Years ago, I took my five year old son to a playgroup. It was our first time at this particular group, meeting at the hilltop home of the founding member, and we were over an hour late. All the regular members of the group were already there, the moms gathered on the back porch watching their toddlers play in the sand strip that ran along the side of the house.
There were only two kids my son’s age there—the founding member’s son and the girl from next door. The boy and girl, friends since birth, were playing house in a plastic playhouse with pink French windows and a blue shingle roof. After observing them a moment from behind me, my son joined the kids in the playhouse. Five minutes later he and the other boy were in the yard sparring with sticks, then pretending the sticks were guns and shooting at the little girl.
My heart went out to her as she tried in vain to encourage her neighbor to come back into the playhouse and continue their game. And I did intervene several times, reminding my son how it felt to be left out and insisting that he find a game that included her, until finally they all agreed to play with the train set inside and went in.
I stayed out on the porch and had a somewhat stilted conversation with the other moms amid them chiding their children for eating sand, or throwing it, or both. A few minutes passed and the little girl came out of the house crying. The boys were making fun of her for being a girl, taunting her for liking dolls and playing house, claiming that girls and boys couldn’t ever be friends since ‘boys were cool and girls drool,’ so she wasn’t allowed to play with them anymore.
My son’s introduction to the new playgroup wasn’t going well, and I went into the house to confront him. He was happily hiding with the other boy in a tent-like structure they’d built on the living room floor. I called both boys to come out and face me. After my son vehemently insisted that the other boy had said the little girl couldn’t play, I told them both to sit down, hoping to enlighten them.
I again reminded both of them how it feels to be left out. Then I explained that in the grown up world girls and boys play together all the time.
‘In fact, my very best friend is your dad,’ I told my son and his new friend, and the little girl standing beside me. ‘He’s my favorite playmate. We can always find something to do together that both of us like. He’s my BFF for life!’ And since he was a boy and I was a girl, the boys were obviously wrong thinking that girls and boys couldn’t be friends. The two of them sat there thinking about what I’d just said, asked, “Really?” followed by “Wow,” and they finally invited the little girl back in and included her in their game. She got to be Princess Leia.
Listening from the back porch to my exchange with the kids, the women confronted me the moment I took my place on the concrete steps outside. They all wanted to know if I’d lied to the children about my relationship with my husband. Did I really possess the friendship I touted? Was he my first choice to play with, talk to, expose my innermost self to? I insisted he was. My husband was my closest friend, or at the very least it’s what we strove for. Wasn’t marriage about sharing yourselves inside and out?
Their answer turned out to be universally ‘NO.’ Out of the eleven women there, not one said their spouses were among their top three friends. All felt that, especially as they got older, they were drawing away from their husbands and moving towards other women for emotional support. They considered their girl friends their closest friends, those they shared their most intimate thoughts and feelings. All agreed that only women fully understood women, or wanted to, making it natural, normal, even healthy that they gravitated to like kind. Then they used our kid’s interaction earlier as an example of how males and females “naturally segregate” to back up their position.
Nature verses nurture is an ongoing debate over how much stereotypical behavior in boys and girls is genetically instilled or environmentally gleaned. Unarguably, gender has genetic differences in our physicality and our brain function. Boys and girls generally play together without reserve until around the first grade. The sexes begin to separate between 5 and 7 yrs old, around the same time we develop the brain power to assimilate within our environment, and begin to copy behavior of those around us. Eleven out of twelve moms at that playgroup chose to congregate almost exclusively with their own sex, modeling division between men and women to their kids.
Regardless that so many women today think most men are idiots, their utility is not limited to their earning capacity—making 20% more than a woman does—or their reproductive organs. Men are generally more linear, quantitative than qualitative, objectifying than identifying, competitive vs cooperative. While their brute strength is no longer required to bring down the mastodon [since we can all buy better steaks on Amazon], men offer lessons in living a more fulfilling life by being a bit more self-focused instead of solely maternal.
