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Fork U: Choice, cheesecake, adulthood and the importance of anxiety

Fork-in-the-RoadThe day I enrolled in Fork U was a bad day. I was in a bad mood, a really bad mood. I might, to you, seem like a nice-enough person who is incapable of channeling Beelzebub or any other lower-level deities that might or might not inhabit Dante’s Inferno, however, on this day that I speak of I was a flat out bitch. Why, you ask?  Well, it was a combination of PMS, Christmas stress, exhaustion, disappointment about having to cancel a trip to Hawaii and infertility grief that all came together and made me an irritable and unhappy person who should have had a sign around her neck, “Stay 500-feet away from this woman unless you want to get your head bit off.” Sadly, I didn’t have such a sign on and my good friend made the mistake of going to lunch with me. As I picked at my Cheesecake Factory salmon, I tried to smile and hide my acrimonious attitude and ornery and somewhat hormonal inner-life from my friend, only I couldn’t. I was, you see, a two-year old trapped in the body of a 40-something. And the two-year old me was in the midst of the kind of tantrum that would draw a crowd, that is if I actually threw myself to the ground and started kicking and screaming the way I wanted to do.

Even as I tried to maintain the persona of an adult, all I could think of was how pissed off I was and  how unfair life was. And when I wasn’t thinking that then an intrusive thought would enter my mind, it was the subtitle of a book that kept interfering with my inner-tantrum. The unwanted and unwelcome thought was, “How to finally, really grow up.” “Grrrrr…”, Beelzebub growled at that line. Once we paid the check and I tipped the waitress inspire of how annoyingly chipper and chirpy she was ( remember, I was in quite the state), I asked my friend if she minded if we stopped at Barnes and Noble.

I was sure they wouldn’t have the book, after all who would want to read a book about  how to grow up? I certainly didn’t. And yet there I was in the self-help section looking for a book that I didn’t want to read. On that day especially, the last thing I wanted to do was to grow up and be responsible for my life. I wanted to throw myself on the ground and have a temper tantrum and for someone else to be the adult for me for a while. I was tired of being an adult. I was tired of responsibility. I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else, and certainly NOT for myself.  And yet, with mixed emotions, I picked up the book and walked to the cashier.

Strangely, I was embarrassed to buy the book, Finding the Meaning in the Second Half of Life: How to Finally Really Grow Up. You see, I knew that I looked like an adult. I even, on that day, likely looked like a professional adult who knew how to dress themselves and present like they knew what they were doing. Yet, on that day, it all felt like an enormous ruse. Only I didn’t want the cashier to know that I was in fact faking it. I would have only been a little more embarrassed if I had been buying a book about sex. I distracted the cashier from looking at the title by engaging her in chit-chat, and happily it worked. I don’t think she had any idea that I was buying a book on how to grow up. And, if she did, I would have told her that I was buying it for my brother (and there is no way for her to know that I don’t actually have a brother).

Let me explain something here, I didn’t at the time know why I was buying the book. I wasn’t feeling especially immature, I was feeling bitchy. And under the  surface of the bitchy I was feeling like collapsing and even, strangely, feeling like I might want to collapse into a depression. I know that sounds strange, but there is a familiar comfort zone to depression for me. When I am in a depression I don’t feel that I have to be responsible or have a persona or do anything I don’t want to do. I could climb into bed and surrender to the feelings and not have to do anything about them. And, on that day, that is exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to go home and I didn’t know where home was, it certainly wasn’t where I lived and it more certainly was not the house that my mother lives in as that is not my home.

When I got home from the bookstore I crawled into bed with James Hollis. I attempted to surrender to my sadness as I read his wise words, “When the desire to “go home” prevails, we will choose not to choose, rest easy in the saddle, remain amid the familiar and comfortable, even when its stultifying and soul-denying. Each morning the twin gremlins of fear and lethargy sit at the foot of our bed and smirk. Fear of further departure, fear of the unknown, fear of the challenge of largeness intimidates us back into our conventional rituals, conventional thinking, and familiar surroundings. To be recurrently intimidated by the task of life is a form of spiritual annihilation. On the other front, lethargy seduces us with sibilant whispers: kick back, chill out, numb out, take it easy for a while…sometimes for a long while, sometimes for a lifetime, sometimes a spiritual oblivion. Yet the way forward threatens death—at the very least, the death of what has been familiar, the death of whomever we have been.” All that was well and good but as I read it I found that I didn’t want to read it and my thoughts began to wonder back to the Cheesecake Factory and wonder why I didn’t get dessert. But something in me required me to read on:

“The daily confrontation with these gremlins of fear and lethargy oblige us to choose between anxiety and depression, for each is aroused by the dilemma of daily choice. Anxiety will be our companion if we risk.., and depression our companion if we do not.” Okay, this was starting to make sense. I was not wanting to make choices, I was surrendering to what was and seeing myself as a victim of circumstances. There had been such much change and choice in the last two-years that I was wanting to crawl back into what had been even though there was absolutely nothing good about feeling dependent and helpless. However, something about the longing to be dependent and helpless was familiar and comfortable and sort of childlike, like I was wanting to regress.

