Life of Ryan I: The Easy Life

(NB: this and following Life of Ryan blogs are coming under my personal blog rather than from him directly. The reason for that will become obvious to readers. “Ryan” (not his real name) has given me permission to post these blogs. Read and consider your thoughts and feelings. If you choose to respond, do so on the blog or directly to me: ron.johnson@midlandspsychological.com. I will pass it along to Ryan.)

My name is Ryan. I’m writing to you from my home, a home where I have lived for the last 20 years, longer than I lived in any other home. It is good home, and it serves me well, but I often hate it.

It’s not the brick or mortar that I hate. The physical structure is fine. There is nothing wrong with how the walls and ceilings have been built, seemingly by very good tradesmen. I never have to worry about the electric or plumbing needing repair, or the roof needing redone. In fact, a person couldn’t ask for a more solid structure. In fact, it’s a rare time that anything goes wrong with the structure. Home owners should be so lucky.

It’s not the people in my home that I hate. The people are quite nice, at least for the most part. They do a fine job taking care of me. In fact, they do more for me than most people get from their co-inhabitants. I never have to do laundry or the vacuuming. I never have to do the dishes. I don’t even have to fix meals. The other people in my “home” do all that stuff. What other man is so lucky to be treated like a king of his castle?

You should be as lucky as me. I just sit back and enjoy all these privileges: house repaired as necessary; household duties taken care of; meals prepared regularly. People stop by to see me and chat from time to time. I’m even given in-house entertainment, like games and parties. I just sit back and watch all this work being done. Just sit back and watch TV, play video games, and keep up with my Facebook friends. Well, that doesn’t always work because my computer goes down from time to time and I have to wait for the IT guy to show up and fix it. But this is not so bad because all the other things in my home are taken care of. And get this: I have two people in my household who actually give me a bath. For the most part I have nothing to do but hang out while I watch all these things being taken care of. You should be so lucky. Living the good life, yes?

It sure seems like to the good life, doesn’t it? There is a slight problem with my being the king of my castle with all these privileges. What could possibly be missing from this scenario where all the necessary things of life are being taken care of for me? What could possibly be wrong with my just sitting back and watching TV while everyone else in my home goes about doing household duties? What’s wrong is this: the only thing I can do is “sit back and watch TV while everyone else in my home goes about doing household duties.”

I am not able to do the dishes and repair the roof. I am not able to fix the plumbing and re-wire the kitchen. I am not able to shovel the snow in the winter and cut the grass in the summer. I am not even able to change the channel on my TV. In fact, it is quite an effort for me to actually play video games and get on Facebook and do email. It actually takes my breath away to get on Facebook and check my emails on my computer. It literally takes my breath away to do these things. I huff and puff to do this small task. Well, not exactly huff and puff; more accurately I sip and puff when I’m trying to navigate my way around the computer.

Puffing and sipping is the only way I can operate my computer because I have multiple sclerosis. I can’t move. I can’t move at all. All I can do is sip and puff. I can’t move my arms. I can’t move my legs. So I can’t scratch that itch on my leg. I used to have a little use of one of my arms and hands, which helped me greatly because I could change the TV channel, migrate the mouse on my computer, and use my electric wheel chair. All that disappeared several years ago, and I am left with speech as my only means of communication with the world around me. But even that is waning, something that tends to happen with MS patients as the muscles surrounding speech began to deteriorate. I can go from speaking normally to whispering to moving my lips without any sound at all depending on how these speech-based muscles want to cooperate.

It must sound odd to hear someone say that he wishes he could fix the drain in the bathroom, shovel the snow, cut the lawn, repair the kitchen electric, or climb on the roof to repair the leak. But that is exactly what I wish I could do. Even more so, I wish I could get on the floor and wrestle with my grandchildren. I so wish for lots more, like kissing these grandchildren, and my own children, and my wife, but even this is a huge effort that is rarely made. Besides, who wants to kiss such a bump on the log when the guy can’t simultaneously wrap his arms around you?