Most of humanity’s existence, men have taken the top tier—been the king of the castle, the final word in the household—because they could. Physical prowess won the battle of the sexes until recently. With the advent of technology, the reign of men is coming to an end.
Surrounding ourselves with like kind—women defaulting to women for a safe harbor—will not level the playing field or bridge the divide between the sexes. Women must learn to step up, stand our ground, not acquiesce to a man’s request simply because he made one. Men must step down from their throne atop the social order, even if they feel no ground, and embrace women’s emotional intelligence, our capacity for caring—for our children, and for them. No longer the sole bread-winner, men must offer more of what women do each other, become more maternal—beyond self—and more emotionally aware and available because with everything given something is owed, regardless of gender.
Our greatest hurtle to the union of humanity is not racial, religious, socioeconomic, cultural or political. The biggest chasm between us is our gender. Before men and women can actualize ourselves as equals, we must see ourselves as one people—the human race—each with our own gifts for the other.
We are ALL racists. Every human being on the planet is BORN a racist.
‘NO!’ you’re screaming at me. ‘BULLSHIT, you whacked-out bitch. I am not a racist!’
Racism is taught, not inherent to our nature is the common wisdom. And while it’s true racism, hate, fear can be taught by parents, community, schools, religious leaders, and conservative media, we are all born, to varying degrees, racists.
Mammals, the genome to which Humans belong, are born with an innate FEAR of THE OTHER — anything outside what is familiar to us. And this fear manifests as RACISM, and SEXISM, and NATIONALISM.
“FEAR of THE OTHER” should be the universal definition of racism. And humans manifest our fear in a variety of ways. Some, their fear is so overwhelming, their ignorance so great, it aligns with HATE, and they are violent against THE OTHER.
But sometimes, when our fear is acknowledged, and then examined, it motivates us to learn about THE OTHER. Only then, do we discover that regardless of color, or even gender, we are not so different. We all FEEL the same feelings.
‘BULLSHIT,’ you calling me out again. ‘You don’t know how it FEELS to be Black.’
You’re right. I’m White. But I know what it FEELS like to be dissed. I grew up overweight in chic L.A. I was the butt of fat jokes through elementary and middle school. I never got asked out on a date until I dropped the weight in my senior year of high school. And while I am now in “good shape,” I will go to my grave feeling fat. I will never fit in to the world where thin is the only way to be “in.” And I know what it FEELS like living forever on the outside wishing to be in.
So what if you were fat, you say. You lost the weight. Skinny or fat, I can’t stop being Asian, or gay.
And I am a woman. I know what it FEELS like being judged as lesser than because I am not a man. I know how it FEELS to be making two-thirds the salary of the guy next to me doing the exact same job. My first job out of college as an art director for a major jewelry manufacturer, the CEO of the company came into my first big meeting and grabbed my breast instead of my outstretched hand. He squeezed my tit like it was an orange and said, “Nice!” I know how it FEELS to be objectified for my body alone.
Being disrespected makes me FEEL valueless, ashamed, awkward, angry, mystified, enraged, scared, small, sad. And all these negative feelings manifest inside each of us when we are dissed. The fact is, Black, White, Fat or not, we’ve all experienced each of these feelings independently, or simultaneously, regardless if we are consciously aware of them. Each of us may react to our feelings differently, but most all of us are intimate with feeling dissed.
Most of us are also intimate with feeling happy, engaged [in a pleasing activity], safe, content in moments. Our reasons for feeling these things may vary, though not as much as you think. The love of a parent, guardian or friend; the comfort of a safe home; full bellies from tasty food makes most of us FEEL good. The intensity of our feelings varies wildly from person to person. Some enjoy positive feelings far more often than others born with internal angst, or into external misfortune. But the feelings of HAPPY and SAD, GOOD and BAD, PROUD and ASHAMED, EMPOWERED and DISSED are common to all of us.
