The MILGRAM EXPERIMENT revealed some profound truths about all of us…
Shortly after WW2, Stanley Milgram, a Yale professor did what has come to be known as an ‘obedience’ experiment. (Trailer of docudrama:)
According to Milgram, while self-interest is part of our nature, most of us are fundamentally FOLLOWERS. His famous study revealed it is common human behavior to listen without question to people who appear smart, successful, or seem like true believers. We follow our parents, friends, society at large. Influencers, like actors, podcasters, musicians; and authority figures like doctors, therapists, even politicians draw FOLLOWERS. We accept, even participate in bad medicine, injustice, inequity, intolerance, racism, sexism, sometimes murder and even slaughter of millions following the status quo.
Milgram was a Jew. He wanted to find out what motivated Germans to turn on neighbors. Why would 90% of German citizens allow the slaughter of children on the same soccer team as their kids? Or passively watch the displacement and murder of Jews they once shared meals, holidays, and birthday celebrations? Why would Germans agree, and even support genocide, rape, disembowelment while conscious, torture beyond any sense of sanity? Milgram wanted to know.
The MILGRAM EXPERIMENT, as it’s now called, revealed some striking and profound truths about all of us.
It PROVED that most humans are FOLLOWERS, highly obedient to authority figures and willing to harm others without reason besides being told to do so.
Humans are social creatures. We follow the flock, the crowd, influencers, salesmen, priests.
We FOLLOW because it’s easier than THINKING.
We blindly follow our parents’ beliefs in fantasies like God, or Jesus, with no proof either exist, or evidence that Christ was ever born. None whatsoever, though tax rolls have been found at Christ’s (ostensible) time, without mention of Mary, Joseph, or Jesus at all.
We adopt behavior that we don’t like — that’s not the best of us — with justifications like “everyone does it!” Engaged with your cellphone while driving today? Most who do don’t THINK they’re really increasing their odds of killing themselves or someone else by upwards of 25%.
Intoxicants, from drink to weed will not cure cancer. Alcohol is toxic for the body. Smoking weed is carcinogenic — cancer causing. And mental ‘health’ pharms are addictive and eat the crap out of your liver, among a host of other side effects. Hey, but everyone does them, right?
What Makes a Leader?
While Milgram’s experiment revealed most humans are FOLLOWERS, following a herd, whether family, friends, priests, or govts, SOME PEOPLE, a few outliers, do not. In fact, they lead the human flock.
Hitler did. Trump does. Oligarchs, like Musk, are LEADERS to many who live vicariously through them, or are delusional enough to believe they too can become a trillionaire. On the other side, Susan B. Anthony, FDR, MLK all moved this nation towards a more equitable country.
What does this diverse cast have in common? They became LEADERS because they offered identity, an enemy, reduced complexity to clarity, inspired and empowered at moments when people felt lost. They gave directionto the populas of FOLLOWERS when their govt and institutions failed them. And each of the aforementioned LEADERS reached the masses by mastering marketing through the dominant media of their era, from newsprint, to radio, to TV, to today’s digital communications.
Are you a FOLLOWER or LEADER? If you’re thinking: I’M A LEADER, you’re likely lying to yourself.Humans lieto ourselves (and others) a lot! Like following, lying is part of our nature.
WATCH the Milgram experiment. The odds are you’d be one of the 65% who tortured an unseen man with electric shocks to death, simply because someone politely asked you to do so. Not threatening, not aggressive. Just “Please continue,” was what the white-coated admin in the study told them. And the 65% claimed they were just ‘following directions’ that allowed them to deliver shocks to someone they didn’t know, that became more and more painful until they were lethal.
Milgram’s study proves most people would rather follow—listen, even to bad advice, than lead—THINK for themselves. We’re looking for guidance, direction, belief outside ourselves. And while this fact of our nature may seem a death sentence, there are still 35% of the participants in the study that walked away when the admin dressed as a doctor said, “Please continue,” to torture an unseen person in the room next door with electric shocks. In fact, many told the guy, as the admin was always a man, to fuck off when he demanded they “Please continue, per your agreement,” as they were leaving.
The Milgram Experiment gives us a window into our own psyche by proving humans are generally FOLLOWERS. Armed with this knowledge, we can THINK, examine, recognize when we’re blindly going along with the flock. And we can choosenot to.
Do you FEEL before you THINK? Or do your THOUGHTS generate your FEELINGS?
Psychology is split on this. Old world believed it was THOUGHT first, i.e. behavioral/cognitive therapy. New world has finally come around to what seems to me so blatantly obvious:
The Human Psyche: FEELINGS lead to THOUGHTS, and THOUGHTS lead to ACTIONS.
Human beings are FEELING creatures FIRST and foremost. Being ALIVE means FEELING, even if just in the physical realm — feeling healthy, sick, in pain, tired, hungry, full, cold, hot…etc.
Infants don’t ‘think.’ New parents like to pretend they do, anthropomorphize their babies by projecting all kinds of genius behavior from their infant. But after raising two kids and caring for many of family and friends, the fact is they don’t really start to think until close to a year into living. They sure FEEL a lot though! Hungry. Cold. Scared. These feelings are so overwhelming that infants will cry, even wail until they’re fed. Warm. Comforted. Babies start to smile at 2–3 months in response to external cues, like someone smiling at them, or making cooing sounds. These smiles reflect the BASE FEELINGS of happy, content, sated, without a lot of thought behind these emotions. It takes infants between 6–9 months to laugh in response to games like peek-a-boo. Again, not a lot of thinking going on for that game.
THOUGHTS are constructed with words, language to express them, even to yourself inside your head. No language. No actual thoughts. Most infants are basically mute until almost a year old, and then the only words they express for months are simple monikers like ‘Mom. Dad. Dog.’ Not a lot of thought there either. Clearly. The neurological wiring of an infant’s brain isn’t connected enough to understand language, therefore they’re unable to form the complexities of ‘thought’ yet.
Everything ALIVE here FEELS the physical realm to varying degrees. Even foliage requires sustenance to live, and on the most rudimentary levels FEELS healthy, sick, hungry, thirsty…etc.
Extract the physical realm from FEELINGS, and we are left with EMOTIONS.
There are a few BASE emotions that connect all humans, but beyond us, it connects most mammals here. My dog feels the same BASE emotions I do. Sometimes Ellie’s sad. Happy. Scared. Excited. These are foundational emotions, generally from LEVEL1 through LEVEL3. But humans are the most complex brains on the planet (we know of). The more complex the brain, the more it seems to create additional layers—L3+—of EMOTIONS atop the foundational sets.
Hierarchy of Emotions:
L1 BASE Emotions:
Good (positive)
Bad (negative)
L2 BASE Emotions (common to us all—’roots’ of our emotional palette):
Good: Happy/Glad, Sated/Content, Excited
Bad: Scared, Sad, Hurt (Anger is L3, an emotional response to Hurt)
L3+ COMPLEX Emotions (atop L2):
Humans never really feel neutral. It may feel in any given moment we’re not feeling anything, but this is a missed perception. Most of us go through our days unaware of how we are FEELING except in exceptional or volatile situations where emotions typically ‘run high,’ like a celebration, or the end of a relationship.
Absorbed in your work means you are engaged, interested, maybe even passionate about it, all ‘good’ feelings. Conscious or not, you are never feeling nothing at all.
Getting down to how we really FEEL takes work because humans lie to ourselves, and subsequently others. Our complex brains weave all kinds of fantasies to make ourselves feel smarter, talented, capable, valuable, in control of ourselves and our destinies.
To control our ACTIONS, it is essential to understand your actual, true EMOTIONS first, and then with THOUGHT (language) define the reasons for what you’re FEELING.
