself before a firing squad. Who am I without my defenses after all? You'll never know unless you let light inside.

You might just find that the place of your deepest pain is a well of great beauty--your truth--which when drawn out, has the power to unclench other Inner Fists. I think of Anne Lamott's raw honesty in Traveling Mercies and Operating Instructions. Of Donald Miller's meandering hunger in Searching for God Knows What.

Have you felt the Inner Fist in your life? What ordinary graces have unclenched a finger or two for you? What books have encouraged you in your own heart work of healing and maturing?

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Refined by fire

While doing a filing cabinet purge, I came across a year-in-review letter from one of the most difficult years of my adult life, 1993. I was a young, post-college girl in my first job as a reporter and editor on a trade publication for the natural gas industry. Go ahead. Laugh. The third grader inside is surely thinking about beans and bodily processes, not drilling, pipelines and seasonal fuel price spikes.

This particular year, I experienced in a somewhat literal way the effects of being "refined by fire." The now cliche phrase comes from goldsmiths who purify gold by burning away the impurities.

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The Monday following the worst blizzard of winter, I was scheduled to fly to Houston to attend a trade show, The Houston Gas Fair. With every major road closed and the airport congested with three days' worth of stranded travelers, I was still able to make the flight within five minutes of takeoff [this was long before 9/11 and any airport security]. Not bad considering I had to dig my car out of 18 inches of snow, drive an icy circuitous route, pick up my boyfriend who could drive the car home, and dash like O.J. Simpson through the terminal with a suitcase, briefcase, and 2 huge displays.

Once I arrived and set up the booth, it was great fun to meet in person all the industry people I'd regularly interviewed over the phone. But as they spread the story of how I miraculously escaped the snowed-in East coast, my booth had a steady stream of new visitors wanting to hear my story. Apparently almost no one else coming from Philly, D.C., Baltimore, New York, Boston, or any other points northeast had made it to the trade show. I was feeling like the miracle girl. It wasn't until I returned to Philadelphia that I learned just how much.

The day after I returned from Texas, a high school friend called to ask how my parents were doing. I was a bit taken off guard. Was something wrong?

Yes, she informed me. Didn't I know about the two-alarm house fire?

WHAT?????

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com 

It took about twenty four hours to locate my parents, in part because their home phone wasn't working and I had to rely on my high school friend to help me get phone numbers for the neighbors and my parents' pastor. [How we suffered before cell phones and the Internet!] The next-door neighbors had taken my parents in, and eventually I got to hear details.

My mother had been out of town on business and my retired father was home alone working on a project in the basement when the fire broke out. He heard a loud noise, went upstairs to investigate and immediately saw the smoke. Had it not been for that noise, he might not have escaped the fire alive.

Dad ran to neighbors' house and called the fire department. Two squads came out to put out the blaze. In the fire marshal's subsequent investigation, he concluded that arcing at an electrical outlet (when something is only partially plugged in) was crossed by a long curtain and it caught on fire. The blaze spread from there. The heat was so intense that the porcelain of the master bath toilet exploded, shoes in the closet melted, many of the windows burst.

I drove back to my hometown and spent a week helping my folks assess the damage and getting them back on their feet again. About a third of the structure sustained heavy damage and more than half of the contents were destroyed. During my time home, we dug through the sooty rubble in 30-degree temperatures and inventoried as much as we could of the destroyed contents. We also found a rental house for my parents and hired a contractor to repair the house.

The response from the neighbors and my parent's church was overwhelming. Food, clothing, household items and cash poured in. New church attendees my parents had never met appeared with casseroles and yet more clothing. Countless people pitched in with salvage, cleaning, and laundering.

Sometimes it takes a disaster to show you just how much your community loves you. That alone is priceless.

Being well insured was another gift in this particular experience. I hadn't taken all my belongings to Philadelphia with me. I lost thousands of dollars worth of books, clothes, and personal effects. The insurance payout for it became my sustenance later in the year when I got laid off from the natural gas publication and spent two months on unemployment.

Because of the fire money, I was able to move from the suburbs into the the city. I landed a far better job with excellent benefits, including tuition reimbursement. [Hello, free master's degree.]

Looking back on all this twenty-one years later, I come to a question. When things happen in your life, how do you decide whether they are good or bad?

I didn't mention that the fire, yes the fire, led my boyfriend to break it off with me because I wasn't giving him enough attention. It seemed like adding insult to injury at the time. But in hindsight, I'm glad to have gotten free of a guy who was clearly not for me in any sense.

I can see now that the persistence I learned trying to get on that plane to Houston served me well when helping my mom wade through the waist-deep charred remains of their coat closet, seeking a few less-burned fibers to identify each lost coat.

This experience helped me learn to accept the help and embrace of others. Letting others be strong for you is a gift to them. Generosity has a funny way of expanding everyone's hearts, both the receiver and the giver.

But most of all, I don't look at my circumstances now and assume they're the last word. The good times are a gift, but so are the hardships. Hardships are where real growth happens.

How have hard moments in your past shaped you?

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Leaving fear, grasping hope

Once I made the decision to self-publish Never Gone, a funny thing happened. I became completely paralyzed by the sheer volume of what I needed to do.

