Cookie and Alex - a Family Fable

Today is the shared birthday of my mother Henrietta Brisk and her father Alexander Brisk.

For years they thought their birthdays were two days apart. Alex had celebrated his birthday on December 27th his whole life. Kathryn was due to give birth in late December. According to family lore, Kathryn "kept her legs crossed" until the 27th, then "pushed like hell." But no such luck. The kid was too stubborn to make an appearance on the 27th. Two days later, little Henrietta was born. It was December 29, 1923. Twenty years later, Alex's birth certificate was unearthed from some dusty steamer trunk and, amazingly, it turned out he was born on December 29th as well, in 1898.

Nobody ever called her Henrietta. She was too small and too cute for such a big name. From the start she was called Cookie, because "she was sweet as a sugar cookie." She was more like a ginger snap, really. She was small and cute, all right, but she was also smart as hell and brave, too. She took no prisoners, little Cookie. Like a petite but ruthless queen, she emphatically spoke her mind, much to the delight of the family. She had moxie.

Alex was as proud as could be. He had five sisters, four of whom were older, and Kathryn was seventh in a family of ten. Everybody lived in Brooklyn so what with the various spouses and children, not to mention Kathryn's parents and Alex's mother, there were usually forty or fifty people gathered at the frequent family events. The Brisks and the Ezechels had grown up next door to each other in Mamaroneck, New York. Many of Kathryn's older brothers were dear friends with Alex from the time they were kids. The Brisks were Russian Jews (Father Brisk didn't speak English) and the Ezechels were half German Jewish, half Italian Roman Catholic. Their families had emigrated to the US during the great influx of the late 1800's, coming through Ellis Island to America, where it was said the streets were paved with gold.

Everyone was loud, funny, talkative, and had a zest for life. It was the roaring 20's and they exemplified the times - they were enthusiastic, ambitious and always ready to have a good time. There was a great deal of food and a great deal of fun whenever they got together. They made their own entertainment. Alex would recite "Casey at the Bat" complete with hand gestures and hilarious schtick; Kathryn sang in a rich contralto and mimicked Catherine Cornell in scenes from "The Barretts of Wimpole Street." Her younger sister Edythe was a contortionist who had appeared in Vaudeville. The carpet would be pulled back and Edythe obligingly performed her amazing Dance of the Seven Veils while older sister Janis pounded out "The Shiek of Araby" on the spinet. A conga line was always a possibility, and the sisters could be persuaded to demonstrate the latest dance steps from Radio City Music Hall. It was big, rambunctious fun in those days - the Kaiser had just had his ass kicked in the war to end all wars, and the future was brighter than ever.

Uncle Arthur was the big shot of the family. He was the first to become successful and rich, and he liked big gestures - taking the entire family to Coney Island, for example, or to the Hippodrome, and buying all the popcorn and cotton candy they could eat. He'd show up at a family block party with a huge Genoa salami, and they'd rotisserie the whole thing over a fire in a trash can, cutting hunks for all the kids in the neighborhood while the spit was still turning, encouraging the boys to dip the hot, salty, greasy chunks in good German mustard, he'd say, "To put hair on your chest!" Dressed in dapper duds and head held high, Uncle Arthur was the center of it all. Alex was plenty smart and full of hustle, too, but hadn't made it big yet like Arthur had, so it rankled him when Arthur would pull him aside to patronizingly deliver words of advice.

At one memorable family gathering, Uncle Arthur was grandly complimenting the meal, especially the soup, comparing it to the nectar of the gods (he was quite full of himself). Cookie, who was 4 at the time but very tiny for her age, was seated in a high chair at the end of the table, where everyone could see her. She may have looked like she was two years old, but she had the mind of a six-year-old, and she saw that her father Alex chafed under Arthur's heavy handedness. After Uncle Arthur had finished his pontificating, everyone stopped chattering and they turned their attention to the delicious food. Alex put a bowl of soup in front of his tiny daughter and, in his booming voice, asked her, "How's the soup, Cookie?" With all eyes on her, she fed herself a spoonful, swallowed it without expression, then said in her clear little voice for all to hear, "It stinks!"

It is from moments like this that reputations are made, that opinions are formed which last a lifetime, and the terms of a relationship established. Pandemonium ensued, everyone laughing and chattering at once, marveling at the audacious little child, reenacting the moment, slapping Alex on the back and congratulating him on having such a remarkable child. At first Uncle Arthur turned beet red, his face blowing up like a balloon, then he saw the humor and began guffawing loudest of all. He swept little Cookie out of the high chair and onto his shoulder, and proclaimed Cookie the wisest and most audacious little girl in the world. Cookie, for her part, accepted the cheers and accolades of her laughing, admiring family, and Alex about busted from pride - his tiny daughter had skewered the head of the family, something he had wanted to do but couldn't.

In letting the hot air out of Uncle Arthur in front of the whole family, Cookie had secured a place of great importance in the eyes of everyone there, most of all in the eyes of her father. In a family that appreciated chutzpah and moxie, not to mention impeccable comic timing, Cookie had scored a huge hit. And so had Alex. It was the start of a unique father-daughter dynamic that was built on mutual admiration and respect as well as love. They were kindred spirits.

Here's to you, Cookie and Alex - Happy Happy Birthday!

Happiness Equals Insensitivity - Tennessee Williams

Sheila O'Malley has a beautiful, soulful post about her take on the New Year here.

Almost towards the end, she's talking about those of us who harbor darkness, who find it difficult to get all zippy and happy about the New Year just 'cause we're supposed to be zippy and happy. Then she says, "That's why Tennessee Williams, when asked for his definition of happiness, replied 'Insensitivity.' " Blows me away. Damn.

I just wanna riff on this for a few.

It sure seems like that, doesn't it? It's the insensitive, benighted fools who can do the happy dance when all around them, people are in pain. Maybe the problem is the word "happy." Much too vague. I mean, according to a song our grade school choir sang (It's from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown") :

HAPPINESS IS FINDING A PENCIL.
PIZZA WITH SAUSAGE
TELLING THE TIME.
HAPPINESS IS LEARNING TO WHISTLE.
TYING YOUR SHOE FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME.

HAPPINESS IS PLAYING THE DRUM IN YOUR OWN SCHOOL BAND.
AND HAPPINESS IS WALKING HAND IN HAND.

HAPPINESS IS TWO KINDS OF ICE CREAM.
KNOWING A SECRET.
CLIMBING A TREE.
HAPPINESS IS FIVE DIFFERENT CRAYONS.
CATCHING A FIREFLY.
SETTING HIM FREE.

HAPPINESS IS BEING ALONE EVERY NOW AND THEN.
AND HAPPINESS IS COMING HOME AGAIN.
HAPPINESS IS MORNING AND EVENING,
DAY TIME AND NIGHT TIME TOO.

FOR HAPPINESS IS ANYONE AND ANYTHING AT ALL
THAT'S LOVED BY YOU.

HAPPINESS IS HAVING A SISTER.
SHARING A SANDWICH.
GETTING ALONG.

HAPPINESS IS SINGING TOGETHER WHEN DAY IS THROUGH,
AND HAPPINESS IS THOSE WHO SING WITH YOU.

HAPPINESS IS MORNING AND EVENING,
DAYTIME AND NIGHTTIME TOO.
FOR HAPPINESS IS ANYONE AND ANYTHING AT ALL
THAT'S LOVED BY YOU.

Okay, I get it: happiness is two kinds of ice cream. Jamoca Almond Fudge and Pistachio. Check.

Does happiness require insensitivity in order to exist? Well, does it, Charlie Brown?

Is there a difference between sensitivity and vulnerability?

Can we be empathetic, compassionate and understanding (i.e., sensitive) without being exceedingly vulnerable at our core? Can we bleed for others (and sometimes for ourselves) yet maintain enough blood in our systems to exist at a level that includes happiness, whatever it is?

Can we ponder the plight of humankind, shake our head in sorrow at the crimes committed in the name of God and Allah, at violence in service to greed, hate, ignorance, imperiousness, ruthlessness, and hopelessness, and still somehow hold onto a basic belief in the goodness in people? (Ann Frank seemed to manage it, somehow.)

Does the totality of our experiences in life inevitably lead to melancholy? More to the point, must we choose to be insensitive in order to maintain a "happy" outlook when the preponderance of the evidence (in our own lives and in the lives of those around us) is so clearly opposite any possible definition of "happy?"