All of this sound like so much complaining. I suppose it is. I try real hard not to complain. Yes, sometimes it is a challenge to puff on the mechanism that alerts the staff of some need I might have, and even more of a challenge to wait for an hour to have someone respond to my call. But for the most part, I am not inclined to complaining. In fact, my psychologist has asked me to “feel bad for myself” every day. He says that it would be good for me to “just feel bad” for a while. I don’t see the point. In my mind, it’s going to be the same thing today as it was yesterday and the same thing tomorrow. So what’s the point of feeling bad for myself? It just seems like so much complaining.

By the way, this same psychologist has taught me a new word that is relevant to this discussion: amanuensis. I understand this is a sophisticated word that means ghost writer. He has initiated this current monologue and may be willing to help me with others. He is my amanuensis: he writes what I tell him to write. Well, he is a bit more of a writer than I am, so the words are largely his. But the ideas and the feelings are mine. I tell him what I am thinking or feeling and then he goes home and writes up some kind of monologue like the present one.

I plan to do more of these. The idea came up during one of the conversations that I had with my psychologist. I told him that I was disappointed in my “legacy.” But that is the next edition of Ryan.

 

The “we” of me

2:37 AM; September 20, 2018

I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since I booked Portugal.  By day I am excited and mindful of my internal excitement of a new space, a new trail, a new breath in my senses, especially sight and sounds while I hike.

At night however, when I lie beside my beloved Ron, I think what in the hell am I am doing? Driving off alone to the Canyons is one thing, because I can, and often do, drive home early for want of him. But flying across the Atlantic without him?  By day, fine. By night not so. But, I am an independent soul as well as a private person and going off is good for my spiritual calming.  Ron knows this and so we have this thing where every once in a while, I “just go”. I always come back and it is always good that I have gone because the individual of me gets restored.

Then came the Middleton shooting this week.

Tracking the temps in Portugal, still in the 90s, I wanted to pick up a fresh hiking shirt. I had found one at the East Madison Marshalls and picked it up even though it was a bit too large. I knew I would have time on Wednesday to check Marshalls at Greenway Station and If they had a smaller size, fine, if not I would make do with the larger one. Sure enough Greenway had what I needed. I checked out, went to the car and then grabbed the bag that I had purchased previously. I went back in the store, walked up to the into the queue for the return.  I was next in line so I was ready to walk to the front register.  If you know the store you know at that position you are in clear view of the entry.

Just standing with my return bag, I saw a man run in and within a flash I heard shouting, “secure the doors, there is a shooting outside”.   He shouted again. The lady behind me pushed through a rolling display and ran towards the back of the store. Another lady near by fumbled asking what to do. I suggested she go behind the half wall at the end of the register line which would be invisible to anyone approaching from the front. I went there myself half hidden and half peeking out to grasp what might really be going on. Then the manager announced for all customers to immediately go to the back of the store…lock down by order of police.  While joining the others scrambling to the back I called Cheri and interrupted her pleasantries: “Cheri, I am in west side Marshalls there is a shooting outside. We are in lock down. Inform Ron”. I hung up.

The guy who ran in the store, I learned in a short time by his own report, was the owner of the structure in which the shooting occurred. He heard the shots. He heard people say by name to the shooter” What are you doing? Don’t do this” …bam, bam, bam.  As he told this report from the back of the store, he shouted again that the doors be barred.  Of course, they already were. At first, I thought he was going to be a problem, over-panicked, a hysteric who could cause more alarm than necessary.  I considered that I might need to calm him down. That wasn’t the case, though.

We were in lock down for a bit over two hours. I never felt endangered. I thought it though and considered eminent danger unlikely given we were a couple of structures down from the shooting location and that (via the media reports), nearly the entire Madison Patrol was within a two-block radius.

When they opened the doors and I walked outside there were a couple of helicopters circling overhead and patrol cars everywhere, rows of cars headed west blocked on the road. I turned East away from the commotion and headed for Starbucks (don’t laugh at me). They were still closed given the entirety of Greenway Station was apparently on lock down. I drove to Target to pick up a camera card for my trip. Walking from my car to the door I noticed a wee shake in my system. I was beginning to feel it: I wanted to get home. Even so, I made a couple of other quick stops that were on my list of “to do”. I found the drive home time consuming. I hoped I would have enough tie to get home, unload the few groceries I picked up, make myself an espresso and with fingers crossed, get a glimpse of Ron before I began to see clients.