It was the following line that caused me to fully enroll and invest in Fork-in-the-road University, ” Not to consciously chose a path guarantees that our psyche will choose for us, and depression or illness of one form or another will result. Yet to move into unfamiliar territory activates anxiety as our constant comrade. Clearly, psychological or spiritual development always requires a greater capacity in is for the toleration of anxiety and ambiguity. The capacity to accept this troubled state, abide it, and commit to life, is the moral measure of our maturity.”

That last paragraph is why I needed the book. When I came to a fork in the road I didn’t always take it. Old territory, and even depression, were more comfortable than the unknown and the ambiguity that came with choosing uncertainty. Only not really. Hollis continues, “In every decisive moment of personal life, faced with such a choices, choose anxiety and ambiguity, for they are developmental, always, while depression is regressive. Anxiety is an elixir, and depression is a sedative. The former keeps us on edge of our life, and the latter in the sleep of childhood.” Reading that last line I couldn’t’ stay in bed another minute; I felt a bolt of energy that usually only comes after drinking a triple espresso. I felt like I had been given an emotional GPS, when choosing if there is fear then I need to move forward, and not backwards, and experience the fear as a challenge. Something about Hollis’ emphatic instruction allowed me to embrace the anxiety as a normal sign of development.

It is normal, Hollis’ words, assured me that at  crossroad moments to feel a regressive pull to home, depression, helplessness and despair. Yet, he advises me and you and anyone who struggles with facing the fork in the road to take the action that makes us anxious. Let me repeat Hollis again:  ”In every decisive moment of personal life, faced with such a choices, choose anxiety and ambiguity, for they are developmental, always, while depression is regressive. Anxiety is an elixir, and depression is a sedative. The former keeps us on edge of our life, and the latter in the sleep of childhood.”

Once a friend was trying to teach me to drive a stick shift car and I was terrified. I was almost hyperventilating as she instructed me on the feel of the clutch. I panicked. I breathlessly told her, “I CANNOT DO THIS!!!”. My friend looked at me totally puzzled and she said to me calmly, “Your mother never taught you that bad things pass and that scary feelings don’t last.” She didn’t pose it as a question, she saw it in my behavior—-and she was right. My mother did not teach me that. I learned that anxiety was something to avoid and that if I felt something now that I would always feel it and that I should avoid any action that might activate anxiety.

My friend, a gifted psychotherapist, gave me in that moment a huge gift, even though she didn’t manage to teach me to drive a stick. I learned from her that I had missed an important life lesson, anxiety passes. You may have learned that from your mother or your therapist, but I didn’t know it until my friend taught me that. And until I read Hollis I didn’t learn to expect anxiety at any fork in the road that I might face. Now, thanks to Hollis, I have learned to expect it and thanks to my friend, I can remind myself that  even if it doesn’t feel like it now— and even if I am totally scared as I make the choice that “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” 

Intentions 2013, the Spice Girl Edition

Last night Keith and I were going to dinner and I was driving there, only I didn’t know where there was. I asked him where we were going. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Well,” I said somewhat seriously, “then I will just keep driving until we figure it out.” Keith tried to be helpful by telling me all the places that we could go. He named all the places that we usually go to. As he listed the options I was dissatisfied with all of them. I didn’t want to go to Glendale or Pasadena. And I certainly I didn’t want to go to Zen Sushi for the ten-millionth time. “You knew last night what you wanted. It was easy when you knew what you wanted.It was easy.” The other night I knew I wanted a baked potato and a salad for dinner. It was easy. I wanted it and we went and got it.

This little experience of ‘destination unknown’ got me thinking about the bigger experience of knowing where I’m going and how it is a whole lot easier to get there if I know what I want. I know that sounds extraordinarily obvious and I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to leave my post and going off to see what Justin Bieber is Tweeting. But before you do, let me try to make my case in more than 140 characters that even if you don’t think you know what you want that you actually really do. I know that knowing what we want isn’t always so easy. There are a plethora of reasons we don’t let ourselves know what we want. Wanting can be uncomfortable. If we feel the want then we feel the lack.  That lack can create uncomfortable feelings( grief, depression and despair) and so we deny the wanting.  Also, if we feel like we can’t have it because we are “too” something ( too old or too lazy or whatever too-too you turn to) or that someone will stop us from having it, then again, we press down the desire into our unconscious. And, there are somethings that no matter how hard we try we can’t have them( in my story that would be baby)….but there is a value to looking at that we can’t have and discover if there is a deeper want that can actually be met.