A brief digression: Tarot cards represent archetypes of people and situations - the impulsive man, the smart daughter, the inquisitive son, the battle lost, a foundation reinforced, burdensome tasks, blinders dropped, and so on. They were developed to communicate truths about human nature to people who couldn't read. They are simplistic as individual cards, yet they hold much truth and wisdom when they are shuffled, dealt, and examined for the way adjacent cards influence each other in a particular spread.

The high arcana cards in a Tarot deck represent man's journey through life. Card "Zero" is the Fool. It is both the first and last high arcana card (Alpha and Omega, as some decks point out) . Most Tarot books define the Fool as representing optimism maintained or reacquired in the face of experience, the person who has been through a life of difficulties, yet looks upon the road ahead with hope. He is the "happiest" archetype, possibly the ONLY happy archetype. There are other positive cards, of course, but they usually relate to events and not to the inate personality of the person experiencing them.

So, in order to be happy, do you need to be a fool? Granted, in the context of Tarot, the Fool is that madcap courtier whose wit and dexterity amused the weary head who wore the crown. The buffoon, the joker, the comic; the entertainer who brings a moment of delight and distraction to those who have great responsibility. Maybe happiness doesn't require blindness to suffering but just a temporary distraction from it. "Count your blessings." "Look on the bright side." "Every cloud has a silver lining." Is this happiness? My father used to say, "Life is a series of bitter disappointents." Cheery, huh? His life certainly might be viewed in that light. Maybe all of us would agree with this point of view sometimes.

I believe there is sensitivity to others' experiences and circumstances, and then there is another thing, also labeled sensitivity, which is the state of being vulnerable to the hateful, judgmental, critical, agonizing words and actions people might say and do.

I believe I can be a compassionate and empathetic human being at the same time I steadfastly refuse to allow experience to assault my core beliefs about myself. I may need to revise and adapt my core beliefs to reflect what I've learned in life from time to time, but that is my choice. My core beliefs stand invulnerable to attack. They are. They simply are. And anything someone might say or do will not change them.

I believe I do not invalidate my sensitivity card if one of my core beliefs is, "I am able to experience happiness."

I believe I don't need to exhibit a bruised and battered face to the world or be vulnerable to its violence in order to prove my sensitivity. You might see sorrow and empathy in my eyes from time to time, let me assure you, but you will also see joy and love and, yes, happiness.

Moreover, I believe it is my sensitivity that allows me to experience happiness. It's my sensitivity to the intricate flavor combinations of two kinds of ice cream that makes the moment of eating them a happy one. It's my sensitivity to the delight a friend experiences when they achieve a worthwhile goal or fall in love which makes me happy. My sensitivity allows me to appreciate the artistry of a song beautifully sung. It also prompts me to seek to alleviate the pain of a child crying in distress. Both may lead to happiness for me.

It's like this, Tennessee. Blanche was vulnerable to everything people around her said and did. She was like the most delicate magnolia blossom, browning at the slightest touch. She depended on the kindness of strangers (because she had nothing to rely on inside her to feel good about herself, to have a moment of happiness). She was incredibly vulnerable, but some might say Blanche didn't exhibit much sensitivity to others. She sought to destroy her sister's life, ostensibly because the husband Stella had chosen was crass, but really because she envied her sister's happiness (and the aggressive sexual desire Stella and Stanley had for each other). Blanche was nakedly vulnerable, frequently insensitive and completely unhappy.

Stanley was invulnerable, physically and emotionally, to what people might say or do. Sure, he would respond to belittling like a frustrated child, but the belittling didn't penetrate his sense of himself. And he didn't exhibit much sensitivity to Blanche. But his sensitivity to Stella was his overriding characteristic. Why was he so nasty to Blanche? Well, mostly because he believed Blanche had frittered away on furs and jewels what was rightfully Stella's from their parents' estate; because Blanche was trying to tear down his relationship with Stella; because Blanche mocked his strengths and disdained his weaknesses. When it came to Stella, though, Stanley was agonizingly sensitive - screaming and crying in the street, begging to be taken in her arms, begging to be forgiven. Stanley was invulnerable, frequently sensitive, and mostly happy.

I love you, Tennessee, really I do, but I think you were working me when you said that happiness is insensitivity. I get the irony. God knows I do. But I think you knew better. Your Stanley and Blanche demonstrated it for us.

I believe happiness is sensitivity from a core of invulnerability.

Or maybe it's this:

"Happiness is when what you say and what you do
and what you believe are in harmony." - Gandhi

NEWS FLASH!

In a move designed to appeal to all us hefty-ass drivers, some of the major car manufacturers have increased the seat width on upcoming models - get this - UP TO THREE-QUARTERS OF AN INCH!

I just learned this from the local news station, which used the report to feature yet another montage of from-the-neck-down jiggly fat people at the mall, in the supermarket parking lot, scratching their bellies, wearing pale blue spandex pants that conform to each lump of cellulite.
This is the standard "Post-Christmas Fat Anxiety" story designed to scare the bejesus out of people and get them to spend money money money on diet programs, exercise equipment, gym memberships, supplements, liposuction, gastric by-pass operations . . . . . . it's also designed to get people to make New Year's resolutions they haven't a chance in the world to keep, and when they give up, to sell them new clothes, self-tanning lotions, turnaround creme, viagra, lipitor, meridia, maalox, McDonald's new fat free fudge shakes, and on and on.

In other words, folks, it's a great big money-making scheme which puts the news agencies in cahouts with the advertizers to sell YOU product.

Side effects of this product-selling combine: Lower self-esteem, public embarrassment and shame, a feeling of hopelessness, and the resulting weight gains of fatties everywhere when they turn to food to comfort them in their sad state of mind.

Oh, and by the way - THREE QUARTERS OF AN INCH? You've got to be kidding.

The Play Doh Effect

When I was a kid, Play Doh came in cardboard containers, and you made little scupltures with it, usually on the snowman theme - you know, three balls stacked on each other, the top one being the head. If you were lucky you had more than one color, so the facial features would show more. Three colors was the jackpot.

Long after I had moved on to other toys, along came amazing plastic accessories - extruding devices - which turned Play Doh into a production element instead of an end to itself. Suddenly Play Doh wasn't a a medium to make sculptures but an industrial material to produce long extruded shapes, perfectly round or perfectly square, or perfectly star-shaped. The fun was in the extruding, not in the end product, really. But I digress. This is the point:

The filters through which we experience life are akin to those plastic Play Doh templates.

If I'm extruding every thought, emotion and experience through a star-shaped filter, then every thought, emotion and experience, no matter what it looks like going in, will be squished into a star-shaped log.

If I'm extruding every thought, emotion and experience through a belief of "I approve of myself," then every thought, emotion and experience, no matter what it looks like going in, will filter through this belief and the parts that agree with the belief will come shining through, and the parts that conflict with the belief will be squished into nothingness.

Stay with me for a second.

RLF (Real Life Example): Up until fifth grade, I got straight A's. The eager-to-please puppy dog in me would run home and show the report card to my parents, who were fulsome in their praise. In fifth grade, I got six A's, two A-minuses, and a B. I showed the card to my father. I watched his eyes carefully and saw them jump to the B, look to see what class it was in (math, natch) and then he said, "Hmmm. Well well well. I see. Hmm. You got a B in math, huh? Well, now. That's okay, son." Heart pounding, I grabbed the report card from his hands, ran to my room and cried bitter tears, hurt and angry at my father for being such a critical, judgmental, insensitive bastard. THIS EXPERIENCE, AS IT HAPPENED, MAKES ME FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF.

PIR (Post-Insight Reevaluation): when I saw the report card for the first time, I saw only the B. It might have been a huge red F for the way I felt about it. It was a huge, horrible blot on my otherwise perfect record, and I felt panicked and sick. This is in the first ten seconds of looking at my card. My super nice teacher, Mr. Simpson, gave me a huge smile and said, "Congratulations, Steve, you earned all those A's." But I was already beet red, teary, and kinda nauseus about this visible PROOF that I wasn't good enough. In other words, my core belief of "I'm not good enough" had filtered the experience of looking at the report card and had extruded the thought, "See? You're obviously an imperfect, nothing special failure of a little boy. Shame shame shame!" When my father had his reaction to the report card, I was already in full meltdown mode, convinced of my worthlessness. The things he said and the look in his eyes was further proof of the undeniable fact: I'm no good. I'm bad. I'm scum. THIS EXPERIENCE, AS IT HAPPENED, CONFORMS WITH MY CORE BELIEF THAT I'M NO GOOD .