FEELINGS spark THOUGHTS which ignite ACTIONS/Behavior.
Most of us go through life never really understanding that our emotions, i.e. our FEELINGS (not our thoughts) are controlling our daily decisions.
Do you consistently drink too much? Eat too much? Do whatever too much, so much that it’s hurting more than helping you? You’ve tried to stop or modify your behavior, but you keep going back to destructive habits.
To change any of your behavior, you first must understand the FEELINGS that are motivating the THOUGHTS that are generating the ACTION that is preventing you from becoming who you want to be. The only way you’ll never repeat a destructive behavior/action is to let yourself FEEL [and remember] that sticky, grotesque, choking, powerfully negative emotion of shame. Avoid the action, avoid the feeling.
Being ALIVE means FEELING, so at any given moment, like NOW, ask yourself: What am I FEELING right now? Good? Bad? Happy? Sad? After defining the FEELINGS — L1-L3 and beyond — now THINK about what is generating them. The more in touch with your FEELINGS/EMOTIONS you become, the better you’ll be able to THINK about what you need and why, then put those THOUGHTS into productive ACTIONS to live the life you choose.
“I saw someone die today, Mom,” my daughter told me on the phone, her voice four octaves higher than normal, like she’d been sucking on helium.
“Where are you?” I heard street noise in the background.
“I’m on the 101. I’m driving home from the hospital.” Again, her voice was…off—too high, too cheery. “I saw her die, Mom. She was fine, then she flatlined and died.”
“You OK?”
“I am.” She was practically giggling. “Really. It was bizarre, for sure, but I’m fine.”
She didn’t sound fine. “Honey, I want you to get off the freeway at the next exit and pull over so we can talk about this.” I was in my office, a thousand miles away.
“I’m telling you, I’m fine. I can handle this, when I’m a doctor,” she insisted in that squeaky voice. “I was cleaning her room, and we were talking about her daughter at UCSD—” her voice cracked right then and she stopped talking.
“Jade, I want you to get off the freeway. Right now. How far to the next exit?”
“I’m taking it right now.”
“Pull over on a side street, and shut off your car, then talk to me.”
I raised our kids with an open forum, not the surface, pc-level shit most people spout. The ‘I’m fine! Biz is great! Everything’s dandy’ bullshit my parents and colleagues pushed down my throat daily wasn’t going to fly in the family I created (or my friendships that stick). “Talk to me,” is my personal mantra.
“OK. I pulled over,” my daughter said, her voice deeper now, though still not exactly normal.
“Good. Now turn off your car and tell me what happened.”
“She just had gallbladder surgery, just like you did last yea—year.” Her voice cracked, like a teen boy entering manhood. “She was fine…” Gasping breaths and I could hear, even feel her anxiety attack coming on. “Her daughter was in the hallway…When she flatlined a bunch of nurses came in and then doctors and they were shocking her and it didn’t work then they did it again and again and I just stood there, holding the trashcan I just emptied.” And I heard my beautiful daughter sobbing on the other end of the phone, and I was a thousand miles away from being able to hold her.
“Honey, I’m right here. You’re OK. Deep breaths. Breathe with me. Breathe in… Breathe out… It must have been really hard to witness that. I can’t imagine it. It’s why I never wanted to be a doctor,” I say deadpan to lighten the mood but could still hear her struggling to catch her breath. “OK. Let’s do some box breathing.” And we did, all four sides, in and out. In and out.
“Her daughter was my age,” she said, weeping as she spoke. “It could have been you, Mom. It could have been you and I can’t lose you yet.”
“I’m right here, baby. I’m healthy, and I’m active and I’m here for you.”
“Does this mean I’ll make a lousy doctor?”
Of course, I said it made her human—the best kind of doctor. Maybe too human, but I didn’t say that. I listened as she unraveled from giddy shock. She told me how one of the nurses asked her to get a sheet to cover the dead woman, then helped the nurse place it over the body. She saw the doctor talking to the daughter crying in the hallway.
“She kept asking the doctor, ‘What? What do you mean?’ like she didn’t believe him that her mom was dead. She wasn’t suppose to die, Mom. And now she’s dead. And I don’t want it to be you.”
“It isn’t me, Jade. I’m right here.”
“Now!” she almost yelled. “But what if you never get to know my kids, like that daughter today, or your mom?”
I listened, empathized, and helped quell her fears for another half hour before she was calm enough to get back on the road and go home to her shared apartment off-campus. She’d have roommates to talk to there, two young women also pursuing the medical pathway at UCSD. I told her to call or text me when she got home, just to check in she got home safely, and fifteen minutes later she texted she did.
Heavy sigh of relief, but in the distance, far beyond my grateful nod my daughter was safe to an almighty I don’t believe in, I felt…annoyed. I never wanted to be a doctor. Never played one as a kid. Didn’t like them because every time I had to see them either I, or someone I cared about was sick. And they’re so sure of themselves they don’t listen beyond test results, and half the time don’t know what they’re talking about even though they pretend they do. I don’t like doctors. And my daughter is on her way to becoming one.
I try to keep my personal disdain for her career choice to myself, but beyond my distaste for the medical community, I hate blood and gore. I can’t look at it on TV or in the movies. I have to look away because it literally makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. I won’t let her describe to me the process of guillotining rats for her spine research lab assistant position on campus, but on the phone I did remind her she got used to doing it after a few times.
My daughter’s wanted to become a doctor since she was child. At 10, when we allowed her an email account [under her choice of pseudonym], her first address was doctorscientistsoccer@. She got accolades when she told teachers to girl scout leaders she wanted to be a doctor, but that seemed to be the extent of her interest in medicine. She played soccer but I never saw her play doctor. People in wheelchairs or maimed or missing body parts scared her when she was young, and no matter what I said she would not engage with them. If a movie involved a child losing one or both parents, or parents losing their kid, she’d come undone—start crying that would sometimes escalate into a full-blown anxiety attack. She ran up to her room sobbing towards the end of Dances With Wolves when the wolf was killed.
Handling illness and loss didn’t exactly seem to be our daughter’s forte. Becoming a doctor requires compartmentalizing your feelings—locking yours away to deal with the patient or situation at hand. And maybe she could learn this skill over time, but I don’t want my daughter burying her emotions, denying her feelings, and becoming the automaton most doctors I’ve met seem to be. And let’s not forget, spending her career jumping through hoops of insurance companies to give patients the care they need without killing them financially. I wish for my daughter so much more than a lifetime of attending to others’ suffering.
I’ve never ever wanted to journey down the path of practicing medicine, yet I feel like I’ve been unwittingly roped into it. Along with her undergrad degree in Biology, volunteering at Palomar hospital was resume building for medical school. Before the death of this mom, she called me often to unload—overwhelmed by the coursework, or the illness she saw at the dermatology clinic she worked for, or torn over the moral quandary of ‘murdering rats’ in the lab.
Becoming a doctor requires more education than becoming a rocket scientist. I never considered endeavoring down such a very long, hard, expensive career path, self-doubt assuring me I’d fail if I attempted it. Since she’s ventured down the medical road, I’ve been our daughter’s emotional and financial support system through her undergrad degree; four, nail-biting waiting for scores, MCATs; spent months helping her edit countless essays for various med school applications. And right when I think maybe I can get a break from all this, she’ll be on pins and needles for the next 6 to 8 months waiting to hear where, if, she’s been accepted to study for four more years before another four to seven years of residency. And even when, if, she gets in, it’ll cost her $300k in student loans on top of the $100k we’ll give her. Becoming a doctor is very expensive!