I am a big advocate of asking my patients what they want, or for that matter asking friends, family and people I get in conversations with in the nail salon, as knowing what we want most tells us so much about us.  As -Arsène Houssaye. said,”Dites moi qui vous aimez et je vous dirai qui vows etes.”( ”Tell me who you love and I will tell you who you are.”). Our desires inform us of so very much about us, they reveal our wounds, insecurities, and our deepest soul desires that we might not dare to say. Even the seemingly most insignificant desires can be loaded with meaning. My desire for shoes, skincare and lipsticks are NOT just about those things. There is a story that goes with the desire. I have a narrative about who I will be with each and every object I desire. As does everyone, a cigar is never a cigar and a desire for a new handbag is never JUST about the handbag.

If I asked you for a list of what you wanted most, could you tell me? Do you know what you want most? I believe, whether you can name it or not, that you do. I believe that you know exactly what you want. Forgive my inflation, but I feel sure that if we were sitting across from each other and I asked you the right questions that I could get you to tell me what you really-really-really wanted( that is, if you trusted me and KNEW that I would not malign you for your wants, which I assure you I wouldn’t). Maybe you wouldn’t admit them right away, but just having the conversation about what you want most would likely make you aware of your top two unspoken desires.

If you did tell me, perhaps you’d write off what you really want as silly or ridiculous and implausible, as a sort of disclaimer of  your deepest dreams,  and  tell me that you know that what you want is unattainable, but I bet you know it.  Knowing what you want is a really good first step. Truly, it is easier to know I want a potato for dinner than it is to drive around saying no to every suggestion I am given. And, yeah, it is easier to know that I want a potato than it is to admit I want something that is going to take hard work, determination and risk in order to achieve.

In January, after reading, Dorothea’s post, “Ready or not—Intentions 2013“, that I had a bit of break through about what I wanted. Yes, I have a long and, to my mind,  an impressive list of accomplishments that I achieved in 2012.I almost always know what I want to do, be an have, even if I ignore that wanting. However I wasn’t focused on what I really-really-want. After reading Dorothea’s post and her previous post Intentions check in 2012 I was a bit unsettled, I took a new list of my goals for 2013 and I found them too broad and too unfocused. In wanting all of those things I felt sure that I was diluting my focus. I wanted a list like Dorothea’s. I wanted 2013 to be used in a way that felt meaningful and significant and as nice of a goal as redecorating the kitchen is it is not what I really, really want—that is not a goal that enlivens me or gives me purpose. So after reading Dorothea’s inspiring post I wrote a new list.

My post-Dorothea-post list was very different. It was mean and lean and clean, only 25 objectives versus the 250 item list I had pre-Dorothea. One thing significantly different about the new list was that all the items on the list feel hard to claim. They feel scary and too much and, I think, that is exactly how I know they are right for me. What we want most almost always feels ‘too much’, we dare not dream it. I had a good friend who was incredible at doing makeup. One day she whispered to me her greatest hope, “I wish I could be a makeup artist.” “Are you kidding?,” I replied. My friend  immediately inferred from my gobsmacked reaction that I was saying that there was no way that she could make that dream a reality, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. She wore her dream on her face and all she had to do was to march herself down to the MAC counter and she would be one big step closer to making her dream a reality. But for her it felt impossible. She didn’t see how close she was to making her dream happen. I assured her that she could and that she would be amazing at it. Sadly my assurances weren’t enough. She was too scared to risk having her dream not come true and so she chose not to try.  Today she is an office manager. I see this over and over again in my work and in my life, people’s dreams are so close they can touch them and yet they dare not make the call, take the step, or ask their friend in “the business” about “how to break in”.  Just that one question could open the doorway to their dreams and they don’t dare. And it isn’t just about “them”, I do it too.

Part of my anxiety about naming one of my intentions is that I feel like I have had this goal so many times before, in different forms, and that something in me has stopped me each and every year. Even as reminders of previous failures to produce paraded through my mind, I knew I wanted it just the same. I wanted it more clearly and strongly than I did that stupid baked potato that I was willing to drive cross town for. The intention was, ” I will complete the book proposal for  my self-help/memoir ,”What happens when dreams don’t come true and how to live happily ever after anyway” and submit it to agents.” Even to write that here on the blog, where I know I am among friends, makes my heart race a little as I wonder if you will judge me for daring to write it down.  And even as I type that I know I am projecting my self-judgement onto you. What do  you care? You, lovely you, likely want to see me succeed. Your not judging me, are you? If you are, could you not tell me. I think I ‘d rather not know.