RLD (Real Life Do-over): Now let's revisit this moment in time as if I had a different filter, one that was much more accurate - "I'm a bright and capable little boy who is a very good student." Getting the report card wouldn't have initiated an internal riot. I might have thought, "Great! Mostly A's, that's good, and a B in math, well that's fair, I could probably do better if I tried harder next time. But all in all it's a good report card, that's for sure!" When Mr. Simpson congratulated me, I might have allowed the compliment to come in, to reaffirm in me a deserved sense of pride and a feeling of accomplishment. When I handed the report card to my dad, maybe I wouldn't have been anxious and fearful and close to tears and putting all this portent into his reaction. Maybe that would have changed the way he reacted, who knows? If not, if he said the same things, maybe I would have thought, "Yeah, I'm a little disappointed in the B, too, after all it's the first B I ever got, but all in all it doesn't change my good feelings about myself. Actually, it reconfirms my beliefs: I AM a very good student - all A's and one B is the report card of a very good student. I feel good about myself. I'm a bright and capable boy." And that would be that. THIS EXPERIENCE, AS IT MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED AND AS I PERCEIVE IT TODAY, CONFORMS WITH MY CORE BELIEF THAT I AM A BRIGHT AND CAPABLE STUDENT.

This is an obvious simplification. But it illuminates a couple of important points:

(1) Pick core beliefs that work for you, because from now on, every experience, thought and emotion will be filtered by those beliefs.

(2) To look into the past with a new belief in place can illuminate the extent to which previous beliefs shaped and colored the experiences AS THEY OCCURRED as well as HOW THEY ARE REMEMBERED. It's an exercise in the nature of truth and reality, really.

(3) Yes, of course, shit happens, and when it does, the beliefs we have in place at the time we experience it will cause that shit to extrude in a lovely star-shaped log. Difficult and trying moments will occur from time to time, but they won't shake our core beliefs, and our ability to deal with them will be uplifted by those beliefs.

Cyberfriends

One of the absolute joys of reading my favorite blogs (sheilaomalley.com and alexandrabillings.com) is the way the postings reveal the bloggers, less by what they say but what they don't say; by how they describe what they do from day to day; from the way they value their friends and families; from the way they "talk" to themselves. It's like reading a guidebook for me on how to be a person of innate value, and what's it like to respond to the world from that perspective.

Sheila O'Malley and Alexandra Billings are brilliant, unique people, multi-talented and insightful, compassionate and authentic, and frequently hilarious besides. They both have such far-reaching enthusiasms and their lives are charged with the energy of creativity. They stand tall and proud, are willing to fall on their faces, and most of all, they prove every day why it's so important to build your life on a foundation of self-acceptance. Their ability to overcome obstacles and to weather through difficulties is eased by their self-evident faith in themselves. I would hazard to guess that they may not be aware of this subtext that I see so readily; After all, I believe you only notice the beliefs you have about yourself that aren't working for you.

Alex and Sheila are my cyberfriends, something I didn't know existed a year ago, and now I understand it to mean a unique type of connectedness that is similar to the days of the quill and the parchment, of sitting at the escritoire and composing long letters by candlelight to loved ones, colleagues, persons of influence, and acquaintances. Blogging is a modern technology that's allowed us to harken back to days of yore. It's a very cool thing to be able to think about what someone has written, and if an insight registers, to be able to take the time to express it in writing. I'm far less eloquent in person than I can be when I comment on a post. It's like having the deepest, most meaningful conversation with the ability to edit, revise, mull and ruminate. It's the joyous wish I had when I was young come true, to share thoughts and ideas with the authors of beloved books, to be friends with Maya Angelou and Florence King and Jean Kerr and Cornelia Otis Skinner and Robert Benchley. Sheila and Alex play very real roles in my life, and as I look back upon this last year of change for me, I recognize - and celebrate - the important influence they've unknowingly had on me.

Thanks, ladies!

Attitude Adjustment

Just so you know, I've dropped 100 pounds since August. But this is not the point; losing weight is a side-effect of changing my beliefs about myself. The important thing that's occured is that I am learning to love, accept and forgive myself. One of the by-products is weight loss. Another by-product is I make my bed every morning; Still another by-product is hope has begun to percolate within me for the first time in many years, and with it comes plans and dreams and schemes and zestful enthusiasm.

What I might say instead is, "Guess what? I've dropped five toxic beliefs about myself that brought me years of misery! Now I can wear this gorgeous outfit, because it fits my self-esteem so perfectly!"

There's definitely an attitude adjustment that's occurred. I've let myself off the hook, basically, and when I make mistakes or say the wrong thing I still maintain a base level of self-esteem that's inalienable. I'm far from perfect; but I'm much more okay with myself. Besides, my goal isn't perfection, but to simply be the Stevie I am and the Stevie I'm becoming.

Seems to me we're all in a dual state - we are being, and we are becoming. But I don't think they're separate; We are at all times both things. I am the flowering of my being at present, and the promise of my becoming in the future, all at once.

I accept the Stevie I am being and I accept the Stevie I am becoming. This is much more significant, I believe, than the weight loss. This is, in fact, the main goal of this mission.

The more I love and approve of myself, and the more I forgive my mistakes, the more inclined I am to do good things for myself (such as eating healthily and moderately).

Most of my friends have an inviolate sense of self-worth and value. I sometimes didn't identify it for what it was, or rather, I didn't identify the lack of it in myself. I just thought I was hyper-self-critical. I held myself to an unreachable standard (i.e., perfection, whatever that means), then wallowed in guilt when I didn't attain it, rejecting the evidence of worth in myself and magnifying the evidence of worthlessness because it was consistent with my low self-opinion. I thought self-esteem was reserved for people who were do-gooders and be-gooders, shining perfect people, certainly not for obese people. What do you mean, I could feel okay about myself? I wasn't perfect, in fact far from it, I wasn't okay, and it was apparent to the whole damn world. To think I was okay was a conceited, blind, self-deceptive lie. Maybe one day, IF I lost a bunch of weight, or IF I corrected all my past wrongs, or IF someone loves me the way I should love myself, that will be the day I can feel good about myself. Well, I was wrong.

So what is in store for 2006? More, more more - more self-esteem, more acceptance, more forgiveness, and more love, and let the by-products fall where they may!

The "Difference" Factor

I'm working on the project for "O" - more details later. But it's been very interesting that as it becomes closer to reality, I'm getting self-conscious, nervous about participating in meetings as the big bouncing boy that I am. And it's ridiculous, because I'm a dynamo in a meeting - a large dynamo, but a dynamo nonetheless. And I don't mean in some hyperactive, off-putting Chris Farley way, but that I am reasonably articulate, frequently inspired, and occasionally funny, all of which should serve me well. I make eye contact, I respond appropriately, I don't spittle much, and I have a confident handshake. Yes, I will be wearing a 66 Portly Long suit. Yes, I will undoubtedly be sweating. But I will smell good, I'll have clean nails and teeth, sparkling blue eyes, and I'll be presenting a socko idea to an entrepreneur and her team that is perfectly suited to see the value of the concept.

Yet I start thinking, "Holy crap, who do I think I am, waddling in there and pitching an idea? Won't they take one look at me and think there's no way this fatass is worth listening to?"

But here's the thing, and I forget about this until these moments come up in my life: people feel comfortable around me. Put another way, people sometimes condescend to me because I'm "different," and therefore feel comfortable.

Now it might be because I put people at ease, am amiable and know how to keep the conversational ball rolling. A humorous quip or two frequently adds to the comfort level for all concerned. You know, jovial jolly fat Stevie, rolly polly puddin 'n pie, master of turning the attention onto those I'm with.

There is another factor, though, and I wonder if "civilians" (non-fatties) even know about it.

People often condescend to fatties. A feeling of superiority leads to a relaxed, comfortable attitude. Like the way a plantation owner feels surrounded by big beefy slaves, all smiling and saying, "Yes, Massa. You so smart, Massa!"

Hard to believe, but I'm a non-threatening presence. A four hundred pound non-threatening presence, a person, yes, but obviously "less than."

