turning it around
Yesterday, I shared with you that I was getting ready to head off on a road trip to see my brother in North Carolina. The last load of laundry didn't finish until after 11:00, and then I posted the blog entry. I still hadn't packed by the time I went to bed, just before midnight.
For some reason, the overhead fan in my mom's guest room was stirring up dust; or the A/C was overladen with pollen. But my sinuses filled as soon as I lay down, and my asthma flared up. Despite my best efforts to beat the system – I didn't. At 3:00, I was up, having had less than three hours of … no sleep.
Still, I had steeled myself for the task ahead. And despite my ragged state at the onset, I was determined to make the 15-hour trip in one shot. The way I figure it, as long as I can still make unreasonably long road trips on little to no sleep, I'm still the same young self I was in my college days. Kind of.
At 5:30, we drove out to face the journey ahead. My mom, her dog and I were all in good spirits. We could do this. No problem.
However, rush-hour traffic, compounded by several major construction zones, began to test our mettle. Edged out by aggressive tractor trailer drivers and white-knuckling the wheel as jersey barriers loomed mere inches on the left-hand side, we reached the George Washington Bridge in just over six hours instead of the four it should have taken. Already way behind.
When the traffic finally saw its first break in nearly an hour, I punched the gas to take advantage of the new-found freedom. The engine revved menacingly, but the car slowed instead of accelerating. I quickly threw the gear shift into neutral and then back into drive. It must have slipped. Again, I pressed the gas. The car lurched, growling, but then fought me, refusing to breach 45 MPH. My mother's face turned ashen and her eyes said it all: This can't be happening.
We pulled over at the next rest stop. Maybe it was just a computer glitch that would be reset if we turned the car off.
It wasn't.
A few more exits up the highway, we pulled off, in desperate need of finding a mechanic. We were somewhere in New Jersey.
We breathed a sigh of relief to find a full-service automotive shop directly off the exit. The dog was shaking, so we took him out of the car with us. After a forty-dollar computer diagnostic and a quick test drive, we were informed that the overdrive had burned out. We were strongly advised to turn around and go back home. If we thought we could make it. No guarantees.
And so, nearly seven hours into our trip and on no sleep, we turned around and headed back the way we came.
It was all highway driving … in a car that now only went as high as third gear. This left me pushing the car to even achieve 45 or 50 MPH … 15 or 20 miles under the speed limit … all with the high whining of the RMPs as an ominous underscore. Here I was, slowing traffic and annoying the other good people who'd like to go a cool 60 in the right lane of a 65 zone.
I was "that car."
Most of the time, I engaged the hazard lights, as a sort of pathetic apology to the drivers who continued to ride up on me, hands gesticulating in irritation. I had 200 miles of this to look forward to.
Certainly, under these circumstances, readers will understand if I lost my grip. If I threw away all the ideals that I talk about in these nice, neat, impractical blog posts and gave in to despair, complaining and colorful outbursts. You do understand, right?
Believe me … it was tempting. I'm happy to report, however, that I still managed to keep my composure. I told myself, "You have a choice here. You can choose to be miserable, or you can choose to be positive. But either way, you are driving home." I didn't want my mom to worry or feel responsible (which she wasn't). I did want to practice what I preach.
And besides, I reasoned, this would make a killer party story.
But wait. There's more.
It went beyond merely returning home defeated and canceling our trip altogether. You see, the original plan involved my making the trip by car with my mom, then leaving her in North Carolina with the car and flying home. In two weeks, I was to fly back to North Carolina and make the return trip with her once more by car. Tickets had already been bought.
The new plan involved getting the first vehicle home in one piece, emptying the packed trunk and back seat, and bringing the car to the mechanic. We would then reload my mom's other car and start all over again from square one.
Ten-and-a-half hours later, we were right back where we started … in my mom's driveway, unpacking the car. It was four o'clock.
We decided that we would sleep until 11:00PM, shower, and then start off again my midnight, driving through the night. There was only one problem. I couldn't sleep. My whole body was buzzing from the first ordeal and the several energy drinks I'd had. My mind was a wasteland. But I just. Couldn't. Sleep.
At 7:30, I took my chances to see if my mother was up for an earlier re-start than we'd planned. She graciously agreed to get up by 9:00. I lay on the couch, tossing, turning, staring at the clock. But not sleeping.