The other scary thing about really getting clear about what you want and where you want to go is that you have to do stuff in order to make it happen. That wasn’t always obvious to me. There was a time that I thought that writing it on a list and saying a few affirmations was enough, happily that was a long time ago. Now, happily, I understand that it takes work to actualize intentions. Everyday I ask myself, “what small action can I take towards this goal, no matter how small.” And when I have gone two days without taking an action I think of what I tough-love writing teacher I had taught her students about goal setting, “Write all of your goals on an index cards, a goal for each card.  Go through the cards everyday and write down one action you took towards the goal. If at the end of the week you have not taken an action on a goal then say out loud: “I don’t want to achieve this goal” and then tear up the card.” Okay, her advice is a bit tough. I haven’t actually written any of my intentions on index cards. But everyday when I review my intentions and I find myself procrastinating on sitting down and working on my proposal, I do think of the index cards and I ask myself if,with my lack of action, I am actually telling myself that I don’t want to achieve this goal. This thought, especially if it happens two-days in a row, almost always gets me moving.

With hindsight and eight-hours of sleep, I think that I actually did know what I wanted last night when we were driving around. I was extremely tired when I got home. I don’t think I really wanted to go out. I didn’t know it then. I just knew that when I asked myself where I wanted to go for dinner that “nowhere” is the only answer I got. And, I can see, again with hindsight, that “nowhere” is actually an answer. I didn’t really want to go to dinner. I wanted to put on flannel pajamas and watch Downton Abbey( again). I was actually too tired to eat or to chew or even to get undressed( I may or may not have slept in the sweater that I wore to dinner). Yes, I know I needed nourishment. But I also needed to not sit at a table and look at a menu and talk to a waitress.

So, lovely you, what do you really, really want?

Fear is my friend

AVintageChicBlog-FearA gazillion years ago, when the Golden Girls was a prime time show and there was no such thing as the Internet( yes, I am that old) I remember buying, and maybe even reading, a book by Susan Jeffers. I can’t tell you one thing about the book. Truly, I am not sure if I ever even read it. I bought it when I was in my twenties. It was a dark period involving temp jobs, too much Taco Bell and tequila, horrible hair and horrific man choices as well as unexplainable penchant for Borghese Opalescent Fuchsia lipstick. When I wasn’t making self-destructive  fashion or food choices and/or making mindless and masochistic moves, including happy hour at the Red Onion, I was also devouring the self-help section of my neighborhood Crown Books. I was turning to the self-help section the way a dying man turns to the church. Each week I would go in search of another book that promised easy and instant and massive change in my life with little or no effort, that was my genre. If a book required me to develop skills such as self-awareness or take  any tangible steps to make my life better in anyway other than wishing for it, I was not in ( I could write an entire post on my angry and emotionally immature reaction to M.Scott Peck’s, Road Less Traveled. I have since gone on to see he was right about a lot of the things. But that was the pre-therapy me who had a hissy-fit in response to Peck’s Calvinist work ethic) . It was books like  Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow that were my guidebooks. Now, keep in mind,I didn’t actually read that book either, that was too much work. Rather I used the title as an excuse, as well as a coaster for my cocktails, not to do all manner of things. If I didn’t like a job or a class or anything that took any effort, the title would come to mind and I’d think,  ”I don’t love this so I shouldn’t be doing this. It should be easy. If I follow my bliss it will all be bliss” Yes, I know, it was some pretty immature thinking. But I was, I assure you, pretty immature for my age. And I know if Jospeh Campbell heard my twenty-something take on his profound philosophy he would have likely had to throttle me and he would have been right to throttle me. I deserved some philosophical throttling back then.

The Susan Jeffers book I bought, and most-likely didn’t read, was Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway. When I look back to that time period I am not sure what I was afraid. I don’t remember being afraid. I remember being inert and impulsive ( a somewhat dangerous combination, much like a Long Island Iced Tea paired with Kamikaze shooters. Remember, I was in my twenties). Not that there weren’t things I should have been afraid of. Trust me, there were. My judgement should have frightened me. I should have been having panic attacks over my lack of a solid CV. But then, quite frankly, I was too dumb to be scared. In retrospect, I think that there were a lot of choices I KNEW that I should be making and yet I was too afraid to make them. I knew I should brake up with my boyfriend. I knew I needed to go back to school, but I was too afraid. So maybe there was a part of me that I knew I needed to get past the fear and act, but that part of me couldn’t get the me who would rather watch “Charles in Charge” to actually read the book.

