Stories That No Longer Serve

When I graduated high school, I had one or two stories hanging off me, like particularly clingy mollusks. One of those stories was this:

Photo by Jason Rogers

I have no self-discipline.

In high school, I tried to homeschool myself (don't try this at home, kids) and with insane ambition but complete lack of structure, didn't quite manage it. I slacked off for about three years.

Failure #1

When I got to college (or more accurately, Bible college), I took two correspondence courses, one in American literature and one in American history.

There were no deadlines, only a free form "You have 9 months to finish this course." With inane ambition and a complete lack of structure, I did the first assignments for both courses and then nothing after that.

Failure #2

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I decide to write a thorough literary analysis of the book of Lamentations for my Old Testament class. Line by line. Line by line.

I ended up sitting in my professor's office completely stressed out and overwhelmed, describing how this paper on Lamentations had consumed me, taken over my life, turned into a monster. Oh, and by the way, I hadn't finished it yet.

And then my professor said something about monsters or about this paper being a monster that I strain to remember. It feels important. I don't remember. It was probably some combination of smartass and profound.

In that space of lost memory, I have only the image--that in my life I have two modes of being:

One--Painstakingly, perfectly, picking my way through the rubble of Jerusalem.

Two--Running, screaming from a nameless, faceless terror.

One--Struggling, straining for complete control.

Two--Drinking, smoking, drugging (or in my case, getting loopy as a can of worms on lack of sleep), all to turn off the perfectionist and tune into divine possession.

Whether I was being pursued by the monster or slave-driven by the perfectionist, my story had no space for ordinary, everyday divinity:

The holy normal of 2:34PM. The spirit-filled comma. Visions of eternity punctuated by trips to the bathroom. The transcendence of non-linear video editing. The glory of God. The glory of a perfectly timed cut.

It feels odd to look back now on what might have been the most productive period of my life and realize that this story of "no self-discipline" defined me. It turns up again and again, despite the overwhelming evidence of things made.

Fifty-eight pages, later, I even finished what was meant to be a 10-15 page paper.

I slayed the monster, before it could slay me.

Career Myths, or Do What You Like

I recently ran across an essay by Paul Graham entitled How to Do What You Love. It's a good essay; I would recommend it.

Anyway, it got me thinking (imagine that) about certain fallacies--namely, how incorrect beliefs about work keep people from choosing the right career.

It seems like stupidly simple advice, but if anything I would tell a hypothetical someone--me, in my near past perhaps--to "Find something you like." There's an even stupider reason for this advice. Namely I find it extremely difficult, nay, damn near impossible to do things I don't want to do. Even if I need to do them. Even if I should do them. Even if for the love of all things bright, shiny, and wonderful I should want to do them.

Let me introduce you to my good friend, self-deception.

Maybe you can avoid my fate--by challenging these three myths:

The Myth of Pain

In college, I lived implicitly by the tenets of academic masochism: taking 24 units a semester, signing up for that 8:00 AM Trig class, pulling all-nighters every time I had a paper due, you name it. I took a class on non-Shakespearean Renaissance literature my senior year because I wanted to, not because I had to (yeah, I was one of THOSE people).

Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that pain = me becoming a better person. I think in my head I had this (false) image of perfect me. Perfect Me was not only smart, but disciplined. She studied diligently for each class. She never procrastinated. She got straight As.

In reality, I was a terrible procrastinator, never studied as much as I should have, and never got perfect grades.

Perfect Me? Yeah, she never existed. And she never will.

But strangely, it's hard to let that image die. More specifically, it's hard to let go of the belief that if I just do these (good) things, if I just go through this pain, I'll become who I want to be.

The myth of pain taught me that if I wasn't having fun, I just needed to knuckle down and try harder.

Yes, suffering can be good for you, but suffering can also be unnecessary. Do what you like. How do you know if you like it? You don't put off doing it. You look forward to it. No one's holding a gun (or paycheck) to your head.

The Myth of Talent

There's the line of thinking that goes, figure out what you're good at, and go do that.

This is terrible advice.

First of all, there's no future in updating your facebook status every hour and second of all, you could be good at doing something you hate.

Being good at something can create a false sense of responsibility: "I'm a good basket-weaver, so if I don't pursue basket-weaving I'm depriving the world of my talent."

Poppycock. Chances are you are good at more than one thing.

But, you major in engineering because you're good at math and science. Or you get a job at Starbucks because you pull a mean expresso. Or your mom always told you you were good with words so you go to law school.

And now, you hate your job.

There's another way this plays out: you're good at X. People notice you're good at X. You get a promotion/raise/contract to do X. You get all the perks that go with doing X well: approval/recognition/appreciation. People start asking you to do X in your free time. You say yes, because oh my gosh, someone needs me! Over time, you start to become resentful of X. You feel used. Dissatisfied. Drained.

Talent does not equal calling.

Do what you like. How do you know if you like it? You're willing to make an ass out of yourself doing it. You're willing to go through that awkward stage where you have no idea what you're doing. You're willing to suck.

The Myth of Altruism

So you wanna change the world? You want to be a social worker, a missionary, a caretaker.

These are all wonderful jobs. However, they may not be the right jobs for you.