When she was little, she used to build these incredible structures—towers 8 ft high out of Magnatiles. She has a great sense of physics and I used to imagine she’d get over saying she wanted to be a doctor when she realized what it takes to get there, and the hardship of constantly dealing with people in pain and corporate corruption. She’d become a civil engineer or architect, create structures of beauty and utility, and still live well.
I set up an open forum of communication for the family I created because I never had it in my own growing up. My ‘turn that frown upside down,’ or ‘make lemonade out of lemons’ mother denied every negative feeling of mine, of hers, until her deathbed when she spewed hate at her husband, my narcissist of a father, for two straight weeks before the cancer silenced her.
The next 2 to 3 months are going to be tense at home. We’re all waiting to hear from medical schools my daughter applied to that are interested enough to ask for ‘secondaries’—school‑specific applications requiring their own essays and fees. Assuming she gets requests for secondaries, I’ll have to work with her for another 2 months helping her edit more essays for each school. Then we have to wait another 3 to 5 months to hear if she’s been accepted anywhere.
My daughter is going to be a doctor. Oh joy!
Not so much…
Assuming she gets into a med school, I’m going to have to hear about gruesome details of human anatomy, disease, diagnosis, pain, death, and many of her experiences through residency. Except I never wanted to be a doctor, or walk the path of becoming one. And I still don’t. Just the thought of blood, cutting someone open in surgery, makes me ill. But a part of me, the adult part with a broader view than my personal gratification, understands my daughter is honoring my vision by choosing to devote her life to the welfare of others, and I’ll do whatever I can to support her achieving this goal.
I can hear the chorus of non-breeders and parents more devoted to their work than the kids they create dissing me for helicopter parenting. But the road to becoming a doctor, or even a rocket scientist isn’t like becoming a soldier or real estate broker where the barrier to entry is extremely low. “Emotional support from family is one of the strongest predictors of admissions and persistence in medical school,” AAMC, AMA, and tons of medical education studies have found.
We play God giving life, having kids. My sister had three. The first two she pursued her own bliss, playing tennis for hours daily, taking two week vacations 3 to 5 times a year leaving her kids with our mother, or a nanny. Her husband, their father, found his value devoting his life to his career. Both their kids struggled academically regardless that they had the financial means for expensive tutors. Both dropped out of college and have no discernible careers. At 46 and 44, they both are always hustling to make ends meet, pay the bills—get by.
My sister had her third child seven years after her daughter. This boy loved the violin from the first time he heard the instrument. My sister gave him one at 5 yrs old and signed him up for lessons. The instructor told her son the proper posture for holding and playing the violin, and for the next decade my sister worked with her son most every day, for an hour or more, coaching him to: “Lift your elbow. Drop your shoulder. Center your chin.” She took him to his lessons, attended his recitals and proudly invited friends and family. A guitarist herself, they played music together often—a bizarrely bonding experience (if you’ve not done it and don’t know). My sister formed a connection with her last child she’d neglected to establish with her first two. She gave her baby her most precious gift—her TIME.
Her son, at 37, is a successful ARTIST—likely the hardest career to attain. He got into the prestigious Berklee School of Music with my sister’s emotional and financial support from applying through attending. He now co-owns a gallery in the posh Wilshire district of L.A. where he showcases famous and up-and-coming artists. He shows and sells his work globally. Financially stable. Happily married with kids. A resounding success by every measure.
Tell me parental support doesn’t really matter and you’re lying to you.
I always wanted kids, not only to raise them better than my parents did, but to create human beings that were better than me—kinder, more receptive, perceptive, smarter choices and actions for themselves and the lives they touch. I had this notion that if each gen raised their children better than the last, people could rise above our petty prejudices and squabbles and learn from each other, work together and reach our true creative, compassionate potential. Our children’s children’s children wouldn’t know poverty, inequity, blind faith or hate. Imagine what we could create…
Thing is, most don’t share my vision, so absorbed in their day-to-day they can’t see the forests [we’re killing] through the trees [on their block]. And that’s a shame, really. Contrary to popular perception, our individual lives don’t really matter in the long run. Regardless of how famous you become, or the amount of money you make, or even your memories from life experiences, it all goes when you die. You may be remembered by family, friends or fans for a while, but even your memory will fade for most everyone in short order. The greatest contribution we can make in our lifetime is in service to others. Raising kids, supporting parents, friends, colleagues, strangers, we create a better world when we invest our time, energy, and heart into each other.
Women are inherently maternal—raised to put others before self. This is the cost…
I think I may be broken. Not the quirky, cute type, but really cracked, unable to compartmentalize my desires from those of the people I love. I don’t stand up for what I want because I often lose sight of what that is exactly. I feel an initial desire for or against something and often state it, but that voice is drown out by my husband, or my kids’ objections or justifications in opposition to mine. My desire to please seemingly becomes more gratifying than getting what I thought best or actually wanted.
I don’t like Disneyland, but every year we ended up at the theme park throughout our kids’ formative years. I don’t care for camping, or hiking, or petting zoos, or pumpkin patches, yet was consistently one of the few parent volunteers to chaperon our son’s Boy Scout outings, our daughter’s Girl Scout adventures, and many of their school field trips. I’ve told my husband 17,000 times I want him to plan and execute a romantic getaway for the two of us, yet in 30 years of marriage I’ve been the only one to invest the time to create memorable vacations we both appreciate.
It can be argued that I’m getting what I want with my husband happily joining me on the vacations I plan. And it’s true I was glad to turn our kids on to safe, family fun experiences going to theme parks and camping trips annually. So giving in to what I personally don’t like or want to do isn’t only negative. The problem with acquiescing to everyone else is I never know how annoyed, tense, and most recently insane I’ll feel until I’m actively engaged in doing what I fundamentally didn’t want to.
Case in point…
We’re looking to buy a home in specific areas north of San Francisco, within our very tight budget. We mistakenly moved up to the Seattle area 5 yrs ago and have been looking to come home to California since. We’ve yet to find a house we both agree on. Either my husband or I can nix any property, and the other must agree to walk away without resentment. But this rule between us has been getting harder to maintain as the years have passed.
Looking for a home is never easy, especially since this will be our last, the one we leave to our kids so they’ll never know homelessness. I look at Redfin 5x a day. Every few weeks a listing gets our hopes up that ‘this is the one,’ only to have them dashed when we visit the wreck of a house, or get outbid three times over.
Last week we found two homes in the areas we’re looking for within the price range we can afford. One was exactly where we want to be in Petaluma—a rare find with very few homes for sale in that particular neighborhood. It sold within 48 hours of listing. Halfway into our 13 hr journey driving down to see the property, we got a call from our realtor that the house went under contract with another buyer. We offered 100k over asking with contingencies of seeing the property and getting inspections, but the seller went with their first offer which our realtor claimed was also over asking and required no inspections.
The second property was in the low, dry hills of Novato—picture a fire waiting to happen cuz their insurance carrier does! The lot was tempting—over a third of a flat acre—and the cost of the house was at our threshold, but doable. The owners had turned their two bedroom into four, the additional two bedrooms a garage conversion built on a thin concrete slab. No central heating or cooling in over half of the house. In other words, the attractive listing turned out to be cheaply constructed, jury-rigged crap.
The two homes we saw have been typical of our home-buying journey, which is why we’ve yet to actually purchase a home in the very competitive housing markets we want to live. Nonetheless, we decided to extend our stay and see what came up for sale.
We stayed over a week and saw 16 properties, some new listings, some days, even weeks old. Most were overpriced wrecks. A few were clean, and my husband insisted they were “Fine!” He wants to be back in the sunshine. So do I, but these ‘fine’ homes had less than 7000 sq ft lots. Living on top of the neighbors didn’t seem ‘fine’ to me, especially coming from the 1.5 acres we have now.