I've had people in my life whose first reaction to me is, "Wow!" Their eyes light up, they sidle on over to me, and go about being extremely magnanimous, gracious, even daring to touch me (like testing an avocado for ripeness). These can be out-of-body experiences for me. A little like being the sucker in an airport that the Hare Krishna surround and "befriend." I'm a little off-put, sometimes, as they extend their generous friendliness to the poor unfortunate before them. Smiling like a happy placid buddha, I nod and close my eyes and let them look me over. Their eyes inevitably drop to my belly at the first opportunity, often accompanied by a not-very-effectively camouflaged look of astonishment as they quickly do a comparison more often seen urinal-to-urinal in men's rooms. I have found that almost everyone needs to get this out of their system, so I look away, giving them the opportunity to scan in secret, but I usually look back in time to catch 'em (a fun aha! moment for me). Now the chatter turns manic, and much hilarity ensues, all without my saying anything much more than "Hello there" and "How are you?"

When I actually say something more substantial, depending on the level of quick-wittedness, insight or intelligence of the remarks I make, it's like a Spielberg movie all of a sudden: mouths agape, eyes widened, and I'm a twinkling spaceship hovering mid-air before them. By golly, it's a great big surprise - the parade balloon talks! It thinks! It's funny! It's not simple-minded! Wait'll I tell Phillip about this!

Then comes the piece de' resistance, the coup de grace - they hear the slight lisp, the effeminate lilt of my voice, and "OH. MY. GOD! A big fat gay smart funny THING! I never expected to catch one of those in my butterfly net! This is just amazing! Ethel! Ethel! Look!!!"

I've been to parties where I felt like a baby gorilla at Lion Country Safari. "Madge, Madge! Come over here and meet this . . . . um, man! He's toooooo divine! Don't worry, he won't bite! No, I'm sure he won't!"

I've seen this same sort of effusive, grandiose, "I'm a big enough person to be kind to those less fortunate" response directed at people in wheelchairs, tattooed and pierced people, transgendered people, African-Americans, turbaned men, bald women, amputees, burn victims, immigrants, the homeless, etc.

Now don't get me wrong. There have been plenty of people whose response to me is kind, egalitarian, welcoming and friendly without a hint of condescension.

But the difference factor of being a large guy is an inescapable part of my existence. I've been a living experiment, really, a litmus test -- people react, and I duly note their response, categorizing them: acid, alkaline, neutral. This could work to my advantage in a business situation, I suppose.

If only I could figure out how.

Ho ho ho

It's Christmas, the most fattening time of year for lots of us.

I lost five pounds during Thanksgiving week, and I was hopeful that I could do the same, or at least not gain any weight, during Christmas. But my housemate stocked up for her mother's impending visit, and her mother and friend brought oodles of goodies into the house, and suddenly, temptation was all around me. A two-pound wedge of gouda, a three-pound can of Planter's cocktail mix, butter, cornbread, chocolate, cookies, crackers, and invitations to lunches, dinners, and parties. Ande made a huge batch of Irish Creme liquor (her Christmas tradition).

I started with good intentions. I made dinner for everyone that night - a light stir fry of prawns, fresh bamboo shoots and baby bok choy over rice noodles. So far so good. That evening we all played dominoes, and I sipped first on the liquor, then had two berry-flavored coolers. The next morning Ande was munching on some stollen that she described as scrumptious, and I quickly succumbed. I started with a small piece of stollen. Then a small dish of mixed nuts. The nuts were indescribably delicious. I noticed that the girls had cut into the wedge of Gouda so I could steal a hefty slice. It was heaven. A "what the hell" attitude swept over me and during a gift-shopping excursion that afternoon I got a reuben from Arby's. The following day, I went to lunch with the ladies and ordered a huge sirloin burrito. I also ate a roll with butter. Afterwards, I went shopping again and got myself an almond snickers. That night I made omelets for eveybody and the one I made for myself was dripping with butter and gouda. My bedtime snack was the snickers bar. It was so sweet that I almost couldn't eat it, but I ate it anyway. I spent the night writhing in pain from the cheese, flour and sheer amount of food in my system. I awoke yesterday morning and felt bloated and logy.

So I started on the right foot, eating a grapefruit for breakfast and cooking chicken for dinner. But yesterday was also the day my little 17-year old dog Gypsy fell ill, and after snuggling with her all day, I took her to the Vet and had her euthanized. It was a difficult experience, and afterward I got three double cheeseburgers (they're just a dollar apiece) and two apple pie thingies at McDonalds. I ate two of the burgers and one of the pies, and tossed out the rest, but I felt sick from the amount of food in my stomach. I remember "weighing" the bag of food when they handed it to me at the drive-up window, and it was so heavy! So much food, so much volume, and I was struck with how that was a usual afternoon snack in the old days - the food I ate on the way home, before I made a huge dinner. I used to get the bag of food and think, "Hmmm, it's quite heavy - I wonder if it's enough?" Now I'm just dumbstruck at the volume I used to able to handle. But of course I couldn't handle it then, either. I lived in a constant state of gassy, bloated discomfort, which I masqueraded with handsful of aspirin and ibuprofen.

Last night, at bedtime, I had a can of pineapple as always, but I also had about a cup of mixed nuts. I was miserable all night long, grieving for Gypsy and unable to get into a comfortable position to sleep because of my extended digestive tract.

This morning it's Christmas, and I put on a happy face for Ande and her visitors, but of course I feel badly - about Gypsy, and also because I'm feeling sick from eating what I did, eating as much as I did, and for engaging in self-destructive behavior. So today it's right back on track. I didn't feel like going to Christmas dinner at Ande's friend's house - too much happy banter at a time I can't really do it for long - so I made my excuses and I'm glad I did. It might have been all right, but I needed to distance myself from food, and to have the opportunity to refocus by writing this blog. It's much harder to say no to a delicious honey-baked ham dinner with all the trimmings, than it is to be here in my room, a grapefruit skin scenting the air, and no temptation.

I just wrote a post about Gypsy and Dad, which may not be a traditional way to spend Christmas, but it was what I needed to do, and I ate a grapefruit for breakfast and chicken for lunch. Tonight I'm going to have more chicken, more pineapple, and end the day knowing that I have pulled it together after a three-day detour.

I'm not feeling guilty and I'm not beating myself up for "being bad." I am shocked at how uncomfortable I was physically. I used to eat like that every day. And I would be gaseous, bloated, overfull, and sleep fitfully night after night. I was "high," literally clouded by the various chemical systems in my body trying to deal with digesting the food I ate. It's amazing to contrast that to the way I feel when I'm on track. No headache, no gastric distress, just comfortable. Sober. Even headed.

It's an important realization -- the indulgent behavior that sometimes masquerades as "comfort" really gives me no comfort at all, just discomfort.

Ande's mom and her friend leave tomorrow. It's been great seeing them, and they've been very kind to me as I've dealt with Gypsy's illness and death. But I'll be glad to see them go, along with their peanuts and chocolate and cheese and all the other goodies that aren't really goodies to me anymore.

How grateful I am that I usually live in an environment that is free of temptation. It's a hugely important part of my success. My housemate Ande has been wonderful about keeping these products out of the picture. About the only thing in the house that tempts me is a jar of mayonnaise, and only when I eat tuna salad does it beckon to me. Otherwise, "goodies" don't influence me. It's amazing to think how satisfied I am these days to eat grapefruit and chicken and brown rice and broccoli and pineapple each day. I'm comfortably full, I'm energized, I have no physical ill-effects from these foods, and I truly enjoy what I eat.

So Merry Christmas to me, and I'm very glad I have put my three-day detour behind me. Onward and upward!

A Story about Geoffrey and Gypsy

My father Geoffrey had a renaissance after he survived the unsurvivable - a ruptured aorta - at the age of 73. He was on a bridge-playing holiday with friends and suddenly collapsed. He lay on the ground in excruciating pain and told the responding medics that he was just fine with dying at that moment. He had undergone a triple bypass operation six months before, and evidently the aortic rupture was due to the increased amount of bloodflow. Ninety percent of aortic ruptures cause almost all the blood to pump into the abdomenal cavity, and soon there's not enough blood in the circulatory system and death occurs in minutes. Dad's rupture was posterior; the space for the blood to pump into is much smaller; and he survived after an eleven hour operation. The fact that the remote hospital and its surgeons could handle the emergency so well was a blessing we all were aware of and grateful for.

Within months of recovery, Dad announced that it was time for him to live out a long-held dream: to build and reside in a small, self-sustaining country place where he could grow vegetables and pursue his Thoreau-esque tendencies. In short order, he found five beautiful acres on Vashon, a tree-covered island in Puget Sound a short ferry ride from West Seattle. We huddled together and designed his dream house, and soon he was part of a three-man construction crew, bustling about, working dawn till dusk on the house. It was absolutely wonderful, and my Dad was proud of his achievement. Everyone who saw the house agreed, and Dad had an acre of land plowed and ready for planting within weeks of moving in.