It wasn’t until decades later that I actually took Dr. Jeffers advice, even though I STILL haven’t read her book. I remember the day that I started to develop a relationship with fear. A friend of mine who taught Psychology at Lake Forest College asked me to come into her class and lecture on my thesis topic, The Genesis of Shame: The Figleaf of Fashion and Its Place in Psychotherapy. I found myself saying yes to what I was sure I couldn’t do. Only I did it and I loved it. I loved it so much that I found myself wishing I had gotten a PhD so I could teach at a small liberal arts college. You see? My fear was wrong. My fear was a big old liar face.

A few months after the Lake Forest lecture the Clinical Director at the Jung Center asked me to teach a class on Sandplay. I was sure I couldn’t and yet I found myself saying yes to what my fear was telling me I absolutely couldn’t do. Again, I loved it. Again, the fear was a liar-liar-pants-on-fire.  In the last couple of years I have done countless things that my fear convinced me I couldn’t accomplish. There was the big one that I confronted two-years ago, the fear told me that there was absolutely no way could I survive on my own or take care of myself. I had been married for 19 years and I had not done a lot of taking care of myself  during our marriage. My fear reminded me of all the things I hadn’t done for almost two decades. It, I assure you, made a convincing case. But I left anyway. And you know what? I was fine. I am fine. I’m thriving. My fear obviously was a lousy prognosticator.

So, in the last twelve-months when my fear told me that there was no way I could go on TV and talk about infertility or be a presenter at Fertility Planit or write for Huffington Post, I politely reminded my fear that every time it tells me that I can’t that I actually go on and prove it wrong and that it is almost always a good thing and that I am better for having faced the fear. It’s gotten to the point that I have almost longed for things to be afraid of as I long for the ability to stick my tongue out at fear. I’m actually sort of upset that I have nothing that am actually afraid of now. Okay, that’s not entirely true, there are things I am still afraid of  and some of those are rational and logical and worthy of my fear. I remain afraid of death, snakes, big roller coasters and other logical dangers that don’t prevent me from doing much except from going to the reptile house at the zoo or to Six Flags–and I am just fine with those fears. That’s not the kind of fears I am talking about here, I am talking about the fears that tell me “I can’t” or “I’m not good enough”. Thanks to the part of me that said yes and felt that fear and did it anyway, I am not longer afraid of teaching or  public speaking or appearing on TV or being interviewed by the press. Those things are no longer my fears. I’m not sure what I have left to overcome, but I am sort of excited for fear to step in and tell me that I can’t do something as that fear signal now gives me the green light to take action and show it who’s the boss.

Time Traveling in New York City

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Imagine the scene, if you will, an ultra-chic Upper-East side eatery, and it is the hour of the beautiful people. Everyone in the restaurant is impossibly chic and beautiful and glittering in the glow of understated fabulousness. They sit shoulder to shoulder sipping Syrah and dining on Dover Sole and Veal Ragu over a Swiss Alp of spelt pasta, while wearing the easy-confidence and effortless-cache that comes with a closet filled with Hermes and Prada ( the kind of pieces that are only recognized by one with an eye to discern, no labels emblazoned on these ladies who lunch) that they keep in their uber-decorated houses in the Hamptons and Pied de Terrre’s on Park Avenue.

When we walked into this upscale Italian eatery I was feeling fine. I liked myself. I liked my life. I was fine with the way I looked. I was confident and happy.  All was well. That was until I met the eight-foot tall hostess who looked like the  love child of Iman and Eros who met me with an attitude of accusation. Her height and her haughtiness took my breath away. She asked me a seemingly innocuous question, ” Do you have a reservation?” It seems like a fair question. However when she asked it, it seemed instead like a moral failing on my part. I mean, really, how dare I enter this place without a reservation. Who did I think I was? I attempted to surround myself in an aura of extreme self-confidence, which in her presence was not easy to muster. “No, no reservation.” I stood my ground and waited for her to show me the way to our table. She turned away from me, snapping her giraffe-like neck in disbelief, and then turned back to me, “You MAY come this way.” Again, it sounds polite when I write it. Only she didn’t say it that way. She said it like we were playing a brutal game of Red-Light/Green-Light and that she was bestowing upon lowly me the greatest and most extreme of kindnesses ( only in a bitchy way) and that she might change her mind and laugh sadistically at me at any moment.