Being alive means FEELING. The enormous, complex range of feelings we get to experience, both body and mind, is exclusively Human. The capacity of our brain power is what separates us from every other living creature on this planet. And while we all have different experiences, feeling the same things provides a natural bridge to unite us, a window for empathy, even camaraderie through our shared feelings.
We are all born racists. You, me, all humans are born with an innate fear of THE OTHER. Once again, we are standing on the precipice of change, Racism and Sexism the topics de jour. Perhaps this time, we will get off the politically correct train, admit we are all racists and choose to fight our innate fear of THE OTHER. We’ll acknowledge the benefits of integration and globalization as an opportunity to learn from the best of each other. We’ll not only believe in, but practice equal rights.
Stand up, or take a knee, but SPEAK OUT against hate, and educate the ignorant that there really are no substantive differences between us — not color, not culture, not gender or age, not religious or sexual preference, because all human beings FEEL the same things.
Valueless. Transparent, like no one can see you. And you’re screaming truth, cited facts, pouring your heart out, jumping through hoops to be noticed, heard, but you’re still ignored, marginalized. Worthless.
Ever feel invisible to everyone, even your reflection? Like, ‘whoareyou?’ when your eyes connect in the mirror.
Sometimes, when people say my name, I don’t know who they’re talking to, as if Jeri isn’t me.
I get most people reading this won’t understand what I mean—how it feels to feel like nothing—unless you are an artist, a depressive, or a realist. I’m all three, sadly. I’m also an idealist—profoundly awestruck by our creativity and ingenuity—and consistently disappointed by how often I, we, fall short of our amazing potential.
When I go black, my daughter and a few dear friends try to pull me back into the light by listing my accomplishments. Never works. The life I’ve lived—most of what I’ve done, from raising kind kids to navigating a 30 yr marriage to an autistic man, to a career in entrepreneurship and education, to fine writing novels and short works—seems so…small. Insignificant, touching so few. Like my mama, somehow I wanted to matter to more than just my kids.
Where do you get your value? Most people likely don’t dwell on this question. Sleep. Eat. Work. Play. Pay bills…etc., most don’t philosophize much after college when real life takes over. Beyond the overworked and the apathests who don’t ponder, as an artist and an idealist I’ve often wondered why some seem to be born with an inner confidence [I sorely lack], or a delusional self-image [I do not wish to attain].
During my dating years, most of the men I met ‘were at a great place in their life,’ and touted they ‘liked themselves,’ (with or without a partner). Ok…sure, but why? In my 20s, many were beer-bellied, broke, and living in a shared flat or still with their folks. By my mid-30s, most were middle to high earners, but were pudgy, balding, divorced and blamed it all on ‘that bitch,’ instead of seeing their fault in the marriage.
Met up with a new friend last week. Over chips and tacos he told me how he ‘only dates beautiful women.’ And they better have ‘chemistry’ when kissing, and be willing to get laid pretty quick into the relationship or he was out. He had to be kidding. He’s 72 yrs old, balding, in creaky shape with new hips and other health issues, divorced twice, in education all his life so not well off, living in a sketch part of town. For some reason it eluded him why the women he met didn’t want to come to his place.
Does Elon Musk think he’s great because he’s the richest guy on the planet? Or is he delusional that he’s an inventor when he hasn’t invented literally anything except the Cybertruck, and that ugly, hulking metallic piece of shit is an abject failure in the auto industry with plunging sales since its 2023 launch.
Does being rich, or a CEO or high-paid exec of some oil company, bank, or venture capital firm make you valuable? A Silicon Valley colleague and friend seems to think so. He recently held a conference matching founders to VC and was very impressed with the caliber of the executive panelists. Extensive research plays that from Elon to the head of Chevron, most who’ve risen to the top of the corporate ladder are psychopaths.