A dear friend of Dad's, Cherie, suggested he get a dog. Dad dismissed the idea at first, but succumbed when he saw a litter of terrier puppies. The little dogs were part Jack Russells and part rat terriers, and looked alot like large Chihuahuas. Dad chose one of the female pups and named her Gypsy.

Gypsy loved the property and Dad in equal measure. She galloped through her days, flying like a gazelle with legs outstretched, running all over the property, terrorizing the huge neighbor dogs, barking crisply and loudly at every bird, squirrel, or mouse in the neighborhood. In the house, her place was on the recliner, nestled next to Dad, but she would hear or see something in the yard and go running lickety split into the garden, returning a few moments later once she had investigated the disturbance. She might leap on and off the recliner a hundred times an hour, sometimes to the point of exasperation for Dad, but usually to his great amusement.

Oh, the love poured out between them. She was Dad's "Gypsy Girl," and never was a dog so affectionate to her human. Dad would say she had the fastest tongue in the West - Gypsy was a constant kisser/licker to Dad and everyone who visited him. She especially went crazy for me for some reason, and would tear around in circles and leap into my arms. I returned the love; it was easy to do. Never had anything given my Dad such great affection and pleasure. She was the joy of his life; and they were inseparable.

The years following Dad's aortic rupture were difficult for the host of medical problems he now faced. Apparently Dad's tongue was damaged when the EMT responding to the rupture cleared his air passageway, and after a year of hoarseness, a tongue cancer was discovered. Dad bravely faced the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, commuting by ferry for each procedure and returning to Gypsy's company each evening. Soon the tumor was gone, but the treatments left his throat-closing mechanism out of whack, and he frequently got liquid, food particles and spittle into his lungs, causing a series of pneumonia episodes that substantially weakened him.

I once was driving him home from a procedure which required sedation. He was still a little out of it when I said that Gypsy would be glad to see him. He said, "Yes, Gypsy is the best thing that ever happened to me." There was a pause. Then he said, "Except you, of course." I joked with friends that I had second billing to a dog, but it was true: our relationship was complicated, as they tend to be between fathers and sons, or any two humans, for that matter; the love Gypsy and Dad shared was unencumbered by expectations and disappointments and all the other flotsam of human interaction.

On another occasion, again in a car, Dad was waxing rhapsodic about how wonderful it was to have Gypsy in his life. A thought crossed my mind: Dad had been adamant throughout my childhood that we couldn't get a dog, usually because it would have been unfair for the dog to live in restricted circumstances (we lived in a suburb). I said quietly, "Dad, do you ever regret not letting me have a dog?" He quickly teared up and said, "Son, I regret it every day of my life." It meant a great deal hearing Dad say that. I teared up, too, and acknowledged his sentiment. Somehow that moment of healing for both of us happened without fanfare, without drama, courtesy of Gypsy.

After ten years on Vashon, Dad's health and stamina had deteriorated to the point where he decided to give up the taxing work of the garden and move to an apartment in the city. The apartment complex he chose was on a beautiful greenbelt where he could walk Gypsy every day and not deny her the pleasure of exploring the woods. I was in California at the time and Dad began the task of moving with little or no help. He was maneuvering a heavy box out to the garage with my sister's help when he fell, shattering his hip. The surgery and complications took a month, and by the time he recovered enough to go home, his things were moved into the new apartment and he never returned to Vashon for an official farewell. Little Gypsy had been unconsolable during the month apart, and Dad's homecoming was a joyous, ecstatic event for them both. Soon Dad was in the recliner with Gypsy beside him and all was well again.

Although the apartment was selected with Gypsy in mind, it wasn't so great for Dad - there was little or no interaction with neighbors, and his living room was small and dark, quite a change from the soaring cathedral ceilings and generous space of his dream house on Vashon. More significantly, there was no garden, no bounty of gorgeous vegetables and flowers grown by his own hand, no well-deserved pride of accomplishment for a man in his 80's to be so active and independent.

Gypsy had a hard time with the new limitations on her ability to "go" when she pleased. Dad took her for walks three times a day at first, but it was hard on his hip and as his energy continued to wane, it was two shorter walks a day that had to suffice.

Dad's throat problems increased to the point where it was risky for him to take anything by mouth, so they made a stoma and he would pour liquid food into his stomach three times a day. Years before, a swolen prostate caused elimination problems and he had to catheterize himself in order to drain his bladder. Dad called it "Dying by inches." He would laugh off these difficulties, chuckle dismissively when he reported them to me on the phone, but I knew it was a trial to be so encumbered.

I was in California these later years, struggling with a business start-up, and didn't get a chance to visit him for about three years. I begged him to visit me, but with the catheter and the liquid food and Gypsy, it was really too much for him, and he would decline again and again. I wanted to visit, but couldn't get a moment free. He sounded okay, of course, and I persuaded myself he was doing all right.

But then I spoke with Dad one day and heard a change in his voice. There was a sense of defeat I hadn't heard before. I quickly made arrangements and flew to Seattle. I was shocked at how much Dad had deteriorated. He had kept his phone calls to me breeezy and jocular, but I discovered a man, 86 years old, emaciated and halt, with a number of chronic medical problems ranging from an infection around the stoma to prostate cancer. Previously an immaculate housekeeper, Dad hadn't the energy to keep things nice for himself, and the bathroom and kitchen were thick with grime. His walks with Gypsy almost completely curtailed, Gypsy had started peeing in corners and going on doggie pads, sometimes without much accuracy. Seeing my father like that was one of the most difficult moments of my life.

I suggested to Dad that I move back to Seattle, and he said, "Yes, son, that would be wonderful." He had always dismissed suggestions like this, never willing to admit to a need for me to be nearby. He was a fiercely independent man. When he agreed with my idea, I knew the subtext was much more urgent. I returned to California, gave up my business, and moved to Seattle within two weeks.

That last year was a transformative experience for me. All of Dad's judgments about my weight, my career choices, my sexuality and our history faded away, and all that was left was love. We spent hours talking almost every day, sharing memories about Mom (we never talked about her before) and saying those magic words "I love you" to each other every time I visited. I scrubbed his bathroom and kitchen, shampooed the carpets, and took Dad to a string of doctor's appointments, where I discovered that his doctors had written him off; after all, he was 86 and had a host of intractable problems. Dad would struggle through episodes of infection and never quite recover. He stopped driving after a frighteningly close call, and his world narrowed down to watching TV and visits from me and my half-sister Judy. Gypsy had gotten older, too, and her jumps to and from her place on the recliner with Dad became more difficult.

I took Dad for drives on occasion, and he loved seeing the countryside. Green trees, snow-capped mountains, shimmering lakes - it was like oxygen to him. I took him to the movies, too, and he surruptitiously sucked on a Milk Dud, much to his great pleasure. He loved the movie, too, or more accurately, he loved the experience of being out of his stifling apartment. I suggested we get a different place together (there wasn't room for me at his place and besides, I thought it would be good to get him out of there), but he didn't want to move again. I said I would take care of everything, but he said a firm no.

Then he contracted pneumonia again around his 87th birthday and a short stay at the hospital became almost a month bouncing back and forth from rehab centers and the hospital. My sister and I took turns tending to Gypsy - it was important to Dad, we both knew, that she remained at home, expecting his return. He fretted about Gypsy. I said that I would be glad to take care of her, if it ever came to that. He shed grateful tears and with that final responsibility taken care of, he let go. He was too weak, too sick, and the infection couldn't be beat. He was lucid to the end, asking about Gypsy, telling me he loved me again and again, and finally he died in my arms.

That night, I went to Dad's apartment. Gypsy greeted me enthusiastically, as always. But then she hid under a blanket and started shivering uncontrollably. I couldn't tell at first what was upsetting her, but suddenly I realized that "she knew." Dad was gone, and she felt it so deeply. I took her in my arms and held her for an hour, until finally her shivers stopped, then I grabbed up her things and took her to my place. My cat BG wasn't thrilled with the new family member, and Gypsy was a little taken back by BG, but soon they accommodated each other, not buddies but more like disinterested neighbors to each other.

For awhile there I think Gypsy still waited for Dad to show up. Many times, as I laid in bed at night and cried, Gypsy would lick my tears and cuddle with me. She was both a great source of affection for me, and a constant presence of Dad.