We went to see a home in Novato, though it had been on the market 11 days. Any property over a week on MLS indicates there are issues with the house. As we perused the interior, we were both impressed by how clean the home was. Good layout, though dark in many rooms, but enough space for our two adult kids, and my husband and I to set up separate offices.
The kids will be moving in a year or less, I told my husband while we walked the small property. And the lot was only 7200 ft. It was in a 3/10 flood zone. It was at the base of a bone dry hill, blocking sunshine and an extreme fire hazard. There was a monthly HOA fee of $200, and the community pool that money funded was almost across the street.
“This house is fine by me. It’s fine for me. It’s big enough for all of us. It’s quiet, and it’s fine.”
It wasn’t ‘fine’ by me, but I could feel his frustration mounting. All he wanted was to move back to the Bay. The 5 yrs we’ve been in Seattle he’s complained non-stop about the grayness. The cold. The dripping rain. I, too, want to come home (I’m native CA), but not just any house in any neighborhood and end up with a house and property we don’t want like we did moving up here.
I listed a few more negatives about the house. The price point was at our limit, and our property taxes and utilities would be at least a third more. And being tied to another HOA for a pool we’d never use was a waste. Standing in the kitchen, I told my husband I did not want the house. He heard me. So did our broker who let us in.
My husband was clearly upset I was rejecting the property. A house I’d rejected earlier that day he’d also said was “Fine!” (It wasn’t fine, and not just to me because it’d been on the market for 35 days.) He ‘suggested’ we go look at the pool area as we were leaving the house, regardless that I’d just said I didn’t want the home. I followed him across the street, still on the page of a no-go, but seeing how upset he was stung.
Was I expecting too much home or land for the money we had?
Every property comes with problems. Were the issues so bad with this home I couldn’t be happy here?
Am I just being gun-shy from the mistake of moving up to Seattle?
We left that house, and while viewing others my husband spent the rest of the day trying to convince me the Novato house was “just fine!”
He thinks we can afford it, and if we live very tight, we likely can.
He likes how big the house is, with enough space for all of us to live comfortably.
The location is good, he reminded me multiple times, an area of Novato I’ve said I like.
We’d finally be back in the Bay, in sunny CA. Home!
We saw no other houses worth considering by the end of that day. My husband was tired of looking, and the Novato house had a lot going for it, he reminded me as we headed back to our hotel.
I, too, was exhausted by our endless search but was willing to keep at it, though I could tell my husband was reaching his limit. “If you don’t want this house, I want to stop looking for a year,” he told me earlier in the day. We’d previously agreed to work hard at finding a place before another dark PNW winter. Going back home and have him sour, annoyed, and pouting every gray day there wasn’t working for him, or us. It’s why I agreed to put a bid in on the Novato home. “This isn’t the house,” I told him when we docusigned the paperwork. “We’ll have to move again in a year or two, scale down when the kids move on.”
Earlier, and still, he wasn’t really listening to me. He’d told me time and again he wanted our next home purchase to be our last, but even the threat of moving again didn’t dissuade him from signing the bid.
Twenty hours later, we were dining at a Thai place in Novato and we got a call from our realtor that the sellers accepted our bid.
I put my fork full of crispy noodles down on my plate. I couldn’t breathe. I looked across the table at my smiling husband. I did not smile back. I excused myself and went outside where I paced and tried to regulate my breathing and slow my heart rate. It works, sometimes, if I tell myself to chill. It didn’t work right then.
I couldn’t think to form words. I kept seeing this too dark, too big, too expensive home we were about to buy in my head and there wasn’t one good feeling to latch on to, even the many my husband had iterated.
I went back into the restaurant and managed to tell him we had to leave, pack up our meal and go. I explained I was having a meltdown, a full blown anxiety attack I did not understand, and that I wanted to go over to the house again, see what we just bought. He didn’t question me. We went back to the house and stood on the porch since we couldn’t get in without our realtor who was off celebrating her birthday.
We stayed on the porch through sunset. It was mostly quiet the half hour we were out there. A guy played basketball by himself at the mini park next to the pool, which stayed empty even though it was a holiday weekend. The rhythmic bouncing of his ball was annoying, but oddly calming, as it gave me something to focus on. My husband touted the quiet, the house size, the end of a 5 year search, finally coming home. He dismissed my meltdown as nerves about moving, which, he informed me is right up there on the stress meter as marriage, divorce, and child birth.
I’m scared, I admitted.
“I know,” he’d said. “But we’ll make it work.”
No, we won’t. I don’t want this house. I didn’t say it aloud since I wasn’t totally sure at that point. Instead, I burst into tears and cried the 15 minute drive back to our hotel. My husband said this house is FINE. I agreed to bid on it, said YES, even though I told him a lot of valid reasons we should say NO. Now we were locked into a binding contract that I wasn’t sure we should follow through with or how to get out of.
My brain locked up. Never happened to me before. Even under extreme stress, I usually can think (rationalize?) my way through to clarity. Not this time. My husband drove in silence. I could feel him shutting down as he always does with strong emotions. He’d be no help, and likely a hindrance in me managing my panic attack. He’d castigate me for agreeing to put in a bid. And he’d have been right to do so.
Maybe what he said at the house is right and I’m just panicking over moving.
He really wants to move home and so do I. Maybe this is the best we can do.
Maybe the house won’t be so bad. It’s big enough, and quiet, even though it’s rather dark and we’re moving home for the sunshine, and the kids are moving out and we don’t need this much space, and it costs too much and we don’t need additional HOA fees, and—
Maybe I’m bat shit crazy for agreeing to buy a house I don’t want to please my husband.
He finally asked me what was going on as he pulled into a parking space at our hotel. When I told him I didn’t know and needed some space to figure it out I wasn’t lying because right then there was a war in my head. He went up to our room and I stayed in the car and wept. I struggled to breathe, and see through the blinding headache that felt like my eyes were popping out. I needed help finding clarity since my brain didn’t seem to be functioning so I called a friend.
“Make a list of the pros and cons of buying this house,” she told me after twenty minutes of listening to me freak out with the opposing voices locking up my brain. She helped me realize my full body meltdown to winning the bid was telling me something, and I should at least acknowledge it. Bless her!
Couldn’t help crying again up in our suite as I apologized to my husband for freaking out. I knew I didn’t want the house by then, but was afraid to disappoint him. Instead, I offered up my friend’s suggestion, and my husband worked with me on a pros and cons list. By midnight, it was obvious where buying the house was trending, and even he was moving toward withdrawing our bid. He suggested we decide what to do in the morning since nothing was going to happen at that hour, so we went to bed. Well, sort of, since neither of us really slept.
“You realize this could cost us forty five grand in earnest money?” my husband asked me in the morning when I informed him I was 100% sure I did not want to buy the Novato house.
“It won’t. We have an inspection contingency.” Thank God we did! In popular markets, brokers push buyers to waive all contingencies. In five home purchases, we never have, regardless if there’s ‘pre-inspections’ provided by the sellers.
The moment we docusigned our bid withdrawal my headache began to subside. I could tell my husband was relieved too, especially after our daughter called to inform us the house was priced $200k over comparable homes in the area. We hadn’t run comps before bidding. Our bad!
We left the Bay area the next day. The drive back up the coast I mused we were in the same position as when we came to check out those two houses—still homeless down there. But my husband disagreed. We learned a lot, he insisted.
Never bid on a house without an inspection contingency!
Always run comps of the area to see if the house is competitively priced.