By 9:45, I was trying to rearrange the smaller trunk to include our luggage, the dog supplies, and the store's worth of Hello Kitty paraphernalia that was crammed into every other available space … the latter being gifts for my niece Lexi. As I twisted to shift the final things into place, I wound up jarring my back into and across the protruding metal handle of the closed garage door behind me. Hard. A sharp and strident inhale and I was on the ground. I knew it wasn't pretty.
After recovering from her sympathetic pain for me, my mom, a nurse, carefully dressed the bruised and swollen abrasion so that at least it would not stick to my shirt during the trip. I sat gingerly back against the driver's seat as we prepared to drive out for the second time that day. It was 10:00PM. That meant, if there were no unforeseen major traffic issues this time, we could expect to arrive at my brother's place by 2:00 or 3:00PM the next day.
I still had not slept.
It's fascinating, the mental games you play in order to prevail in the face of an ordeal like this. Just cross one more state line. Just push yourself another half hour. Just make another 13 miles. Suffice it to say, we arrived today at 2:05, exhausted, but otherwise none the worse for wear. We had driven more than 24 hours of the last 30. Of those hours, I had somehow driven all but two.
I don't know if I would consider it a mental "game," but I definitely had to remember many times during the events of the last few days that positivity is a choice. It was not only our vehicle and plans that got turned around when things went south -- or was it north? -- but I needed to turn my attitude around, as well. I certainly would not have chosen some of the circumstances. But I continually reminded myself that every next choice was mine. I could be kind with service people along the way, or I could exercise my right to be irritable. I could be sullen with my mother, or we could find ways to help each other through, like some sort of familial army buddies. I could scream and cry, or I could turn up the music. I feel good about the choices I made.
And, while this blog is not exactly a party, I trust you did find the story to be -- killer.
when words are sentences
Grammatically speaking, a sentence may consist of a single word:
Stop.
Duck!
Sing!
I separated those into separate lines to avoid the mental image that would come of combining them. Each of these sentences contains a verb, which we see, and an "invisible" (understood) subject – the audience to whom we are talking.
You're fascinated, I'm sure. But that isn't what I mean to talk about here. (And aren't you glad?)
liar
pervert
lazy
stupid
problem
selfish
These words are also sentences. They are not grammatical sentences, but rather sentences handed down in the courtrooms of the heart. They are issued by a judge to a party presumed guilty, scarlet letters with which we intentionally – or unintentionally – brand people. Sometimes for life.
Unfortunately, we use words as sentences in this way often. It's easy to construct their delivery.
"Why are you so lazy?"
"You are the most selfish person I know."
"You're such a liar!"
In short, labels like these paint people in terms of who they are and not merely what they did. They are sweeping. Total. Overwhelming.
What's more, they are ultimately counter-productive. When you tell someone that they are "lazy," what is your goal? Isn't it to motivate them to be more industrious? Likewise, when we call someone a "liar," isn't our goal to somehow get them to tell the truth? But when we say that someone is lazy or a liar, we are actually locking them to the behavior, not encouraging them to change. Labels create expected behavior.
A fish swims. And so, if I believe I am a fish, I am expected to swim.
A liar lies. If I believe I am a liar, then I expect myself to lie. After all, others do.
Other words that can be sentences include extremes:
"You always do this to me."
"You never listen."
Again, if I believe that I always do something, I will keep doing it. If I believe that I never do it, I have no reason to start doing it now.
So how do we turn these "sentences" into constructive communication?
Start by thinking and speaking in terms of the specific behavior happening right now, not in sweeping references to character or as patterns.
"You got an F in Biology" -not- "You're lazy."
"I asked you to take the trash to the street and you didn't" -not- "You never listen to me."
"You left the stove on" -not- "You have no common sense."
"You left your socks on the bathroom floor" -not- "You are a slob" or "Why do I always have to pick up after you!"
If I choose to speak in these terms, I am separating the behavior from the person. People do not feel able to change or correct something they are, as created by our labels. However, they most often do feel able to address and correct one thing they did.
Sometimes we play both the judge and the convicted, passing down these "sentences" on ourselves:
"I am so stupid."
"I'm the worst mother ever."
