Since moving into my new apartment a couple weeks ago, I’ve woken up smiling. Happy.
This is a new experience for me, this thing, this feeling of happiness. Now I better understand what people mean when they say that, sometimes, you have to feel shitty first before you know what it’s like to really feel good.
What they didn’t say is that, sometimes, you have to feel shitty for a long period of time.
I equate this to learning how to write well. You first have to read a lot of shitty writing. Really shitty writing. Your own writing will also be shitty, but gradually you learn how to write better, and you start to discern and read better writing. Sentence construction, tone, choice of words, view point, message, emotion. Pesky thing, emotion, but you learn to imbue your characters with it and how to use it to draw distinctions beyond describing clothes, thoughts and actions. That “show, don’t tell” mantra starts to make sense. You learn what works, what doesn’t and start applying the lessons to your own writing.
This same kind of logic seems to apply to feeling. Initially, you feel absolutely shitty. Life just sucks and you cannot comprehend continuing. It’s just too much. There’s no end. However, feeling differently is not as simple as picking up a different book or magazine in order to see what someone else has to say. Just as you have to work at finding and reading good literature, you also have to work at feeling something other than shitty. I say “something other than” because that is not always happiness, joy or a nicer, kinder emotion. Sometimes it’s nothing, an emptiness. Sometimes you can’t identify it. Internal as well as external forces, the environment in which you find yourself, plays a crucial role in feeling. What gets reflected back gets internalized, whether or not you are aware of it.
This might be the most important thing I learned in the two years I lived in Vancouver. It started small, with a nagging sense of worthlessness that slowly started to disappear when I left the office at the end of the day to go to softball.
A simple word of encouragement from a teammate after an incredibly crappy at bat during a game early in the season awoke something in my brain. This other voice announced itself by delivering a punch to the “hate-filled inner critic” always playing in the background. Throughout the season, even when I thought I was having a horrible game, team members remained supportive and encouraging. That consistency fueled this new being, this new voice, in my head. I started noticing small changes. For example, a crappy at bat usually resulted in a crappy game. That “hate-filled inner critic” just didn’t shut up, criticizing a missed play (because I’m not 10 feet tall with a 35 foot leap), a poor throw (even if it wasn’t) and I ended up playing poor defense. Back on the bench, my “hate-filled inner critic” just kept at it, resulting in another poor at bat and the cycle continued throughout the game. It continually engaged what is called the Rage Pathway, which is the mechanism in the brain trigger to fight.
This new voice that started to emerge found a way past my “hate-filled inner critic” by focusing on the fundamentals: follow the ball into the glove, catch with two hands, set your feet, take a hop if necessary, throw and follow-through. Instructions. Engaging the Seeking Pathway, a mechanism in the brain that triggers goal-oriented thinking.
As the season progressed, my thought pattern shifted, and saw a poor at bat as just that: a poor at bat. I wiped the slate clean as I trotted out to right field, played the best defense I could and tried again at the next at bat.
A surprising thing happened: I started enjoying the moment. The sun beating down on the field, the mountains off in the distance, the dirt beneath my cleats, the way the pitcher started his wind-up, his release point, the way the players shifted for a girl on the assumption girls can’t hit (not always the case). That gorgeous sound when bat hits ball and skips through the gap.
I found beauty in each moment.
One thing started building on another, one step at a time, with simple goals for each game. It started slow: just make contact. Then it started selecting pitches, incorporating shifts in defensive field position, who was on base and who was up after me. I started hitting better. My “hate-filled inner critic” grew quiet, unable to compete with this new, encouraging voice that found beauty.
It started to feel natural, and that feeling started to nurture this feeling of happiness.
Now I sit in my new apartment in Chicago, watching the traffic on Upper Wacker, happy, and finding ways to continue to nurture that feeling.
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