In early evening when Ron and I both finished with clients we had a glass of wine at our desks finishing up notes. We made dinner and Ron asked me about the deal in town, how I was. I told him I was okay, noting that once it was over and I was driving home, I felt a little shaky but it wasn’t long in duration. We took a walk, talked about the grievous condition of our society, that we at large have a lot of maturing to do.  We watched a bit of “Barnaby” and went to bed.

Ron can verify that I often am asleep within a minute of hitting the pillow, literally. So these recent restless nights are quite rare for me and I chalk it up to “advance missing of him”. This morning however, I woke up about 1:00.  I heard the rain on our metal roof and just listened. The longer I listened to the rain, the more I could remember what the people in Marshalls looked like. I thought this odd in a way, but I’m a visual person, so perhaps not so odd. I could clearly see the man who got us to lock the doors; mid aged, young looking, casual shirt, styled hair but by then hand ruffled quite a bit. I saw a younger middle-aged woman, about the age of our girls who was leaving later that day for Vegas with four friends. She had pretty blond straight hair, clear skin, calm eyes.   She had told me how the previous night her husband couldn’t find the clothes basket that was within an arm’s reach of himself. We both laughed and just cocked our heads. Even more clearly, I saw a young, petite mother to be, her belly all smoothed and egged. She wore a head scarf that ovaled her face and seemed to balance the oval of her full belly.  She was truly lovely in her symmetry. She was with her lover no doubt, given his constant hand on her and his quiet voice.  I saw a younger woman, sitting alone staring out into the store. She looked so hearty and healthy and poised in her solitude…Interestingly, in my reflection, she was the one person I wished I had engaged and inquired of how she was holding up despite my instinct that she was independent, okay, and just waiting the time out. I saw that large man, keeping his arm around his woman emanating safety and control.  He had been nearby when I was still in the front of the store and he called to his wife and said “we must get out now”.  I can still see many of the other faces as well. I noticed there were no children, but of course why would there be it was a school day.

As I lay listening to the rain, seeing these people over and over I realized that I was more disturbed by this experience than I had yet allowed myself to feel. I let myself go into some eye movements to process the ordeal.  My eyes were eager to shift laterally, a sure sign I needed to do so. My self-induced REMs were steady and consistent, a good sign, I thought. Then I began to feel a surge, a quick breath and my reactive thought was “god damn guns!”  I saw the little pregnant woman again and the beautiful girl going off with her friends for a fun time in Vegas and thought of our beautiful Jenny and Krissie. “God Damn the god damn guns!” Then in one instant I began to cry.  My crying spontaneously out loud is about as rare as my not sleeping. Yet in the very moment of hearing my own cry, I felt a safety in the cry welcomed further subs.  I noticed that within the first audible sob, Ron’s hand was immediately on me. Bless him. He is always there for me.  I cried a bit more letting my body finish up this needed release.  I began then to think of more familiar faces…thought of how hard this last year in particular has been for my friends Holly and Bud.  I thought about our friend Elaine in Newfoundland, who really would take care of me. I thought about Tim, our best friend in CO and how important he is to us given that he knows Ron and I collectively better than anyone else. I thought about Jenny and James planning their wedding and Krissie and Gavin and Alexis and the entwining of their lives. I thought about the clients I see day by day, name by name…even clients from years ago.  They all kept showing up in my mind. I thought about the wonderful neighbors on all sides of our little house in Lodi. I thought about Ron, his hand still on me and mine on him. I thought about everyone I know close and dear near and far. It was an explosion of connection with everyone on the planet, so it felt.  I felt the “we” of those I am closest to and the “we” of those I have only known for two hours. I felt the “we” of America and Portugal.   I felt the “we” of those dear people two building down from Marshalls.

Like the one gal that I wished I had engaged, I am a very independent person and I would just as well sit alone in a crisis than be in the collective. That is just my way. It is a gift. Yet even so, in this brief encounter of potential danger, I experienced the necessity of the “we”.