Sitting at our table, surrounded by those who, in my fantasy life, were all very important and glamorous people who live important and glamorous lives. I was no longer the me that had walked in the door. I was instead a pimple-faced dorky tween who was traumatized once upon a time when shopping at Neiman Marcus with her mother and was met by a couple of mean girls in the elevator who called me a poindexter. The memory of that moment is hermetically sealed in my psyche and when I get activated by any event that seems to offer that kind of narcissistic injury I time travel and forget who I am and I become who I was. I was a dork. I was the girl who was tormented for not fitting in. I was the too-pale girl surrounded by bronzed California girls who tormented me for the lack of melanin in my skin, “You must lay out at night. You get moon-tans. Your white legs are hurting my eyes. I need sunglasses to look at you. You are so bright white it hurts.” I know in retrospect that their critique of me was pretty lame. Their cutting remarks lacked wit and creativity, and yet they hurt just the same.

When we walked into the restaurant I was hungry. But now that I was sitting at the table and looking at the menu and trying to find something to eat, I couldn’t connect to any feelings of hunger.  Nothing. None. Nada. My boyfriend ordered the Suprema Di Pollo Alla Senape Con Patate Dolci E Cavolo Rosso, impervious to the fact that we were no longer in a chic restaurant but instead in my Junior High School lunch room.  I marveled at his ability to want in the midst of my mid-afternoon nightmare. I ordered, only because I felt obligated to, La Zuppa Del Giorni. The waiter disapproved of my order, “That’s it?”, he asked as if I had just given him a penny tip. “Yes, that’s it.” His disapproval of my order amplified my complex, “see,” my psyche told me, “see, you don’t belong here. You aren’t cool enough. You are lame. Tammy and Krista don’t want to be your friends. If only you were tan, then they would like you.” I had no words to argue against the leveling attack.

So here is what was happening to me at the Upscale East-side eatery, something about the way the hostess reacted to me took me out of the present and transported me back to Junior High and feeling all those “I don’t fit in” feelings. And at first I didn’t feel like there was anything I could do about those feelings. I was overtaken by them and felt that they were absolutely and objectively true. However in noticing that this feeling felt like an event from the past allowed me to integrate the memory, and differentiate it from what was happening now. The hostess wasn’t Tammy and the waiter wasn’t Krista and, most importantly, I wasn’t the seventh grade version of myself. Noticing the differences started to help. Feeling my body in the room helped further. “I am here now,” I told myself. “I deserve to be here,” a kind voice in my head assured me. ‘It’s the hostesses job to be a gatekeeper. It isn’t about you. You can afford to be here. You deserve to be here. No one is looking at you. You are fine. You can have the onion soup if you want it. You are fine.”

I don’t exactly relish sharing with you that I had to do all of this self-soothing just to get through lunch. It is not something I usually have to do, but there was something about his setting that took me out of the now and into the past and the only way out of it was to have that kinder and gentler adult in my head bringing me into the now. The voice is a kind of Glenda the Good Witch voice that is a combination of Igor and other therapists I have had over the years. The voice took me out of the past and brought me into the now, it allowed me to take a deep breath and feel safer and calmer and less fragmented—and it even allowed me to enjoy some of Keith’s delicious Suprema Di Pollo Alla Senape Con Patate Dolci E Cavolo Rosso. And after a few bites of the delicious chicken I felt even better still. I ordered from our  somewhat surly waiter a double espresso, which was a further sign that my seventh-grader self was gone as she doesn’t like coffee and I do. To further prove to myself that she was gone, I didn’t add any sugar to my espresso—undeniable proof that the adult me was back in charge. The adult me paid the bill and left all the mean-girl feelings behind as I confidently walked out onto Madison Avenue.

Is the unlived life worth examining?

Nothing I know matters more
Than what never happened.
— John Burnside, ‘Hearsay

9780374281113_p0_v1_s260x420I once had a psychoanalyst ask me to write out in detailed form the way I wish my life had gone. I am not sure why he asked me to do that, and at the time I was even less sure.  I do know that I was at once both resistant and energized by his invitation which I ultimately did not accept.  When I think back to my work with this well-meaning analyst,I suppose many of my hours with him had sounded a lot like the following: “If we had only stayed in Seattle and not moved to Los Angeles.”; “If only I had been able to stay near Mirjam and Paul( my Nanny and her husband) and not move two states away from them.”; “If only I had been allowed to stay at Montessori and not been forced to attend Parochial school.” It’s funny to think back to that time and see the point my analyst was trying to make. He was, I suppose, trying to get me to see the impact of my unlived life and discover who it was that I longed for and what I imagined those roads not taken would have lead to. I imagine that he thought that I was marred by regrets which is strange as I don’t really experience myself as a person who regrets much. But was my analyst onto something? Was my unlived life worth examining?

Adam Phillips’, author, psychoanalyst and my latest intellectual crush, has an answer for that. “It seems a strange question until one realizes how much of our so-called mental life is about the lives we are not living, the lives we are missing out on, the lives we could be leading but for some reason are not. What we fantasize about, what we long for,are the experiences, the things and the people that are absent. It is the absence of what we need that makes us think, that makes us cross and sad.”