Dr. A.J. Drenth has a take on this as it relates to the INTP personality type (that would be me):

"This desire for affirmation and validation may cause INTPs to overlook good career options because, on the surface, such careers seem too far removed from the source of their desired validation: people. So rather than choosing a career in science, for instance, INTPs may opt for what amounts to a “quick fix” for their inferior and select a people-oriented career, such as healthcare or human services. While at first blush, such people-oriented careers may “feel right” to INTPs (or more specifically, to their inferior function), it is rarely long before they realize that this is not the case. INTPs are better off with a career that allows them to use their top two functions (Ti and Ne) to help others (Fe) in a less direct fashion."

To put it briefly, INTPs don't do well in high-contact careers.

The myth of altruism says, I want to help people, therefore I need to help them in the most direct way possible--otherwise, it doesn't count. 

Have you ever felt secretly guilty that you don't want to be a missionary? Or live in the inner-city? Or scrub floors at a health clinic? 

It's okay. You would be terrible at it anyway. 

Do what you like. How do you know you like it? You're not operating out of a sense of guilt or obligation. Your sense of empathy is not exhausted. You still like people.

Tune in next time for a quiz!

Shame, Expectations and Unnecessary Suffering

I was on the verge of tears--not at sad news though. At happy news, good news, welcome news. These, however, were not happy tears, I'm dismayed to report. These were more like tears of frustration--frustration over unnecessary suffering.

I'm sure none of you were ever like this, but as a child, I was fully capable of making myself unhappy--of denying myself good things like forgiveness, hugs, even pastry, because I was determined to be miserable, no matter what. There's a pride of grief, of unhappiness, of cutting off your nose to spite your face, because it's MY nose dammit, and I'll do what I please with it. Let the noseless rejoice in their sweet, if unsavory, suffering. 

Of course as an adult, my suffering is much more refined now, if still as unnecessary as ever. For one, there's procrastination, which many agree is a fine, even dignified form of suffering. You suffer, you suffer, you get the work done--and then the suffering ends, and you're left with nothing but emptiness where the suffering once was. 

Then there's the suffering of extremes, the rushing from one pole to the other in a frenzy of self-abnegation. Pick a personal fault, any fault. Perhaps you are prideful, insensitive, egotistical--sometimes. Generalize this fault into an all-encompassing final word on the nature of your basic character. You are arrogance itself. Criminally insensitive to other people. You are flawed to the core, and somehow, it feels so right to be so wrong. Tears. Abasement before God and perhaps other people. It all makes sense now. And this suffering will save you from yourself. 

And let's not forget the suffering of standards and expectations, your own and others', that you will never be able to live up to. Ever. The kind of things where you fail before you even start. Where you can never make him or her happy, no matter how hard you try. And even if you make that grade, get into that school, land that job, they will never be proud of you. And even if they were, it still wouldn't be enough. The kind of standards where you're tempted to say, screw it. Forget it. I won't even try. But even then, the bitterness rises up inside of you. And you suffer. 

And what about the suffering of miscommunication. Missed communication. Message not received. This one, perhaps, eats me up most of all. You spoke, but I was not listening. But I heard you say--But you never said--And I never bothered to ask--Because to ask, for clarification, for reassurance, for love, is to admit vulnerability. To admit that I need you. That I need. All that I wanted was there for the taking. I had only to ask. But I did not ask because I did not want you to know how much I wanted to ask. I would not risk even that one moment of vulnerability, because I would rather you see me as self-contained and complete, needing nothing, no one. 

Which brings me to the suffering of self-sufficiency. Some people, and I don't admit to knowing anyone like this, would much rather suffer than ask for help. Would much rather risk isolation than rejection. Let's be real here. There are certain types of martyrdom that are very highly regarded in our society, the most socially accepted of them all probably being martyrdom for your job, your career, your art. My art is my life, you say. Nonsense. You are not a paintbrush. Your life is your life. No one, not even God, is asking you to suffer for art. 

That's the problem with suffering though. It can feel so good. So noble. Soul-cleansing even. It's like eating vegetables--this tastes so bad it must be good for me. 

But is it necessary?




Sources of inspiration:

http://peterrollins.net/?p=3739
The story of Hannah as heard at http://www.churchinhollywood.com/#/sundays/podcasts

New Year's Resolutions

1. Read more.

In 2011, I rediscovered the audiobook, which is all well and good. However, I'd like to actually read a few books this year, eye to page, balls to leaf, etc.

2. Write more.

Maybe I should specify: write more for public consumption. I write a fair bit--I can't imagine NOT writing. It's part of who I am. A delightful cocktail of perfectionism and procrastination keeps me from writing for persons other than myself--I'm always looking for the perfect title, idea, opportunity.

So yeah. I'd like to write a feature length screenplay, and you can hold me to that. And more blogs.

3. Think less.

In the same category as thinking: talking about it, reading about it, writing about it. Write more, think less--sounds paradoxical, but there is certainly an element of writing that does not come from thinking but from putting pen to page. In other words, just do it. Less theory, more praxis.

4. Participate.

Sometimes, this means playing beer pong.

5. Shoot more.

Ideally, at least one project per month. Starting tomorrow.