And never, ever agree to buy a house I don’t want.
Easier said than done. Women are inherently maternal—outwardly focused. We’re raised to be caretakers, put others before self. But I, too, learned something on this last trip. Almost instinctively, I want to please so badly I rarely fight for my position in the face of opposition. I eventually (sometimes quickly) cave with resistance to my preferences and desires. And to fix this part of me, I’m gonna have to stand up, even go to battle when necessary to be heard, respected, and come away whole.
Spent my life looking in at the world I live, but never ‘fitting in’…
Ever been with a group of people, and everyone is talking amicably, (or on their cellphones), and you’re sitting there watching and listening, and you feel like an alien? Not a foreign national among a group of natives. More like you’re from another planet. Or they are.
I’ve known I was different for most of my life, always on the outside looking in at the world I live in. I’ve never been popular, never had a large group of friends to hang with like in sitcoms. Beyond theology like my atheism, there are actual, real differences that separate me from most.
I don’t drink alcohol. Can’t stand the taste of the stuff. Wine. Beer. Hard liquor. BLA! Even rum wrecks some would-be-great desserts, like tiramisu. Virtually the first thing that happens at any gathering is the ritual serving of the drinks. I always refuse, which immediately raises suspicions that I’m either a friend of Bill W, or on some fad diet, or a hippy-vegan. The first brick in the wall between me and the group.
I have no internet connection on my cellphone. I don’t carry my phone with me most of the time, don’t look at it except to make a call or send a text, which I do rarely, especially when I’m with other people. Use a scheduler for posts, so I’m not on any social media platforms. I follow no one intentionally (as X automatically follows back anyone who follows you). I don’t know what is trending online which puts me outside most lite banter about the latest cat video or influencer’s recent divorce. Another brick in the wall.
I don’t watch TV much. I average three movies in the theater a year, and rarely go to plays. I don’t watch or follow sports. Any. Ever. I don’t know the latest shows, any of the actors, or what rock star is hot on YouTube. I must have some mental disorder because people who play no active role in my life just don’t register with me. Not remembering names or faces is yet another brick because I cannot engage in dialog about celebrities or their latest movies.
As a woman, with other women, I feel particularly off-planet. I have no interest in discussing my kids for the most part. I’m with my kids a LOT. I don’t want it all about them when I’m not. I don’t care about sales or shoes. I dress for comfort, prefer my old, soft, often ripped clothes to new. I never wear makeup, much to my mother’s chagrin. Don’t even carry a purse. The diamond studs in my ears have been there for 30 yrs. I wear no other jewelry. Had no grandparents to babysit (or cash) to travel beyond summer vacations once we had kids, so I feel awkward when everyone’s talking about their romantic getaways with their DH to the Big Island, or Caribbean while grandma watched the kids.
I want to talk intimately about issues that matter to all of us, without being politically correct, or woke, and with virtually nothing held sacred — an open forum of communication and healthy debate. But it seems every time I bring up feelings of frustration globally, nationally, locally, or even personally, I create a void in the group’s dialog, this vortex of weighted silence. Either no one wants to share their real feelings, or they don’t know what I’m talking about, or they have no opinion, or they’re too afraid to state it.
The bitch is, I want to fit in, be a part of, integrate as I see others do.
Sort of. I just don’t want to DO what most seem to.
I don’t wish to remain ignorant about global and local issues so not to disrupt my personal bliss. My husband is the son of a holocaust survivor. I grew up on horror stories of the camps told by family, some who lost everyone they loved. We all need to be vigilant it never happens again.
I couldn’t care less about celebs and influencers. Studio City born and raised — where the film studios originally set up, hense the name — at the north base of the Hollywood Hills. Most of the kids’ parents I went to school with were actors or musicians or writers. By high school, half of my contemporaries were artists themselves. The ones who ‘made it,’ were regular people to me, who worked, and networked (partied) obscene hours. Intoxicated crowds overwhelm me. Not my jam.
While I enjoy playing racquetball and pickleball, I’ve little interest in watching someone else play sports. Pro athletes work towards excellence 24/7, yet somehow fans take on team victories as their own while they sit on the couch downing beer. I just don’t get it.
The ‘little bit of color’ my mother insisted was mandatory to put on my lips and cheeks to attract a mate, makes most women who wear makeup look like clowns, or mannequins to me. And it’s a rather ironic twist that the media convinces women they need cosmetics to be attractive, especially since it’s a proven cause of cancer, and cancer isn’t pretty.
Clearly, I am damning myself to the outside looking in. As an atheist, in faith-based (mostly Christian) America, I don’t belong to the neighborhood church, or celebrate any religious holidays, or get how seemingly reasonable people can believe in myths and fairytales at this stage in human development. And since it’s unlikely I’ll develop a taste for alcohol anytime soon, or become addicted to my cellphone, I’m unclear how to move forward, to integrate, fit in with the group at the table now on their second or third drink. They’re getting sloppy, and rather loud, and all I want to do is leave.
So I do. I get in my spaceship (my Prius among the SUVs) and venture home to my sleeping kids and working husband. He’ll ask me how the Mompreneurs’ Meetup went and I’ll say fine, and later I’ll be standing in the shower feeling invisible, valueless.
The road is empty and dark. Houses are lit inside and look warm and welcoming. Mine will be too, a safe harbor where people ‘get me,’ but I know I isolate there too much. I want friends, to be a part of the world beyond my fam, I just don’t know how to step inside where most seem to live. But truth be told, it’s rather lonely out here.
SEX is JUST SEX. It is a biological drive, a primal/base urge both genders possess (to varying degree between individuals).
SEX IS NOT LOVE, regardless of the portrayal in movies that the act of sex is profoundly loving, a spiritual meeting of minds, bodies, and souls. Having sex can be an action of love, but it isn’t with someone you’ve just met. Love takes longer and requires a lot more work than a quicky. And fucking on a granite countertop in the kitchen may look romantic, but seriously? Ouch!
AN ORGASM IS NOT LOVE. Dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, and norepinephrine — the brain releases a surge of feel-good hormones with orgasm. This Pleasure/Reward circuit that lights up our brains is encoded in our DNA — part of our evolutionary process — incentiveprogramming to reproduce.
Consenting partners engaged in sex often equate these happy hormones with feelings of love. This is especially true for first crushes, but the notion that sex and love are synonymous is the gold standard in mainstream media and morality. It’s proselytized by religion, parents, and the media — ‘making love’ the climax (excuse the pun), consummating the canonical ‘happy ending.’
SEX is NOT LOVE, no matter what your pastor, or TV, or your mother tells you.
LOVE is much harder to attain than an orgasm.
In fact, I can and do take care of my biological craving for intense physical pleasure all by myself. And heads up guys — I’ve asked hundreds of heterosexual women over the years if they have a more intense orgasm with a partner or without. It has ALWAYS been without.
From biblical times, humanity has made the act of SEX so much more than a biological urge encoded in our DNA because the consequences can pass on disease and create life. Even with the advent of birth control, sex is still riskier for women than men.
We all expect the primary parent to be the mother, even today. Common wisdom professes women are programmed to care for our children. True or social rhetoric, we generally don’t walk away from our kids, which is why women and men usually have sex for different reasons.
Women are looking for a deep[er] connection when we initiate or consent to sex. Even with hookups, most women are looking for an intimate bond, a mythical shared emotional space. Languishing with their loverin the afterglow of sex is more satisfying than the orgasm itself. We imagine the moment lasting, blossoming into a loving relationship.
SEX is just SEX. But if Desire — the cravings for happy hormones — is not satisfied, a predictable pattern of behavior generally emerges.