In his latest book, Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life, Phillips explores the unlived life and how it impacts our lived life. The book jacket offers the following description of Phillips’ exploration:

All of us lead two parallel lives: the life we actually live and the one that we wish for and fantasise about. And this life unlived (the one that never actually happens, the one we might be living but for some reason are not) can occupy an extraordinary part of our mental life. We share our lives, in a sense, with the people we have failed to be – and this can become itself the story of our lives: an elegy to needs unmet, desires sacrificed and roads untaken….Adam Phillips demonstrates that there might in fact be much to be said for the unlived life. …he suggests that in missing out on one experience we always open ourselves to the potential of another, and that in depriving ourselves of the frustration of not getting what we think we want, we would be depriving ourselves of the possibilities of satisfaction.

This is, I imagine, and I imagine my old analyst would agree, is something I know a little about.

There is the me that was an only child who moved from Seattle at three and moved to Los Angeles and whose parents were career focused and not child focused. There is the me who had traumas and dramas mar her childhood. And that me that went on to marry and not have children and become who I am today. But what, I suppose, makes all of the pain of that biographical narrative so much more painful is that I hold in my mind the story of “what should have been” and  ” the unlived life that I should have had”. That, truth be told, is much the pain of infertility and the resulting grief that lingers today…it is the feeling of missing out and having in my head the alternate life I would be living if I had only had the baby.  I share my life with the Tracey that I have failed to be. There is the me that exists and then there is the me that went to Sarah Lawrence and who is a mother and who has a huge and loving family ( the me that doesnt’ exist).

In answering the question of why do we spend so much time imagining another ( or unlived life) Phillip argues that we are by nature frustrated creatures and that is because our expectations and fantasies are more than can possibly be met by the world. He goes onto explain that one of the ways we cope with that frustration is to fantasize about what we need and what is missing. It is Phillips’ assertion that fantasizing about what we don’t have is not merely an act of compensation but that it gives us insight into what we want to do with our lives. The fantasy gives us information about what we want to do and how to give our selves some sense of satisfaction. Phillips’ encourages us to use our fantasy life to seek what is truly available in the world. He goes onto say that by really knowing our frustration that comes at the intersection of lived life and not lived life that gives us a better sense of what we really want, so  it is important to look at that wished for life for clues

A very interesting point that he makes and one that I need to pay special attention to is that the fantasy of the unlived life can make the lived life seem disappointing as there are no boundaries in the fantasy life and there are always boundaries, rules and limitations in the lived life. “reality isn’t disappointing, it is just reality.”In my unlived life I had that baby and I live in Lake Bluff and I write in my free time when I am not being the best mother I can be. Yes, giving space for that unlived life makes me sad. When I really walk around that life it is both lovely and horrible in the pain that it constilates, but when I really move into that fantasy there is something I wanted psychologically and symbolically, as well as literally,and some of those things can happen and some of those things can’t. In the fantasy I am the perfect mother and I have the perfect baby and I am perfectly happy. I know the reality would have been very different and I am perfectly okay with that.

Phillips argues that Capitalistic culture promises to endlessly supply things we want, that if we have a need that Capitalistm promises to produce something that will fill that need( interestingly that in the height of my trying to conceive I used to dream of going to Land of  Nod or Pottery Barn Baby and buying my own perfect baby as well as all the nursery furniture). Phillips makes the case that “the effect of this forced feeding( by Capitalism) is that we never can think about what we might want.”

The surprising point that Phillips makes is that frustration is more enlivening than happiness. “I think that our frustration is one of the best things about us….at its best our frustration, for example, can lead us into the knowledge  and the acknowledgment that we need other people, say, and that there is a limit to what other people can give us and we don’t have to, as it were, murder them because they are so frustrating….And if frustration were more culturally acceptable…it would be more talked about.” We are capable of more satisfaction in our life and that can  looking at our frustration and seeing what is act
ually possible.

As much as I love Phillips, and I do, I find him to be a bit of a frustrating read ( and for Phillips that would likely be a compliment) he writes in a free-associative style that leaves one feeling completely unsure of what they just read( and I KNOW that Phillips would love that critique). Let me be absolutely clear,  I am not in this post recommending that you rush out and buy his book ( but you might well enjoy it). What I do hope is that you might feel inclined, after reading this post and some of the scaffolding bones that make up the body of Phillips argument, to examine your unlived life and see what exactly frustrates you about it? What in the frustration offers for potential REAL fulfillment in your REAL life?