Gypsy was 14 when she started living with me. Everyone figured she wouldn't last long without Dad. I secretly wondered how long I would last, too. But we were together three years more.

When I moved to Albuquerque last May, 17-year-old Gypsy had a hard time. Already close to blind from cataracts and nearly deaf, she was queasy the whole trip down and was quite sick when we arrived here at Ande's. Getting accustomed to the weather change and all the other animals (Ande has two dogs and five cats) was difficult, too, but soon she accommodated as well as any little old lady could. It seemed like the other animals gave her a respectful distance due to her advanced years. Ande and I upholstered a stepstool for her so she could climb up onto the sofa and snuggle next to me the way she had with Dad, and I made a step out of an overturned box so she could get in bed with me. She used the stepstools to climb up, but usually leaped down, sometimes landing in a crumpled heap which distressed Ande and me.

Gypsy loved to eat chicken, and soon got used to my bedroom snack of a chicken thigh and a can of pineapple. I would share the thigh with her, and she knew that when I started in on the pineapple, snacktime was over for her, so she would leap off the bed (sometimes crashing into an adjacent door) and lap up water in her funny, rhythmic way, then nestle in for sleep.

Two nights ago, Gypsy started loudly snoring. But it wasn't snores really; more like she was moaning with every exhale. By morning she was completely dazed, almost unable to walk around, and an eye infection had become dramatically worse. She didn't eat and didn't drink water. I brought her into bed with me and as I gently petted her forehead and watched her, she struggled to breathe for hours. I kept thinking, "This is it, this is it," as her breathing became sporadic, hyperventilating in spurts followed by periods of no breathing. Around three yesterday afternoon, she perked up a little, but it was apparent she was in a lot of pain. I wrapped an old shirt of mine around her and took her to the veterinary hospital. We waited awhile (it was Christmas Eve and the place was packed with animals who had gotten into decorations, candy, and other holiday landmines). It went very smoothly and quickly. The kind nurse prepped her, and after a few minutes, the veterinarian came in and administered the euthanol. Gypsy died gently and peacefully in my arms around five last night. On the way home I drove through neighborhoods and looked at the Christmas lights. Last night, my cat BG enjoyed sleeping in the place where Gypsy always slept. I didn't sleep at all.

Today is Christmas. I put a smile on my face and went to the kitchen to share breakfast with Ande and her mother and mother's friend. We opened packages and had a good time. I begged off going to dinner with them, and sit here now at the computer, writing about Gypsy and Dad and remembering this happy little puppy who brightened our lives for seventeen years.

BG and all of Ande's animals are around me - giving me comfort, somehow knowing I need them here with me right now.

I'm sorry to be feeling like this at Christmas, putting a damper on everything. I'm doing my best to be upbeat.

Last Christmas, I had three stockings embroidered with our names on them: BG, Stevie and Gypsy. The stockings are very non-traditional. BG's is cerulean blue and lavendar, mine is hot pink and orange, and Gypsy's is lime green and pink. I hold it in my hands now and realize it's big enough to have been her sleeping bag.

She loved me, and I loved her, but I was also very grateful to her, because of how much she loved Dad and how much Dad loved her, and I loved her because she was a constant source of joy and affection for both of us. Seventeen years of love in a little bundle of frenetic, enthusiastic energy.

Bye bye, dear Gypsy. Say hello to Dad for me!

Using a destructive thought/emotion to see the core belief that spawns it

I love the concept that when we have a thought/emotion reaction to something in our lives and it doesn't serve us, we can follow the trail of that thought/emotion back to the core belief(s) that spawned it, thereby illuminating for us whether the core belief is valid for us anymore. For example:

The other day I was sort of cranky and pissed for no good reason that I could immediately perceive. I wasn't being very friendly with my housemate, and she was bustling around doing all sorts of chores, going shopping, doing yardwork, etc. I half-heartedly volunteered to help her with things, and she declined, which I kinda knew she would. I attempted to do some things around work projects that I had neglected but I didn't get very far. Mostly I sat on the computer and did some time-consuming, not terribly hard things, and didn't get the work done that I wanted to do.

That evening, I was still cranky and touchy. But instead of looking for the reason/excuse in my external world, I chose instead to see where the thought/emotion took me internally. I quickly realized that I was feeling non-productive (non-income-producing, unsuccessful, procrastinating, burdened) , especially compared to my productive housemate (income-producing, bustling little chore doer that she was that day). So my core belief of "I'm lazy" was triggered, and with that, guilt. When I'm feeling guilty (or "not good enough,"), I get free-floating crankiness and pissiness.

Actually, I am not lazy. I don't engage in busy work out of some belief that the activities of the mind are somehow less productive than the activities of the physical. Every day, I follow a moderate eating plan and do some thinking that is transformative. I write on this blog, talk to myself about these insights I've had about self-esteem, read relevant materials, and attempt to apply these new ideas to my life. Plus I usually make my bed, feed the critters, do the dishes, vacuum and dust the house, and so on, so I'm being inaccurate when I label myself lazy. I'm less productive than some people, and more productive than others. If I take away the judgment ("The things I do don't count") then I can drop the inaccurate core belief.

In this area, my accurate core belief is: "I am productive in many ways."

I do not have cause to feel guilty.

I do not, therefore, have a triggering thought/emotion that leads to cranky or pissy behavior.

I am productive in many ways - physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually. I have an active and open mind. Sometimes, what appears to be procrastination is actually the period of time that I need to think things through or to get to a place of creative action, which is needed in order to complete the project.

Energetic, creative spurts are just that - spurts - and they need to find their own place and time when they can be robust, powerful spurts.

A lot of times, a procrastination on one project allows for a creative spurt to occur for another project. This happens to me often. I'll be dreading a particular assignment, and so I'll do something else - and that something else turns out great.

Allowing this thought puddle to be exposed to the sun and start evaporating away is a huge benefit - and testament to the ease of this method.

Really, it's an easy thing to do. So much easier than trying to find some "experience" or "event" or "moment" when "something happened" that "made" you "like this." It's irrelevant. Besides, it's your core beliefs that colored that "experience" in the first place. If it had happened to someone else, it would have been experienced differently. How you think/feel about the "incident" is a symptom of your core beliefs.

A person says, "I was sexually abused when I was ten years old," and of course we feel tremendous sympathy and pity for them. But the experience would be different for each ten-year-old, depending on their own core beliefs at the time of the abuse. If they believed, "I am a valuable and precious person," their response to the abuse - and the long-term effects of it - would be vastly different from another child whose core belief was, "I am worthless, I am a victim, I deserve to be treated like garbage." That child's experience of the abuse would be far more devastating, don't you think?

"Nothing is either good or bad but thinking makes it so." This is a breath-taking statement. This is a statement that many of us reject instinctively because it flies in the face of generational attitudes about right and wrong, should and shouldn't, good and bad, light and dark. If we can allow ourselves to get past the whole "But-but-but-murder is wrong!" conversation and see the truth behind this statement:

"Our thinking evaluates, judges and labels things according to our own beliefs."

If we believe that life is precious, then we might think that murder is wrong.
If we believe that life is meaningless, then we might think that murder is unimportant.
If we believe that people get what's coming to them, then we might think that murder is justified.
If we believe that life is unlucky, then we might think that murder is inevitable.
If we believe that we are in charge of our own destinies, then we might think that murder is abominable.
If we believe that "shit happens," then we may think that murder happens.
If we believe that we are a victim of circumstance, then we might think that we will be murdered.
If we believe that to murder in the name of a just cause is okay, we might murder someone.

In each instance, a clue about a person's core belief would be revealed based on the thought/emotion that they have in response to a given statement or experience.

A five year old is killed by another five year old.

"Oh dear, it must've been an accident." Core belief: children don't know better.
"Were they alone?" Core belief: adults are responsible to keep children safe.
"What happened?" Core belief: circumstances create opportunities for violence.
"How awful!" Core belief: dying at such a young age is awful.
"I just don't understand." Core belief: life is a mystery.
"What a shame." Core belief: dying at such a young age is a waste.
"How are their parents?" Core belief: losing a child is an agonizing experience.

None of these core beliefs is either right or wrong; they simply ARE, but their impact on our lives can be anywhere from uplifting to devastating, and it's up to us to look at the ones that are devastating and see if maybe they're no longer right for us. A core belief so readily accepted when we are four or five years old may be irrelevant, naive, inaccurate or just plain untrue for us when we are 24 or 34 or 64 years old.