Crying and breathing this “we” was good for me. How holy to love, to live, to “we”. This night’s interruption wasn’t about just me selfishly missing Ron and Ron missing me for a few days away. It was about potentially missing neighbors, family, best friends, clients and strangers in a lock down. This night was about the “we” that we all are. The “we” that we each must be.

Feelings VIII: The Sense of Joy

Feelings VIII: The Sense of Joy

A couple of blogs past we offered Feelings VI: It’s All About Hurt, and then paradoxically offered Feelings VII: It’s Not All About Hurt in which we suggested that the feeling of joy is just as important as the feeling of sadness, which is the heart of “hurt.” Today we would like to unpack this business of joy and try to be practical about how we can experience and express more joy in our lives. Keep in mind that the emotion of sadness and the emotion of joy are on a continuum of love. In other words, we feel joy and sadness singularly because we love something: joy when we have it, sadness when we lose it. We have written extensively in several venues (blogs, papers, and our book, The Power of Positive Sadness) about the importance of sadness, which we yet think is the heart of most difficulties people have in life, like relationship problems, anxiety, depression, and anger. But today we would like to look at the other side of the “love continuum,” namely the side that is about having something that we love, which brings some kind of joy to us.

Joy is most easily recognized through one or more of our five senses, but also comes through intuition, cognition and fantasy, which we are daring to call our “sixth sense”. We will start this discussion by examining the ways joy enters our system through our five physical senses and then proceed into the murky waters of intuition. As we examine the various ways that we experience joy, consider your own experiences with joy, whether recent or long past.

Joy coming through the sense of smell (olfactory)

This might seem an odd way to begin our discussion of the experience of joy in the five senses. When we think of smell, we generally think of bad smell, rank, rancid, or disgusting. So, while smell might not seem the most obvious way to start a discussion of joy as experienced in the five senses, it is actually the most important place to start because the sense of smell is our most basic sense. Consider the animal kingdom, whether it is a bear sniffing the air for the scent of pray or your dog sniffing telephone poles and certain portions of other animals’ anatomy, and you will see this most central sense operating in nonhuman animals. Smell might well have been the first sense developed, at least by mammals. Furthermore, there is an interesting thing about smell that most people don’t know but that contributes to many addictions. With all the other four senses (sight, touch, hearing, and taste) information that comes into the sense organs goes through a transfer point in the brain before we actually have cognition of it. But smell goes through no transfer point, and instead goes directly into the cerebral cortex, which then creates some kind of thought or action. It seems that this most primitive sense remains primary, at least if we see how smells are processed in the brain. Interested readers might rea about pheromones, which are chemicals that trigger a social response in the animal kingdom including humans. It is the smell of something that immediately enters our brain, much more quickly than the other four senses. Consider the aromas that entice you, like flowers, new mown hay, meat cooking on the grill, the stew simmering on the stove or the smell of fresh air in the autumn.

Joy in hearing (auditory)

Something heard might be offensive, but actually most of what is heard is on the pleasant side of the spectrum of like/dislike. There are many kinds of sounds that reach our brains through our ears. Music is one of the predominate vehicles for experiencing joy through the sense of hearing.  Music is universal from tribal drums to Gregorian chants. Music is described often as “moving” “Being moved” is a way of describing this indescribable experience we call feeling that connects us to either a memory or evokes a sense of ease and peace internally. What pleases you when it comes to music: Christmas cantatas, a bit of sax jazz or maybe the Spanish guitar?  The choices are as varied as there are people in the world. The feeling that one has with music is what we want to discuss in our continuing attempt to get at what “feeling” is all about.

What does it mean to be “moved” by music? This “being moved” is a “feeling,” including emotion but it is more than emotion. One person can have a profoundly positive experience and another a significantly negative one, all to the same music. Once at a men’s workshop, I played Pacobel’s Cannon, to which Deb and I were married, and which I find to be quite “moving” in a positive way. I enjoy hearing the Canon. However, when I played the Canon, one of the men in the group said, “I hate this piece of music.” Both his feeling and mine were genuine, both were valid, and both needed to be expressed but not to incite an argument. Bob and I took turns talking about our feelings about the Canon and in so doing, learned about each other.