I WANTED a baby. I wanted to have a family. I wanted to create a life for myself and for the longed for baby that I didn’t have created for me. While I can’t create that baby, I can, if I chose, create a life in which I have more opportunities for love and connection and nurturing, which I imagine is at the crux of the desire for a family.  I don’t have all the answers about the meaning of my “unlived life” but I do think it is definitely worth exploring further. And I can see already that just in posing the question that there is an opportunity to be somewhat less frustrated, which is strangely a bit frustrating.

“Missing Out” reviewed in the New York Times

Excerpt from “Missing Out”

Radio Interview with Adam Phillips

 L.A. Review of Books on “Missing Out”

 

Journaling: It’s like a blog only it’s not public

It’s been a long time since I seriously kept a journal, a long time. Today I cracked open an old journal that I began back in October 2007. I only wrote three pages in this THICK and unused journal. You know why? Because I began this journal the same month that I began this blog. Well, in my list of summer goals( yes, I have summer goals) I have decided to add journaling to the list of activities I would like to accomplish this summer.

The list includes the following:

1. Get a ping pong table.

2. BBQ more ( I am crazy for grilled vegetables and I am not crazy enough to keep paying the $10 a pound that Whole Foods charges me for them).

3. Take tennis lessons. (The French Open really got to me).

4. Swim, and get a swim cap that I can fit all of my hair into.

5. 1,3, and 4 are all about the goal of trying to have more fun. I work a lot and I love my work. I love my work more than I can say. That said, I could and should try and do something other than go to dinner and watch House Hunters as my sad excuse for leisure activities. I can’t espouse balance and self-care to my clients if I am not going to make the smallest effort to attempt it myself.

6. Get a summery fragrance. I am thinking of trying Bobbi Brown’s Beach. I love that it smells a little bit like Coppertone suntan lotion. A sprtiz of that and a Popsicle on the patio and I will have the makings of an instant summer-tastic staycation.

7. Read something trashy. Maybe I will stop my Spring-time survey of personality disorders and I will read The Hunger Games or this Shades of Gray that my hairdresser told me about.

And…

8.Journal.

Journaling will come back to me faster than my forehand(it has been over 20 years since I attempted tennis). I know how to do this, serving on the other hand is something I never really mastered and likely won’t. I journaled since I was seven and I got my very first diary with a key on it. I have decades of experience writing only for me and not for an audience. I journaled through decades, and disasters and experimented with forms and formats. I read the journals of Nin and Plath and I kept writing and dreamed that someday all this writing would turn into something more and that my life would to( much of my journals involve wishing for some other time and some achievement that would make my life worthwhile).

Only with the journal I won’t get any comments,  like I do on the blog, as no one will have access to my private and tangential rants—and that is both good and bad. In my private writing I tend to allow my complexes and opinions to be absolute. I write in the language of splitting, “I hate this” and “I love this” are key phrases in the discourse of my diary. However when I blog I tend to be more objective, even in my subjectivity I know you are there. And knowing you are there changes things and it mostly makes me a better writer and a better person to not let the ranty part of myself  have too much room. Um, why exactly did I want to journal again?

Well, in a journal I can be insanely honest. I can write things that I don’t want you to know about me. I can write without wondering who will read what I just wrote and what they will think. I can give voice to my petty fears and baseless anxieties and I won’t have to worry about having to warn someone that I don’t REALLY feel that way and that I am just venting. It actually sounds pretty good and maybe even important( I have a few rants in me at the moment).

I suppose that I do need a place to let my thoughts have free reign and not have to edit. Therapy is a great place for that, however it is only one-hour a week. Maybe I even want to have a hissy-fit or two on the page and then move on.

Recently I was watching “Girls” on HBO( And I do love that show) and one of the characters had her diary violated. Her roommate’s boyfriend read her journal and he discovered all kinds of things, not the least being that her roommate (his girlfriend) is not in love with him. When confronted with the black and white facts of her journal, the wounded boyfriend makes the case to his girlfriend, “it is a journal; no one lies in a journal, that is the fucking point.”

But he is wrong. People do lie in journals. People overreact in journals. People spew. I spew. I dramatize. I say that I hate things and that I love things and I catastrophize in a journal. On the first page of my journal I have the following disclaimer: “If I am dead and you are reading this please know that I wrote in this journal when I was bored, anxious, depressed and possessed by complexes. It is best not to take this as a real and valid document of my feelings. If I told you in my non-journaling life that I love you it is best to believe me. If I wrote in this journal that I wanted to leave you and run away to the Himalayas— it is not true. Seriously, ignore everything in here that you are about to read and just remember that I love you. Okay?”

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .
These blog posts are informational only and not meant to replace individual psychotherapy, counseling or medical advice. If you are in need of help, reaching out to a professional may help you decide how to proceed or how to find the care you need. For a referral, contact

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