Psychopathy, according to Psychology Today, involves being impulsive, not troubled by anxiety, nor by feelings for others. It includes being aggressive, ready to assign blame to anyone but oneself, yet also able to manipulate and influence others. Does this not sound like Peter Darbee, CEO of PG&E? He defended millions inexecutivebonusesratherthaninvesting utility profits into repairingthe frayed pipelinethat exploded inSan Brunodestroying 38 homes andburningeight peopleto death. And I’ll bet you Peter still thinks himself valuable—intelligent, accomplished, savvy—even beyond his $35M exit package six months after the fire he let happen.
Had parathyroid surgery recently. The surgeon assured me in effusive detail that he was ‘absolutelysure’ only one of my parathyroids had a tumor and the surgeon at UW Medical was wrong in her diagnosis of hyperplasia. Turned out, UW was right. When I woke from surgery, the surgeon had removed two and a half of my four parathyroids. What made him so sure he was right, especially with evidence from multiple tests done at UW showing more than one tumor? Why was he so sure of his assessment over UW’s? What on earth made this man such an arrogant prick? Not once in post op, or in the follow-up a month later did he apologize for his diagnostic mistake. And I’ll bet you that doc never, ever questions his value.
I’ve been slamming myself as long as I can remember—suffocated by the weight of self-doubt and self-recrimination. Started with my family constantly putting me down—my mother insisting looking ‘put together’ would win me friends and later dates. My father assured me women were meant to be seen, not heard, and I’d better act demure with men or I’d be single the rest of my life. I could blame my lack of self-image on my parentage, but really? I could call out my husband of 30 yrs for ignoring or forgetting 80+% of what I say with what he didn’t want to hear, blaming me or colleagues instead of taking responsibility for his fuck-ups, but that’s autism.
My lack of self-esteem didn’t come outta nowhere. Failing to be a trad woman by my parents’ reckoning, and feeling invisible in my marriage certainly hasn’t helped my self-image any. Nor has my limited success as an author. Fine writing—fiction, short works, biz books—for over 20 years and I have just over 12,000 followers on my socials collectively. And no, for folks who don’t know, that is not good.
She meant beyond her kids, her husband and a few dear friends. She wanted to make a difference to the world outside her limited sphere, and she did as a marine science educator of So. Central elementary kids. But I get how she felt. I, too, want to be so much more than I am, and have been—be kinder, more patient, nurturing, less anxious and afraid. I want to reach more readers—encourage thinking and questioning, invite engagement and authentic communication.
Winston Churchill explicitly told his private secretary, Anthony Browne: “I have worked very hard all my life, and I have achieved a great deal—in the end to achieve nothing.”
In the days leading up to his suicide in 1890, Vincent Van Gogh told his brother, Theo, “he had failed, as a man and as an artist.” He sold only three paintings his entire career. (Kind of like an author today having only 12,000 followers after writing to be read for over 20 yrs, says the voice in my head).
“You’re your own worst enemy,” my husband tells me. And ofc, he’s right. For our first decade together, he, too, thought his shit didn’t smell—literally, he used to tell me he couldn’t smell the stink he created in the bathroom. Until recently, he was sure of his own rightness, certain his thoughts and opinions were based in reason, which is why he didn’t listen to mine. He assumed he understood his feelings and the actions (or lack thereof) they motivated. Thirty years of marriage and nine therapist later (some for years), he’s just beginning to acknowledge the black box of his mind that allowed him to live in delusion.
I have a hard time with delusion, which is likely why I see me as I am at times—nothing. Those moments I’m so wrapped up in my dark pity party I can’t see that essentially, we all are. Regardless of our contributions in life—an Insta influencer with 10M followers or Einstein—all of us make very little difference beyond our small sphere. We will be missed by few upon death, and only for a short time, then forgotten.
Reminding myself that it simply doesn’t matter if I matter beyond the lives I touch directly, and that life is a collection of moments and to make them as pleasurable as possible brings color into black. Present with those I care about who care for me, or immersed in the process of writing, engaged with my creative muse conjuring worlds and the people in them, I forget about feeling like nothing.