Sexually frustrated men typically withdraw, become more distant, passive/aggressive. They’re less malleable. Less likely to pay attention, be supportive — from helping with daily tasks, to engaging in dialog over concerns and issues. This offensive behavior leads to further discord between partners, and less sex, perpetuating the implosion of the relationship.
Women generally don’t want to have sex when we’re upset with our partners, but most of us don’t ignore sexual desire. As mentioned, we simply satisfy ourselves. Infidelity is not about orgasms for women. They typically have affairs with a man who lavishes attention, praise, sometimes gifts — actions their primary partner is not taking.
It is NOT an action of love, in the throes of passion, to break marriage contracts of fidelity. It is, perhaps, more egregious to nix the condom to heighten erotic stimulation. These are displays of their lateral orbitofrontal cortex shutting down, blocking out all reason, abandoning all behavioral control to spark the Pleasure/Reward circuitry in the brain.
Kind of like a gorilla. (They have a hard time with complex reasoning, and predictive modeling — examining the possible consequences of their actions, like producing a child.)
SEX may be grounded in our biological drive to reproduce, but over millennium women have found it a useful tool, consciously, or not. (You can pretend it’s not true, but you’d be lying to you.) We’ve woven so much crap into coupling — equating fucking with love, making sex the pinnacle of romance, acceptance, and required for intimacy, we ignore the fact that these are myths. Mere social and religious constructs to mitigate the consequences of intercourse.
SEX, by no means, need be 5% of the relationship when it’s good, and 95% when it’s not, as your church, temple, dad, and social media tells you:
Over 18 and still a virgin?
You’ve been on how many dates, and you haven’t made it yet?
Together for X months and you only do it once a week?
Newlyweds? You should be humping like bunnies!
No sex for X days/months/yrs means your marriage has gone stale.
Most loving, lasting relationships do not hinge on sexual frequency. Pressuring your partner to be sexually available at your whim should no longer be acceptable. Sexual Desire is dynamic — changing with circumstance, age, physicality. Over time, being there for the other andaccepting each other’s frailties garners trust. Trust generates intimacy — LOVE.
SEX can be an intensely pleasurable physical exchange between willing partners. It can be an expression of caring, a sharing, bonding experience for couples, but it will not make some rando fall in love with you. The dopamine rush from orgasm is not an emotional connection with your partner. It’s brain chemistry.
Random SEX does NOT make you more desirable/valuable, and will likely not get you the relationship you’re really looking for. More SEX will NOT save your marriage, or a dying relationship from poor communication. Having intercourse may defer but will not cure issues negatively affecting your partnership.
You bet! So is most everyone else, even people with partners. And no need to be jealous of the relationship they have, since they likely don’t have the fulfilling romance you imagine they do.
Sad?
Of course! Lonely is depressing!
Anxious these days? Or any days navigating our modern world?
Of course you are. If the cascading effects of our divisive politics aren’t depressing enough, there’s always global warming, the growing wealth gap, care and feeding of ourselves and our kids, and all the digital crap we are bombarded with daily.
“If you’re dealing with depression or anxiety, now may be the time to talk to a licensed therapist,” Michael Phelps, the Olympic gold medalist says to camera, like he’s talking directly to YOU.
Mr. Phelps is selling online therapy, which has exploded in popularity with the isolation of the Covid19 pandemic. Before Michael got on board as their official spokesman, online therapy was slowly, quietly growing. As more celebs put their mental health in the spotlight, as Phelps has done with his own emotional struggles, the more acceptable seeking “mental help” becomes [for those who can afford it].
“It’ just as easy as joining a video call, or texting with a friend,” Phelps continues. “Except it’s with a licensed professional therapist trained to listen and offer support, all from the comfort of your home.”
Mr. Phelps is recommending that instead of calling a family member or friend, for free, who will likely listen and be supportive, you can PAY someone you don’t know, who does not know you, starting at $150 an hour or more, for a 50-minute online chat.
I get that many people don’t have ‘friends’ they can call up and talk about what matters to them. If this is you, the question is WHY?
There are social clubs, volunteering opportunities, gyms, classes, sports that you can engage in to meet others. Sure, that’s work, hard work, and it’s much easier to binge-watch Netflix to help you forget you feel lonely.
If you choose to pay for a therapist than deal with the work and compromise that comes with real relationships, well, it’s no wonder you’re lonely. And I won’t play therapist here and waste your time ‘exploring’ your lack of motivation, or apologize for telling you the truth. For most of us, there’s no real reason to be lonely. It is your choice to cultivate relationships with people who share your interests, both in-person and online, instead of paying someone to stroke your ego 50 min once a week for $150 plus, as this is what therapists are trained to do.
The best explanation on the value of modern therapy I’ve ever heard was from a friend who’d recently graduated from a prestigious university with his Doctorate in Psychology: “Going to therapy is like getting a mental massage.”
The entire process of one-on-one therapy is fatally flawed.
Marriage and Family Counselors to doctorate-level psychologists are trained to be your advocate. It is their job to build trust between you. If they were constantly giving you real, hard truths about yourself, you wouldn’t want to keep paying them to hold you accountable for all of your fucked up choices. Most therapists are schooled in “understanding.” They’re taught to be an empathetic listener, more sympathetic than action driven. Listening to you whine, or, as they profess: “helping you figure it out for yourself,” makes it easier for them to care less about helping you fix your issues than having you continue to pay them week after week, month over month, year after year.
There is a fundamental conflict of interest at the core of the therapeutic process. It is easier to keep a client than get a new one! Anyone in business will tell you this adage is the truth. And therapy is a business, and a profitable one at that, if the therapist can get and retain clients. They are hoping for a long-term relationship, where you feel as if you have a friend in them over the years, maybe at times, the only true friend you feel you have. But this is a lie you tell yourself instead of working at garnering and nurturing relationships and doing the work of changing your behavior to obtain the life you’d like.
We lie to ourselves often, and therapists don’t feel it’s their job to call you out, even though doing so could save you tens of thousands of dollars, and possibly years of your life’s time.
Psychology 101: PEOPLE LIE. To ourselves a LOT, and to each other. We rationalize, justify, and flat out lie to look kind, smart, moral, wise, or to get what we want. And if you are telling yourself you do not lie, you are in fact lying to yourself.
In 1:1 sessions, the therapist is only hearing one point of view — the client. They have no idea what the real truth is compared to what they are being told. And as I’ve established, PEOPLE LIE. Since the therapist cannot see your actions outside their office, and has no contact or even interest in your life beyond that same office, they have no idea what is actually happening for you, only what you choose to tell them. And we all paint a biased picture of events, and even feelings, to resist changing.
Transference is not a one-way trip. Psychoanalysis describes the term as a client expressing feelings toward the therapist that appear to be based on the patient’s past feelings about someone else. But therapists are humans too. They often project their personal feelings onto their clients.
Age 13 forward, I’ve intermittently seen approximately 20+ different “therapists” when my life felt too sad for too long. Some I kept paying for several years. Clearly, they weren’t helping me to feel any happier, or I’d have learned how to have more joy in my life, therefore eliminating the need to continue paying them.
A marriage counselor I saw first on my own, then brought my husband in, who saw her separately at times as well, nearly had us divorcing. We came to her to help us preserve our marriage. She was an advocate for me when I saw her, and my husband’s advocate when he saw her, essentially pitting us against each other. Sessions with my husband were all about working out our fiery righteous indignation that she’d sparked. We saw her weekly, sometimes more for 3 years, and finally quit her, instead of each other.