Our core beliefs are the filter through which all incoming experiences, thoughts and emotions are processed. If the experience, thought or emotion fits our filtering core belief, we take it in; if it doesn't fit, we reject it, even if the experience, thought or emotion has the potential to benefit us.

Can you take a compliment? If not, maybe you should look at your core beliefs. "I'm no good" or "People are stupid" or "Feeling good about myself is egocentric" or "People who compliment me have ulterior motives" or "If they knew the truth about me they wouldn't compliment me" are core beliefs that will filter out whatever pleasure or enjoyment you may receive from such a compliment.

If you have the core belief, "I love and approve of myself," then it's easy to take a compliment. After all, whatever they're complimenting is in synch with your own belief.

If you have the core belief, "I love and approve of myself," then you will naturally filter out believing it when somebody calls you dumb or ugly or fat. That doesn't mean you won't get angry, because you may have a core belief that says, "I deserve to be treated with loving respect," and it would be an appropriate response to be a little angry. But your love and approval of yourself remains unshaken, and you wouldn't be "hurt."

Being hurt by what another person says is impossible when your core belief in yourself is unshakable. It's very easy to be hurt by what someone says when the words match up with your core belief. If someone call you "lardass" and your core belief is, "I'm fat and fat is ugly and I'm no good," then their words will be agonizingly painful to you. If someone calls you "lardass" and your core belief is, "I love and approve of myself, unconditionally, regardless of the size or fatness of my ass," then the word won't kill you.

Having core beliefs that work for your life is like having a gorgeous, ornately carved shield made of jewel-encrusted titanium. The shield has tiny holes all over it which let in all the life-affirming, glowing, healthy, constructive, and miraculous thought/emotion rays of light that feed us, while the negative, counterproductive, irrelevant, inaccurate, and destructive thought/emotion bullets bounce off the shining titanium.

I deserve to carry such a shield.
I can be sensitive without being vulnerable to attack.
I can see my core beliefs as they are revealed to me by my thoughts/emotions, and without guilt, I can revise the core beliefs that lead to a result I choose not to have.

I have a dream

"Don't you know that billions of dollars are spent annually on advertizing to make you feel bad about yourselves so that you'll take your hard-earned money and spend it on some turnaround cream that doesn't turn around shit." - Margaret Cho

I want to state for the record that I hereby refuse to have my self-esteem pummeled by pop culture and the advertizing machine that's out to steal my money.

You've got rock-hard abs? Well, I've got rock-hard self-esteem.

My self-esteem is as wrinkle-free as a baby's ass.
My self-esteem is as stunningly gorgeous as Hollywood's hottest star.
My self-esteem is as encrusted with diamonds as an MC's most ostentatious bling.
My self-esteem is as pure and fresh as the sweetest little seedling poking its head out of the rich brown earth.
My self-esteem is as mighty and unshakable as Mount Everest.
My self-esteem is more powerful than a locomotive.
My self-esteem is faster than a speeding bullet.
My self-esteem is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

My self-esteem sings like Streisand, dances like Barishnokov, paints like daVinci, sculpts like Michaelangelo, writes like Shakespeare, and inspires like Ghandhi.

My self-esteem supports me like a solid steel foundation.
My self-esteem lifts me like a Saturn rocket.
My self-esteem leads me like the brightest, whitest beam of light.
My self-esteem cuts through all that may want to tear it down like the strongest laser beam.
My self-esteem melts away obstacles.
My self-esteem builds bridges to anywhere I want to go.

Female body image reflects low self-esteem

By Valerie Gibson

Hello -- does any woman out there love her body?

It seems not. I suspect every woman has a list of things she perceives as flaws. Even those considered physically perfect in an image-conscious society -- the supermodels and movie stars -- complain about their bodies. They say they have cellulite, or their hips are too big, or breasts too small.

So what chance do mere everyday women have with body self esteem? Even those who try to focus on this mostly female obsession and make us more comfortable about our bodies miss the point.

Look at the Dove TV advertising campaign featuring women who announce the part of their body they hate most and then display it. Far from making us feel more relaxed about our own body faults, the ad confirms how important body perfection is and then reinforces the basically negative message by brutally focusing on the "flaws."

Such indoctrination about female body perfection, even if well meant, is insidious in society today.

It becomes even more acute as women age. Since the "perfect" female body by today's ridiculous standards is probably that of a skinny 12-year-old girl, millions of women are caught in a vortex of plummetting self-esteem as they get older.

This has a huge ripple effect. Not only is their self-esteem constantly eroded, but because they feel less attractive, they feel less sexually desirable. It's a totally wrong assumption, perpetuated as much by women themselves as by society.

Such "brainwashing" is illustrated by the results of a recent study conducted by Dr. Patricia Barthalow Koch, an associate professor of biobehavioural health and women's studies at Penn University.

DISSATISFACTION

The study was an overall look at women's health including all areas of sexuality and studied 307 mostly white, heterosexual women aged 35-55.

When it came to body image, 21% of the women could not think of even one attractive feature they had, reporting an overall sense of dissatisfaction with their bodies. They particularly disliked their stomachs, hips, thighs and legs, but Dr. Koch says the majority of negative body image was because they perceived themselves as overweight.

The study also showed that the more a woman saw herself as less attractive, the more likely she was to report a decline in sexual desire or activity.

Two-thirds of the women said either they wanted sex less often than 10 years ago or that they had sex less often.

This isn't at all surprising. When a woman doesn't feel desirable, she often isn't. It's a vicious cycle based mostly on the fear men won't want sex with them because they don't match up to today's youth-oriented "desirable" standards.

However, in a phone interview, Dr. Koch was adamant not all the results from the survey were negative.

"A third of the women surveyed felt as attractive (as they were 10 years ago) and 16% felt more attractive. These are obviously women who have overcome the negative messages," she says.

Dr. Koch points out that many of these women stated they felt more free, more self-confident, more passionate and more satisfied as sex was "better than ever" with their partners.

"Even if they don't have partners or a sexual life though, many older women lead full lives," she says. "They focus their attention on other things they feel are more important than their body image and sexuality. Body image fears recede when it's no longer so important."

But she says she realizes ageism is "alive and well. It's still thought older women shouldn't be 'sexual,' " she says, "which is ridiculous. But this is changing, thanks to the women themselves who are becoming more self confident."

You bet.

The True Meaning of Self-Esteem

This piece written by Robert Reasoner is from the website of the National Association of Self-Esteem.

Educators, parents, business and government leaders agree that we need to develop individuals with healthy or high self-esteem characterized by tolerance and respect for others, individuals who accept responsibility for their actions, have integrity, take pride in their accomplishments, who are self-motivated, willing to take risks, capable of handling criticism, loving and lovable, seek the challenge and stimulation of worthwhile and demanding goals, and take command and control of their lives. In other words, we need to help foster the development of people who have healthy or authentic self-esteem because they trust their own being to be life affirming, constructive, responsible and trustworthy.

Unfortunately, efforts to convey the significance and critical nature of self-esteem have been hampered by misconceptions and confusion over what is meant by the term “self-esteem.” Some have referred to self-esteem as merely “feeling good” or having positive feelings about oneself. Others have gone so far as to equate self-esteem with egotism, arrogance, conceit, narcissism, a sense of superiority, a trait leading to violence. Such characteristics cannot be attributed to authentic, healthy self-esteem, because they are actually defensive reactions to the lack of authentic self-esteem, which is sometimes referred to as “pseudo self-esteem.”

Individuals with defensive or low self-esteem typically focus on trying to prove themselves or impress others. They tend to use others for their own gain. Some act with arrogance and contempt towards others. They generally lack confidence in themselves ,often have doubts about their worth and acceptability, and hence are reluctant to take risks or expose themselves to failure. They frequently blame others for their shortcomings rather than take responsibility for their actions.

A close relationship has been documented between low self-esteem and such problems as violence, alcoholism, drug abuse, eating disorders, school dropouts, teenage pregnancy, suicide, and low academic achievement. However, it has been difficult to isolate it as a primary cause using traditional experimental research methods, for it is usually only one of several contributing factors. What needs to be stressed is that self-esteem is a critical component of any program aimed at self-improvement or any rehabilitation program, for it is one of the few solutions that offers hope to correcting these problems. Many prisons, for example, have now introduced self-esteem programs to reduce recidivism.