When I think back to my life in high school, I can't believe how I juggled band, choir, art club, school newspaper, honors classes, a part-time job, and scribbling stories every spare moment. College wasn't much different, though theater, music ministry, and literary magazine were my passions of choice. I never pulled an all-nighter in college and still graduated magna cum laude. After college, I worked full time, went to grad school, did freelance graphic design projects, and served as editor and publisher of an international literary magazine, About Such Things.

I used to be a high energy person, so why the paralysis at this phase of life?

I'd become irrationally afraid. About setting up my business wrong. About getting bad feedback that makes the story wrong. About my title choice and cover design ideas. About failing in a huge, public way.

A funny thing about listening to fear--it takes away your power to contradict it.

Getting into better headspace about the project came when I let voices other than the voice of fear really sink in. I went back and reread notes from the three groups of people who'd critiqued over the years. Sure they pointed out weaknesses, but they also had a lot of immensely encouraging things to say--that it's an important story, that it's moving, that it kept them up late reading. Friends and family alike kept asking how the book project was coming along, wanting to know when they could get their hands on it. Even my daughter was itching for this book to come to fruition.

When you're in the presence of other writers, it can be easy to forget what an extreme act of bravery it is to create worlds, characters, stories and put them out for public consumption. Non-writers are always amazed by it. I think in our circles we're only beginning to talk about the reality of fear when we create. Alex's Insecure Writers Support Group is one such place, and I'm always encouraged by folks' posts.

See, bravery isn't a lack of fear, it's a willingness to move forward in hope despite the fear. There are still moments when the voice of fear picks up on my doubts and shouts them at me. But I turn away and listen to the voices of hope instead.

Because hope energizes. Hope keeps on trying. Hope is patient. Hope believes.

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Blog Ramble News

See my interview with Anglea Felsted at My Poetry and Prose Place, discussing how my life experiences do and don't show up in my novel Never Gone.

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Have you wrestled with fear? How do you tune into the voice of hope instead?

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Putting the con back in confidence? Or the fide?

Periodically I fall into these ditches of apathy, where I have no desire to write or even blog. Every idea strikes me as stupid and I'm absolutely certain I have nothing of value to add to the already burgeoning blogosphere. I read thirty blog posts and comment on three. I feel afraid to be honest about it, because I worry it might be catching. Who wants to be the person turning others' inner worlds into one big "whatever"?

I can stupidly assume others don't get tied up in these neurotic knots. But who's to say they don't? Nothing like apathy to keep you from breaking the silence.

Instead, they (and I) can pretend. "Fake it till you make it," right? Confidence is really just a big con, after all. Pretending you have what it takes. That you're invincible. That death isn't lurking closer than anyone wants to admit.

I don't know about you, but this approach to confidence never works for me. My own soul screams at the fakery. I can remember Samuel picking a king for Israel and having God tell him, "man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

The word "confidence" literally means "with faith," believing something is true. But believing what? There's the rub.

One can be quite confident that life is futile. Or that suffering is an illusion. Or any host of things. This kind of "negative confidence" leads, as one might expect, to negative outcomes.

Your confidence is what you believe. Not a mask you put on, but a set of truths you live into. Becoming more confident doesn't involve developing a better facade, but discarding lies and genuinely discovering and hanging onto better truths.

Here are a few I'm hanging onto today:

~No one is alone; If I'm in this world, I have a part to play.

~Evil prevails when good people do nothing.

What ideas have given you "negative confidence"? What better truths do you desire to hang onto?

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Following your star

In a few days it will be Epiphany, celebrating the "wise men from the East" coming to honor the Christ child. The Magi had been watching for something good and were willing to make great effort to get close to it. This story resonates a lot with me as we enter 2011.

Yesterday Kristen at Write in the Way had asked "why is it so hard to hope?" Hope comes from being like the Magi--keeping an eye on the far horizon, watching for something good. We lose hope when unhappy things in the immediate environment consume our vision and we stop regularly scanning the horizon. Big signs could come and go, and we'd miss them. The first step in getting the blessing of an epiphany is to be watchful.

The second is to move toward the good. And this is no easy feat. Pondering why that is brought to mind Sherrida Ketch's post about the "unresolution" approach called One Word that's highlighted on THIS site. Here's a quick description:

Every New Year we hope this will finally be the year that things will change. We make promises about the new person we're going to become, pledging to get a grip on our finances, get in shape, become a better parent, spouse, even a nicer human being! But there’s one problem: our resolutions seldom work. The busy pace of life gets the better of us, and suddenly, the year is over with little to no personal growth having occurred in our lives.

“My One Word” is an experiment designed to move you beyond the past and look ahead. The challenge is simple: lose the long list of changes you want to make this year and instead pick ONE WORD. This process provides clarity by taking all of your big plans for life change and narrowing them down into a single thing. One word focuses on your character and creates a vision for your future. So, we invite you to join us and pick one word in 2011.

This approach isn't simplistic, it's holistic. I can't help feel the implications are huge--both wide and deep. Drawing together all these ideas--epiphany, hope, searching the horizon, following the good--I discovered my one word. What's keeping me "stuck in Persia" and not following the star, metaphorically speaking, is fear.

So my one word for 2011 is courage. I need to become a person who stretches even when it's scary, to leave safety and go, even though my knees are knocking.

What about you? What makes is hard for you to hope? What's keeping you from following your Epiphany star?

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