Then the voice of doubt that I’m writing crap and no one will read me anyway creeps in while I’m staring at the blinking cursor and the blank space after it…
I’m born and raised L.A. and have been driving since I was 14. And yes, illegally, but growing up in the 70s, if you wanted to go anywhere in the Los Angeles area, you had to drive there. There was no Metro Rail back then, and the buses weren’t safe for young girls, or anyone else really, and they were never, ever on time.
If I average out the time I’ve spent behind the wheel — from cruising most of So California until my first full-time job at 16, to crossing the Hollywood Hills at a snail’s pace, or sitting in traffic on the 101 or 405 going to school or work daily, to road tripping 1000 miles to Colorado every year for Christmas — best estimate, collectively I’ve spent a quarter of my life driving. And over the last 50 yrs, I’ve learned a ton about how people think by the actions (or lack thereof) they initiate behind the wheel.
To get good at anything takes practice, which is why most who’ve driven with me would say I’m a skilled driver. Scary, for sure, but I move through traffic smoothly, quickly, often getting to destinations an hour or more ahead of Google’s estimates. I can’t sit in my car on my cellphone, or space out behind the wheel like the Tesla or VW driver crawling along in front of me. Navigating traffic is a game, a psychological study weaving in and out, squeezing into open spaces, always looking ahead for what is going on, and around me for opportunities to move.
I’m not a defensive driver as the DMV handbook suggests. “The #1 rule of driving,” I told my kids when I taught them to drive: “Stay away from other drivers.” To accomplish this, especially in L.A. or any major city, one must be an aggressive driver.
The trick is knowing what type of vehicles to squeeze in front of, when to cut into a long line and what cars aren’t going to let you. It’s understanding who will chase and harass you if you cut them off or race them out, who to let pass, how to lose the idiot pacing you in your blind spot. A quarter of my life driving, and all these years behind the wheel has provided me a window into the psychology of the drivers of most every major automotive brand.
BMW drivers are categorically the worst on the road. Ranks #1 for total negative infractions* (tickets or crashes). Demographics of an average BMW driver (all models) tells us about them:
70% Male
White, then Asian
Early-to-late 50s
Affluent
Highly educated
These are generally arrogant men, born of privilege yet internally angry, going through a mid-life crisis after achieving their financial and familial goals, but now, maybe even still, feel empty. They’ll cut you off in their M or 3 Series BMW sports models, then slow down in front of you while on their phone, completely unaware, or don’t even care there’s a line of 20 cars backed up and pissed off behind them.
Cut off or squeeze in front of a BMW driver, and most won’t chase or ram or shoot you. They’re not really paying attention to you, or driving, which is why you want to stay away from them!
RAM drivers are ranked #2 for worst drivers on the road. The RAM 3500 also has the ominous distinction of being the #1 deadliest vehicle, responsible for the most fatalities in the cars they hit. Their demographics tell us why:
80+% Male
70+% White, then Hispanic
Mid-30s to early 60s
Middle or above income
Careers in construction, agriculture, military
Politically conservative
These are MAKE MEN GREAT AGAIN followers. Pay attention on the road, and you’ll notice many RAM trucks with American and Support Police flags, or vote for [not my] pres stickers plastered on their bumpers and back windows. They’re generally disenfranchised men, often kids who failed out of school and became veterans, or are running small businesses on tight margins. They’re prone to flash anger and violence, and are gun rights advocates, so don’t piss them off behind the wheel.
Do NOT cut off, race out, or move in front of a RAM truck. Most drivers will harass you — follow too close, flash their lights, put on high beams, or worse. I’ve had a RAM truck race me out for 20 miles after I went around him going too slowly in the fast lane on I5 driving from the Bay to L.A. I’ve had another RAM driver pace me for miles so I wouldn’t pass him, then roll down the passenger window and point a gun at me, though he raced away without pulling the trigger.