"I'm a loser."
The effect is the same. The solution, likewise, is the same: to think and speak in terms of specific behaviors I would like to change, not in character judgments upon myself.
This is just one effective tool among many for improving communication and avoiding conflict in relationships (or in allowing ourselves to break self-defeating patterns in our own life). Much of my book, "The Best Advice So Far," is devoted to other such tools.
As I said above, throwing out words as sentences upon people is easy. Rethinking how we say things then is, by comparison, more difficult. But, as Thomas Jefferson said, "Anything worth having is worth fighting for."
the making of mad
Yesterday, in a post entitled "red balloon," I talked a little more about the idea that no one can make you happy. I hope you'll take a minute to read that first, because a lot of important groundwork is laid for what follows here. Today, I want to talk about an equally important truth:
No one can make you mad.
I was talking about one of the chapters in my book, "The Best Advice So Far," with a friend of mine yesterday. He seemed to have no trouble accepting the idea that no one can make you happy, that you have to take responsibility for that choice yourself. But when I introduced the idea that no one can make you mad, he balked. He huffed. He puffed. (But he really didn't blow this house down, because it stands up to some pretty good huffing and puffing.)
I had sushi with a new friend in Boston later that evening, and this idea came up yet again. My friend said that a particular public view advertised on a billboard made him angry. He had a similar reaction to my friend's from earlier that day, when I suggested that no one can make us angry.
It seems this is territory that many people feel strongly about protecting.
I certainly don't claim to have all the answers. And I do think there is room for debate about whether the initial feelings associated with anger are within our control, or whether they are more akin to a pain response when we get hit. But I believe that either way that coin lands, the responsibility for being angry – maybe not "getting" angry, but being angry – still lies with us.
Hear me out.
I was staying with a friend a couple of years ago. I was in another room, when suddenly, a ruckus erupted elsewhere in the house. Someone had knocked at the front door. My friend let them in and began yelling. A girl's voice protested. My friend escalated. And soon thereafter, the door slammed. I heard my friend stomp to his room, muttering loudly. I gave it a few minutes, then went to see what had happened.
I knocked lightly on his door. I heard him sigh on the other side. "Yeah … come in." He was still fuming.
I poked my head in. "Hey, are you OK? What happened?"
He launched in, and I could tell that he truly believed that he'd been in the right with the altercation. He explained that his girlfriend had come by. Apparently, after knocking for a minute or so without his answering the door, she had called his phone to tell him she was outside. He said she had been irritated that he wasn't letting her in. "I left the [expletive] door open for her! How stupid do you have to be to not try turning the [expletive] knob before you stand out there knocking for a [expletive] hour! And then, she treats me like I'm the idiot – like I somehow forgot she was coming." He growled, screwing his eyes closed. "She just makes me so mad!"
I have the kind of relationship with this friend where we can usually just say it like it is. So I went there.
"Let me ask you something," I said. "If it had been another friend" – I suggested the name of a teen we both know – "and she did the same thing exactly, would you have responded the same way?"
The air rushed out of him with a lot of the heat, and I could see him coming back. "Uggh. No."
I continued. "How do you think you would have felt or handled it, if it had been her? Same scenario."
"I … probably would have just opened the door and apologized that I didn't hear her." There was a short pause, then he added, "I'm an idiot." He shook his head at the sudden realization and actually smiled. "I don't know why I get so mad when it's her."
When I get so mad. Ah … progress.
We talked for a while, about how we become comfortable – sometimes too comfortable – with those closest to us. We take them for granted. We stop treating them with the common courtesy we would give to most anyone else. But the real core of this talk was what was introduced above. No one can make you mad. My friend had realized here, based on the scenario where he imagined it had been another friend, that he could control his response. His girlfriend wasn't making him do anything. And that leaves only one option.
We choose our responses.
Whether with a girlfriend or with the guy in front of us who is driving too slow for our liking, we choose.
As I said regarding the idea of anyone making us happy, it is certainly easier with some people to choose to be happy. So it is with anger. It is easier with some people than with others to choose not to give in to anger. But in the end, whether easy or hard, the choice is still ours.
If we can accept this, while it will require some real work in order to change our responses, it offers a level of freedom and personal peace that is well worth the effort.