One of the difficulties in trying to reach agreement on the nature of self-esteem is due to the fact that it has been approached from several different perspectives. Some have seen it as a psychodynamic, developmental process; others have approached it from the perspective of the cognitive-behaviorist in terms of various coping strategies; others have viewed it from the position of a social psychologist in terms of attitudes, while others have focused on the experiential dimensions of self-esteem as a humanistic psychologist. Since self-esteem has both psychological and sociological dimensions, this has made it difficult to come up with a comprehensive definition, and rarely have both dimensions been taken into consideration together in conducting research studies.

There is, however, general agreement that the term self-esteem includes cognitive, affective, and behavioral elements. It is cognitive as one consciously thinks about oneself as one considers the discrepancy between ones ideal self, the person one wishes to be, and the perceived self or the realistic appraisal of how one sees oneself. The affective element refers to the feelings or emotions that one has when considering that discrepancy. The behavioral aspects of self-esteem are manifested in such behaviors as assertiveness, resilience, being decisive and respectful of others. Thus, self-esteem is difficult to define because of these multiple dimensions. In addition, although self-esteem is generally stable, it can fluctuate from time to time, a phenomenon which is referred to as global versus situational self-esteem, and which can make measuring or researching self-esteem very difficult.

It is important that the significance of self-esteem not be lost in the confusion over what it means. Nathaniel Branden, Ph.D., a well known psychotherapist, defined self-esteem several years ago as “The disposition to experience oneself as being competent to cope with the basic challenges of life and of being worthy of happiness.” The National Association for Self-Esteem modified this to define self-esteem as "The experience of being capable of meeting life's challenges and being worthy of happiness." Christopher Mruk, Ph.D., a psychology professor at Bowling Green University, reports in his book Self-Esteem: Research, Theory, and Practice that of all the theories and definitions proposed, this description of self-esteem has best withstood the test of time in terms of accuracy and comprehensiveness.

This concept of self-esteem is founded on the premise that it is strongly connected to a sense of competence and worthiness and the relationship between the two as one lives life. The worthiness component of self-esteem is often misunderstood as simply feeling good about oneself, when it actually is tied to whether or not a person lives up to certain fundamental human values, such as finding meanings that foster human growth and making commitments to them in a way that leads to a sense of integrity and satisfaction. A sense of competence is having the conviction that one is generally capable of producing desired results, having confidence in the efficacy of our mind and our ability to think, as well as to make appropriate choices and decisions. Worthiness might be considered the psychological aspect of self-esteem, while competence might be considered the behavioral or sociological aspect of self-esteem. Self-esteem stems from the experience of living consciously and might be viewed as a person’s overall judgment of himself or herself pertaining to self-competence and self-worth based on reality.

The value of this definition is that it is useful in making the distinction between authentic or healthy self-esteem and pseudo or unhealthy self-esteem. A sense of personal worth without competence is just as limiting as competence without worthiness. A strong sense of worthiness prevents competence from becoming arrogance by keeping the individual focused on basic values, and competence prevents worthiness from becoming narcissism by requiring good feelings to be earned, not given. Thus, behaviors that might be described as egotistic, egocentric, conceited, boasting or bragging, bullying, taking advantage of, or harming others are defensive behaviors indicative of a lack of self-esteem. Such behaviors, therefore, should not be confused with authentic, healthy self-esteem.

Unfortunately, some of the confusion over the term self-esteem has stemmed from programs and strategies used that were not grounded in sound research. Such strategies include heaping children with undeserved praise not based on accomplishment. Most feel that it is critical that any efforts to build self-esteem be grounded in reality. It cannot be attained by merely reciting boosters or affirmations, and one cannot give others authentic self-esteem. To do so is likely to result in an inflated sense of worth. Most feel that a sense of competence is strengthened through realistic and accurate self-appraisal, meaningful accomplishments, overcoming adversities, bouncing back from failures, and adopting such practices such as assuming self-responsibility and maintaining integrity which engender ones sense of competence and self-worth.

Is it possible to have too much self-esteem? We don’t believe that it is possible to have too much true self-esteem, for having high self-esteem is equivalent to having good health. However, it is certainly possible for individuals to have an over-inflated sense of either worth or competence. Our objective is to develop individuals with high self-esteem that is well grounded in reality and balanced between an equal sense of worth and competence-- individuals who exhibit those qualities agreed upon by educators, parents, business and government leaders as essential to effective functioning in these changing times.

That's NOT Self-Love

It seems that a lot of people have a misperception about what loving yourself is. Admittedly, the words self-love and self-esteem come with a lot of baggage, and I'd like to coin a new word for what I mean, but in the meantime, here's the definition:

The core belief that you have intrinsic, unique value, and that you deserve and are expected to love yourself unconditionally.

This is not about conceit.
This is not about narcissism.
This is not about superiority/inferiority.
And no, this is not about masturbation.

Doctors Baffled by Anorexia

The cover story in this week's Newsweek is all about Anorexia. In page after page, parents, doctors and anorexics fret about whether the disease is caused by genetics, society, brain chemistry, or something else - - - but NEVER is the issue of self-esteem broached. Why doesn't any sort of self-destructive behavior trigger this question: is the person feeling bad about themselves? Have we really persuaded ourselves that depression and alcoholism and obesity and anorexia and self-mutilation and overspending are diseases that have NOTHING to do with the person's mental state? Why is this taboo?

I understand the value of labeling certain behavior a disease in order for the person exhibiting the behavior not to feel blame or fault. But there's a third choice - a fundamental piece of the self-esteem puzzle, missing or deficient, that allows all the chemical, societal and genetic influencers to take root.

Yes, my mother was obese. Yes, of course, I have a predisposition to obesity. She also had a cracked self-esteem, and I believe with all my heart that if she had been able to instill in me a healthy self-esteem, I would care too much about myself to become as obese as I did. But she didn't have that capability. First came her belief that she was unloveable; then came her eating problem.

Here's a paragraph from the Newsweek article that looks at the idea of brain chemistry as a cause of anorexia:

Scientists are tracking important differences in the brain chemistry of anorexics. Using brain scans, researchers at the University of Pittsburgh, led by professor of psychiatry Dr. Walter Kaye, discovered that the level of serotonin activity in the brains of anorexics is abnormally high. Although normal levels of serotonin are believed to be associated with feelings of well-being, these pumped-up levels of hormones may be linked to feelings of anxiety and obsessional thinking, classic traits of anorexia. Kaye hypothesizes that anorexics use starvation as a mode of self-medication. How? Starvation prevents tryptophane, an essential amino acid that produces serotonin, from getting into the brain. By eating less, anorexics reduce the serotonin activity in their brains, says Kaye, "creating a sense of calm," even as they are about to die of malnutrition.

Well guess what, Dr. Kaye: if you're trying to be self-destructive, and you succeed by not eating (or purging), you create a sense of calm. You're fulfilling your sub-conscious expectation for yourself, and you are calmer. Anxiety comes from doing something that is counter to your self-destruction.

I would be anxious and obsessional before I binged, and I would be calm after I binged.

When I dieted (i.e., did something good for myself), I felt anxious and obsessional. The more weight I lost (i.e., the more I did good things for myself), the more anxious I became, until I'd finally succumb to the pull toward self-destruction and find the calm that came with bingeing.

A heroin addict has a chemical dependency on heroin. A heroin addict also has a dependency on self-destructive behavior. As the space between hits grows, the addict becomes more and more anxious, fretful, obsessional. Then comes the hit, the brain is flooded with both endorhpins and self-destruction, and calm ensues.

I was addicted to self-destruction.
Every part of my being pulled me to behavior that was hurtful to my present and my future.
I could diet so long as I overspent or smoked pot or engaged in some other self-destructive behavior.

It's like a leak in your oil tank. You can add oil by the quart, get the car washed, replace the radiator, clean the spark plugs, disconnect the air conditioner, park the car in a garage, drive it 1000 miles a day or not at all - that oil leak is gonna get ya. It's pulling you inexorably to a crisis.

Newsweek is talking about a ten million dollar grant to study brain chemistry of anorexics. Can I make a suggestion? Take those 140 (or whatever) anorexics and do an honest, forthright, non-judgmental appraisal of their self-esteem. Ask them in-depth questions about when they felt good about themselves and when they didn't feel good about themselves. See whether their mothers and fathers have high self-esteem. See whether their mothers and fathers have the tools to instill in their children the core belief that they are loveable. Ask them to look in the mirror and say, "I love and approve of myself," then see what their reaction is. Ask them if they've ever done something that they haven't forgiven themselves for. Find out what other behaviors they've exhibited that are self-destructive. Find out what came first - the low self-esteem or the anorexia.

Okay, fellas?