Tesla drivers rank #3 for infractions, averaging approx 43 total incidents per 1,000 drivers. While Tesla commands over 50% of the EV market nationwide, owners are concentrated in very specific areas of the country. California has the highest Tesla sales holding half a million registrants. Florida and Texas are far below, followed by Washington. And as a SF native, and part-time resident of Seattle, I’d personally rank them #1 for worst drivers on the road. Two distinct demographic groups tell us why:
White Males
Asian/Indian Males (35–40% market share in SF and Seattle)
25–50 years old
Single/Divorced
Highly educated
High earners
Careers in tech or medicine
First, you have the Driving while Arrogant issue. These are the privileged elite, and they know it. Wear it. Live it. Next is the ‘Driving while Asian’ (DWA) problem, the colloquialism known for a reason — Asian drivers tend to be slow, cut you off frequently, and seem rather unconscious of those around them. Add to this that these Tesla drivers thinking they own the road we all share, and it’s best to steer clear. Passing them is fine. They’re so busy on their oversized monitors or cellphones, they won’t notice.
The 26% women who own Tesla’s that aren’t a replica of the above males, are Woodstock nostalgics — with bumper stickers that say, “I bought this before Elon went crazy.” They’re too blank to know Elon was always crazy, and they’re not saving the planet with an EV because 83% of energy consumption in the US is still fossil fuel, and 58% of that is for the electricity fueling their Tesla’s.
Five decades behind the wheel has shown me the psychology of the driver by the vehicle they chose.
Speeding this along…
VW is ranked #4 for worst drivers on the road. They are one of the few car brands purchased almost equally by men and women (depending on the model). And you know their spacey drivers — the dippy 20 to 30-something putting on makeup or gaily chatting away on her cellphone completely oblivious to you, or anyone else on the road.
Cut them off, even flip them off and they generally don’t notice. If they do, they may give you the finger back, taking no responsibility for going 55 mpg in the fast lane in a 65 mph zone, oblivious they’re creating a dangerous road hazard forcing traffic to move around them.
Suburu is ranked #5 on the list of worst drivers. Ever sat behind a Suburu mom going exactly the speed limit with no one in front of her while she’s handing juice boxes to the kids in the back seat? And these are the safe Suburu drivers — with the fewest accidents, though they likely cause many with everyone passing them. Pass them, for your safety, and theirs.
The #5 rank comes from the Crosstrek and Impreza models. Both hold standalone crash rates where approx 10% of drivers have an active accident claim on their record. These are often young, first-time car buyers, and closely split by gender, urban college students, young professionals. The Problem with 20-something Brains, on Substack. Reading the post should cue you in on best practices for dealing with these drivers on the road.
Averaging 3 hrs a day behind the wheel and on the road with other vehicles, I’ve learned most drivers suck. Whether arrogance or ADHD, most drivers aren’t paying attention to the act of driving, which is why I taught my kids the #1 rule when operating a motor vehicle is to stay away from other cars! Colliding with a BMW or Tesla driver on their phone running the red light or cutting in front of you for that parking space at Trader Joe’s is statistically likely, while hitting a tree or one falling on your car is not.
To become a competent driver, and not just in your own mind, for everyone’s safety, and to lower our skyrocketing insurance premiums, PAY ATTENTION TO DRIVING! Note the psychology of the drivers behind the brands they drive, and act accordingly. But regardless of what you drive, here are some tips (not in the DMV handbook) from a seriously skilled driver with 50 yrs behind the wheel:
GET OFF YOUR PHONE.
Stop playing with your navigation (music, maps…etc).
Pass cars that go too slowly, or SUVs and trucks that impede your vision forward.
MOVE OVER to let cars pass who want to go faster (even exceed the speed limit — you are not a cop!).
DO NOT PACE other vehicles, especially in their blind spot. Give them a chance to move quickly should they lose a tire or want to avoid something in the road.
Stay away from other vehicles!
Road rage doesn’t come outta nowhere. It’s created by bad drivers.