Every therapist I’ve seen I’ve asked for the same feedback — to show me the point of view I am not seeing; to consistently point out when I’m wrong, or lying to myself, and then help me find a path to change my destructive behaviors leading me to outcomes that will not make me happy. They’ve all been very understanding, sympathetic in the extreme when I explain any given event, what I felt and why I reacted as I did, but most of them have failed to give me insight I’ve yet to consider or found particularly useful when applied in real life.
How many reading this blog have been in therapy for years at a stretch, spending thousands, possibly tens of thousands annually? How many collective hours of your life have you spent in therapy?
Maybe it’s time to consider if spending a small fortune to get your ego stroked for 50 minutes weekly is really improving your life…
Australia killed social media today for under 18. YEA AUZZIES!
My almost 24 yr old daughter came downstairs Saturday morning giggling with glee. She told my husband and I she was ‘so excited!’ Something ‘great’ had happened.
She was in a car accident 1.5 yrs ago that is resulting in a lawsuit, and I thought she’d talked to our lawyer and he gave us great news. Nope.
“I got an audition on The Button!” she said, pridefully. “It’s a really popular YouTube series.”
I went with her excitement. My beautiful daughter got an acting audition, or for her melodic singing. Or a baking show for her excellent macaron cookies!
“How many subscribers?” I asked.
“Millions! It’s a reality dating show.”
As her words registered in my head, so did dread.
“You sit at a table across from each other with a large red button between you,” she explained enthusiastically. “The show’s producers ask personal, intimate questions to push conversation.”
I bet they do. Build tension. Push the show’s platform of ‘Shaming Spectacle.’ Corrosive dread was quickly turning into explosive rage.
“If one presses the button before the other, that person is out of the game.”
“You mean rejected?” At this point, my rage was boiling over. My daughter was seemingly so addicted to her phone and social media she could not see the ugly, sick fuck piece of trash YouTube show she’d signed on for.
“Yeah. But if neither press the button, then you win a date,” she said, more cautiously seeing my expression.
My tolerance dam broke right then. “Are you stupid!? Why would you sign up for a show designed to SHAME YOU? Are people allowed to leave comments?”
“Yes, Mother, but it’s not like that.”
“What’s it like, then?” my husband asked. “How can this possibly serve you going on this show?”
“It’s not about that. It’ll be fun to be on a show I watch.”
She watches this crap!? But I didn’t voice it. “You’re supposed to be studying for your MCATs. Why do you want to go on this show that’s designed to make you feel shitty about yourself?”
“It’s just for fun,” she defended. “I probably won’t even get on.”
“And if you do, how are you going to feel with being rejected in front of millions? Or rejecting someone else?”
“Maybe I won’t be rejected.”
“And what? You’ll find Mr. Right on this bullshit show? You have MCATs in 8 wks, honey. What are you doing!?”
“I thought it would be fun to be seen by that many people,” she said flatly.
“But you won’t be seen,” my husband chimed in. “You judge everyone on the show when you’re watching. And millions will be doing the same to you.”
“Are you ready for negative comments about your looks, or things you expose when the asshole producers trigger you in front of millions?”
“I won’t read the comments.”
“Are you talking about the Red Button show?” our son comes in the kitchen.
“Yeah,” she said to her older brother. “Have you seen it?”
“Yeah. Couple times. It’s really brutal. A race to the bottom — who can push the button first. No one wants to be the one rejected. You like it?”
“Yeah. I think it’s funny.”
“She got an audition to do the show,” I filled him in.
“Your mom and I don’t think it’s a great idea.”
“Even to audition,” I said. “Won’t help your self image any if you get rejected for the show.”
“So, you don’t think I’m pretty enough to be on the show?” she asked, practically glaring at me. “You think I’m not good looking enough to get picked.”
“I see my beautiful daughter. But this isn’t about what I think. You’ve cried to me time and again you’re not pretty enough,” I manage more softly. “You’ve admitted you compare yourself with influencers, and how you feel ugly by social standards. You’ve told me you hate your nose. Don’t like your body shape. Breast size. Your face. How is this going to be ‘fun’ if you’re rejected, get bad comments, or even get a second date? At best, this show’s a distraction from your goal to get into med school. At worse, and more likely, it’ll make you feel even worse about yourself.”
“Not fun,” her brother added. “I wouldn’t do it J. Not smart,” he said as he left.
“I’m doing the audition anyway,” our daughter said, and followed him out of the kitchen.
—
Ever written a blog, personal essay, or even an email, and as you write it you realize something is fucked up with your reasoning — the point you set out to make?
I realized I may have shamed our daughter, just as the The Button is designed to shame its participants.
I wrote her an email this morning apologizing if she felt I did when I lost it after she told me she was auditioning for the game. I explained my intention was to protect her, educate her from the dangers of predatory online content. She clearly failed to understand the broader consequences of signing up for, or even frequently watching the exploitative game show.
‘Game show’ my ass. Nothing playful about The Button. I wanted to protect my beautiful baby from being publicly shamed.
Some raw facts (I didn’t iterate to our daughter, but likely should):
Social media addiction amplifies low self-esteem leading to higher rates of depression and suicide, especially in her age group.
Watching and engaging with shaming, bullying, predatory, and exploitative content increases low self-esteem, depression and suicide rates.
The development team of ignorant, arrogant, short-sighted, self-serving slime, AKA, the Cut: David Alvarez, Blaine Ludy, Marina Taylor (former), and Desmond Vieg, are making bank on what they call “a social experiment.”
‘Experiment?’ Get real! No science. No controls. These parasites are profiting from exploiting shame and destroying self-esteem of young people establishing their self-images. How ugly is that!
Regardless of my faulty approach of admonishing our daughter for signing up for The Button, my heart was in the right place. The Cut developers are clearly heartless. Would they entice their own kids into some twisted social ‘experiment’ for their profit? I pray they never have children. Narcissists generally make suck parents.
I’m ashamed, feel I failed as a mom that my daughter signed up to be on The Button, or even chooses to spend one minute of her life’s time watching it, essentially promoting it with her views. I thought I taught our kids to be aware of the consequences of their actions. Parenting the perils of the internet seems a constant work-in-progress now, coming up against social platforms luring kids in like the Pied Piper, and addicting them like Purdue Pharma with OxyContin.
The Cut founders are young, naive, arrogant, and ignorant in the extreme. (So is most social media, from Insta to Snap that blows away your life’s time). Ugly games like The Button teaches watchers and participants it’s OK to torment, mock, insult, shame people, for profit.
The Button creators get richer with every hit to their “mean‑spirited,” “cruel,” “superficial,” “shallow,” YouTube channel. And ‘Seen by millions’ if you join their cast of fools won’t make you rich like they’re becoming on you.
Modeling cruelty spreads it. When you View or Engage with The Button, or any online game, platform, or app that makes it acceptable, (profitable, and therefore admirable) to be cruel, you are participating in becoming so.
This Coloring Book is a Garden of Creative Possibilities
Inside this book are canvases of botanicals imagined by the mathematical beauty of fractals, and hand-drawn from nature. Whether you’re attracted to symmetry, or wild, spiraling complexity, each design invites you to pause and see the flowers, breathe deep, and engage in smooth focus through artistic immersion.
Coloring is more than a pastime—it’s tactile meditation, a quiet ritual promoting neural conductivity, hand-eye coordination, and focused creativity. Research has shown coloring reduces stress, calms the nervous system, and fosters clarity. In a world of constant motion, this is your chance to unplug.
Nurture Your Creative Expression
The soft gray outlines (instead of black) of each rendering are suggestions (kinda like the speed limit in CA). Colored pencils, crayons, markers, paints, you can use the outlines as rules, or merely guides. You’re encouraged to color outside the lines! Add flowers, petals, leaves. With endless possibilities for creative expression, every page is a canvas for creating something uniquely yours.
Make Each Page a Canvas
Each canvas is downloadable with the website link inside so you can print them out on your home printer on any paper weight you like. Every botanical illustration can be cut from this book and used as:
Young adults, new adults, and grownups to 100+ this coloring book is broken down by levels of difficulty. Be mindful to start at the beginning and hone your coloring skills to level up to the more complex renderings to come.
Spark Your Imagination
Need some inspiration to begin coloring these detailed floral illustrations? Each rendering was uploaded to Copilot and the AI asked to color the designs. Click the link on the last page of this book to see the bot’s coloring of these renderings.
Last night my husband got very sick. He was vomiting simultaneously with diarrhea and shat himself. He was restless through the night and got up early, clearly still feeling ill.
This morning when I came downstairs I asked him how he was feeling. Not so great, he told me. Still have diarrhea, but I’m not feeling as nauseous. I still can’t hold water down though. I think I have the norovirus, or food poisoning.
I put on my Dr. Mom role. Whatever is in your system you have to get it out, I told him. So, drink a lot. Start with water, or Gatorade for the electrolytes. Sip it throughout the day if it makes you feel sick drinking.
I don’t know if that’s the best idea. The internet says I should avoid drinking if I keep throwing it up, he told me he’d read earlier, likely off some bullshit site selling pharms but claiming to be ‘medical,’ like WebMD.
I felt my irritation building as he sat at the kitchen table and scrolled his laptop. You lost a lot of fluids last night, I told him. You need to replace it to help your system fight whatever you’ve got. And you need to eat something. How about a banana? They’re binding. Or a piece of dry toast, no butter.
Let me look it up and see what they recommend, he said and continued scrolling and reading.
Are you kidding me? I asked, miffed. Who are ‘they?’ The Internet!? By the time you find any real information on not only what is wrong with you but also what to do about it you’ll be convinced you need hospitalization. I’ve played Dr. Mom to our kids hundreds of times. Stomach flu, even norovirus is manageable with a few key steps. You don’t need to look it up! You need to stay hydrated. Bananas are binding and will help suppress diarrhea, I told him. Water will help flush your system of whatever is bothering you.
I know why he got sick. It’s the height of Spring, and we’re in New Jersey for his mom’s 90th. By the second day there he was suffering with recurring bouts of rapid-fire sneezing. Wheezing. Continual runny nose. Four days of severe allergies taxing his immune system, and he got on a plane to come back to the w[b]est coast. And while his allergies eased on the plane and entirely once home, someone in overpopulated New York City — the cesspool of the country, the crowded airports we waited in for hours with delays at Newark, or on our plane had something, and he got it.
Raise your hand if you know someone who constantly pulls out their phone during casual conversation to ‘get the facts’ (what a joke!) on whatever the subject of your dialog. Hella annoying! I’d rather contemplate the answer than have it served to me by an unreliable source.
We got together with a friend of my husband’s while we were back east. He’s ‘one of those guys’ who whips out his phone to check if whatever is being said is ‘right.’ He read aloud with authority whatever [garbage] he found on the net. But iterating the first thing that pops up on his phone screen is, well, idiotic. Today’s internet makes it impossible to find any real facts without hours of searching multiple sources well beyond Google or Chatgpt, and even then, the information you’ll find is limited to the recommendation engines behind most platforms.
Do you pull out your mobile when you’re on the toilet, in line at the store, even with friends or fam? Text someone? Check your email? Scroll Insta? Look for…whatever? At both airports, on both planes, in line at any store, in most public places packed with people, or even just a few passing by, and most everyone is on their phones most all the time. Take your face out of your phone and look around to see what I’m saying here is real. The TRUTH*. Instant access to the internet through cellphones or tablets are creating a massive addiction problem. People are relying on their connected devices like junkies rely on heroin. And like the drug, it may feel good upfront getting that dopamine rush from instant access to entertaining ‘information,’ regardless how amusing there is little truth to what most are getting from quick searches. And addicted phone users supply far more data to AI engines making them easier to manipulate you with personalized, targeted messaging. The Republicans have used mobile marketing far more effectively than the Democrats. Clearly.
WebMD says I’m supposed to eat bananas for the diarrhea and stay hydrated with water or tea or something with electrolytes, my husband read aloud this morning. Like most today, he’s becoming one of the converted, a true believer in the Internet, whoever he deems them to be.
That’s what I said, I defended. Without looking on the net, I added cuz I was feeling pissed off, and a bit scared of his internet addiction right then. My husband doesn’t go to the toilet without his phone or laptop. The Internet has become his God. And I have no interest in, nor trust in blind believers.
Cellphone and Internet usage, whether for ‘convenience’ or entertainment or ‘information’ is moving humanity in the WRONG direction, away from compassion, empathy, and quality, to idiocracy. It is creating more blind believers than any religion. Your cellphone and the internet are TELLING YOU WHAT AND HOW TO THINK. Think you know why there is no customer service at Macy’s, or why most retail is shutting down? Yeah, Amazon, but more to the point, no one protests their spending their life hours in the long line at Macy’s because they are on their phones, being entertained by messaging to convince us to buy [into], try, subscribe!
GET A CLUE! It costs me (and likely you) MORE to order plane tickets for New Jersey using Chrome than on Edge. Why? Dynamic or Personalized Pricing, except the profit is for the airline, and the assholes who make and manage their SaaS. Google (who runs Chrome) has more data on my spending habits, my income, my ‘purchasing power’ than Microsoft. Clearly. So Alaskan Airlines went with Googles data and charged me over $40 per ticket more. And most everything you buy online now has variable pricing — you are CHARGED MORE the more data you give them through your phone because every site you look at, every platform you engage with, every purchase you make through your mobile is recorded and sold to the highest bidder.
Have I lost you yet? You want to be ENTERTAINED, not brought down with the TRUTH. Look it up and the Internet will tell you I’m a conspiracy theorist. The Internet saves lives! It moves society forward.
Well, it sure has. It’s creating a planet of junkies.
Don’t think of yourself as an addict? Well, if you got this far and are reading this on your phone right now, put it down and look into a mirror. NOT a selfie. A real mirror and then ask yourself to tell you the TRUTH. Most addicts can’t see it — can’t admit to being addicted. That’s why the #1 Rule in Alcoholics Anonymous is first to ADMIT YOU ARE AN ADDICT.
Do you care you are a junkie, addicted to your phone? If you don’t believe you are, then put it down and leave it for two hours. How many times do you think to pick it up? Just check it, quick check, see if it has anything you must know about right now?
It doesn’t. That’s algorithms designed to convince you to stay on your device. That way you are a target for selling — products, services, messaging, belief.
If you are one of the very few junkies who understand mass addiction to corporate talons is bad for society globally, take the Internet off your phone so you’re not tempted to spend hours every day blowing away your life’s time on mindless content meant to get you to blindly believe whatever political agenda or corporate America is selling you.
—
*How can you trust I’m not touting conspiracy theories, that I’m telling you TRUTH here? My husband is a software architect that helped design the first recommendation engine [for Netflix]. I have been marketing SaaS startups in Silicon Valley since the dot com boom in the late 1990s, and teaching entrepreneurs developing SaaS and ‘AI’ at Stanford and Cal Berkeley for a decade. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know what you all do not know — that I too could be an ignorant addict like most of you. It’s certainly easier to live with your head up your own ass. Too harsh? Maybe. But really, in the long run, ask yourself what kind of world are you leaving for our children when everyone is a junkie sucking on the corporate tit.
jcafesin.com 