—
Top 20 Car Brands — Total Negative Incidents per 1,000 Drivers (“Negative incidents” = speeding tickets, DUIs, at‑fault crashes, non‑injury collisions, reckless driving citations, other moving violations.)
BMW — 44.9
Ram — 44.7
Tesla — 42.8
Volkswagen — 40.6
Subaru — 40.3
Acura — 39.6
Infiniti — 38.8
Mazda — 38.2
Hyundai — 37.8
Kia — 37.5
Audi — 36.9
Dodge — 36.7
Chevrolet — 35.9
Ford — 35.7
Nissan — 34.8
Toyota — 33.4
Honda — 32.9
GMC — 32.7
Chrysler — 31.8
Buick — 30.4
*CITATIONS While the citations below confirm stats in this post, this essay is meant to entertain and enlighten, not infuriate. And even if you’re driving one of the above mentioned ‘worst drivers’ on the list, YOU aren’t one of them, right? ;-}
Vehicle Infraction List (accidents, tickets, DUIs):
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.
Talked to an old friend yesterday. We hadn’t spoken for almost a decade. No particular reason. Life took over and we lost touch. The last time we spoke, 10 yrs back, he told me his wife had quit her job as a restaurant manager and was very happy to be home, fixing up their house, shopping, cooking, doing things she never had time to do when working.
Ten years later, she is still not working. The house is now fixed up. There are no children, and she has no other responsibilities. When I asked my friend what his wife does with her days, he told me she enjoys working out, watching TV, and she plays a lot of Candy Crush.
My mother-in-law lost her husband of 53 yrs a few years back, a year after they closed the small business they had together from the beginning of their marriage. With no business to maintain, no kids to care for, and only sparse time with grown grandchildren, I assumed she’d find her niche in volunteering, perhaps invest time into her community, teach literacy at her local library, or maybe the hospice her husband spent most of his last days.
I don’t like sick people, she told me upon inquiry. And she has no interest in teaching, anyone, anything, she insisted, clearly annoyed at my suggestions. I’ve worked my whole life. It’s my turn to do what I want.
What does she do all day? Plays Solitaire, watches TV, or goes to plays and the movies with friends and family, when they’re available, which isn’t often. Most elderly folks she knows are helping their kids with the grandkids, or volunteering — giving back for a lifetime of privilege.
On the phone with my old friend, I intimated his wife has too much to contribute to kill time playing Candy Crush. But my friend disagreed. His wife enjoys her days now, no longer under constant pressure to perform. She’s allowed to relax after working most of her life, he told me.
She’s 53 yrs old, I countered. She’s been relaxing for almost a decade now. So? He was perturbed by my observation. They don’t need her income. He makes enough to support them both, so no harm, right?
Wrong.
We are ALL born owing humanity for the life we have. My mother sacrificed a career to raise three kids and provide us with a warm, clean household. My father worked hard to support our family financially, keep food on the table and secure a home in a safe neighborhood with good schools.
I’ve heard parents called ‘breeders,’ by people who claim to never want kids. The absurdity of their derogatory comment is they couldn’t voice it without being alive, having been bred by their parents before them.
Without those who worked hard before us, there would be no humanity at all. My mother-in-law, my friend’s wife, you, or I wouldn’t exist without the hard work of those before us. From the lightbulb to the internet, we stand on the shoulders of those who have contributed to the life we now live.
Our system that seemingly runs itself — doesn’t. We actually have to work at making it work. And playing Solitaire or Candy Crush all day does nothing for society. With everything given something is owed. Every day we are alive we owe each other and those who will precede us. We are obligated to gift, nurture, and protect life forward, and make sure our children have a planet to live on similar to the one gifted to us.
We are ALL responsible to make the world better. Contributing to a worthy cause we believe in, or inventing solutions to make our lives more productive, or managing a restaurant or small business, we all must continually contribute to humanity for the human race to survive, and thrive.
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.
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…
jcafesin.com 