While the most dramatic, music is not the only auditory experience that can bring positive feelings. Pleasant auditory feelings can be nature-created: wind through pines, the cardinal’s song, water lapping and rain on the roof. Human made sounds can be just as wonderful: Distant train horns, office laughter, the giggling of young children, engines operating at peak performance, or even the ticking of a clock.

Note the sounds in your life that bring you a sense of pleasure, which is that “feeling” coming to you when you hear something wonderous or satisfying. How often do you comment on these favorable sounds compared to the honking cars, barking dogs, or screaming children that you find offensive?

Joy in touch (kinesthetic)

As music is first to come to mind when we think of pleasurable sounds, sex usually comes to mind when we think of pleasurable experiences of touch. Certainly, sexual contact in its many forms is nearly universally a good feeling. There are, of course, many people, for whom this is not the case, not the least of which are those who have been molested early in life. For the larger majority of people, sexual touch is gratifying and brings this good feeling, “good feeling” being a term we have used for the many experiences in life.  One of the components of sexual or intimate touching is that it is generally reciprocal. It is the exchange of touch the give and take that adds so much to sexual or intimate pleasure.

“Just touching”, that is the simple act of tactile engagement brings a multiplicity of pleasure. The first jump of summer into a cool lake, brushing your hand along ancient monuments,  stroking your pet or ruffling the hair of a child, grasping your favorite fountain pen or the warmth of your morning coffee mug.  For some, like artisans, the touch of their tool can actually ignite their inspiration. A carpenter can pick up a block of wood and sense what to do with it. I know an artist who describes the picking up of her brushes as a “holy sensation”. We all know the wonderfulness of touching our pet or feeling them brush up near us, to hug a friend at the airport when they arrive, a good strong and secure handshake at the end of a successful business meeting and of course, the pleasure of when your grand-daughter slips her little hand into yours is that “good feeling” that is only experiences through touch.

Touching and being touched can reach deep inside of us and may even reach our core self. If I am touched by a person familiar to me, that touching can be quite spontaneous as well as particularly pleasant, partly because the touch was unexpected. At that moment, you can feel something special, something of a connection, something safe even though the touch was simple and short. This simple and short positive experience can also occur when you touch something, whether living or nonliving. What happens in moments like this is that this person or thing has had an enhancing effect on you. You feel yourself, and also you feel better in some way. Do you acknowledge the pleasure, contentment, connection, or safety that comes with certain kinds of touch?

Joy in taste (gustatory)

Similar to the olfactory senses, the sense of taste provides the greatest variety of good and bad feelings. “Good” and “bad” may be due largely to acquired taste. Who immediately liked coffee when you first tasted it as a child? Who didn’t like ice cream as a child? It appears that the sense of taste, more than any of the other five senses, appears to develop over time largely with familial and cultural influences. I am impressed with Mexican and East Indian folks who can pop hot peppers into their mouths and enjoy the flavor when some people might become seriously ill with such ingestion. Consider the taste of sugar, meat, fruits, vegetables, alcoholic drinks, and a glass of water with a fresh slice of lemon or lime. Which are to your liking. Which feel right? My wife loves to prepare green bean in drizzle of olive oil, a well sliced onion and a good splash of white wine and wonders how anyone else wouldn’t like her prep.  Our grandson doesn’t like green beans at all, and probably wouldn’t even if grandmother coated them in sugar. Taste is about as individual as there are people on the planet.

Joy in sight (visual)

A picture is worth a thousand words, right? I continue to find that true even as my preferred mode of communication is with spoken or written words. Sight is perhaps my weakest sense, at least somewhat due to the fact that I am color blind. When Deb points out the roses on a wild rose bush we pass on the road, or the tomatoes on the vine as we are walking from the office to the house, I am always at a loss to see such things. As we speak we are in the last of summer where everything is lush and green, perhaps my least favorite color because I often cannot distinguish green from red, brown, or gray. Where Deb uses terms like Kelly green or chartreuse, or when I read something like “very verde,” I am bemused because all these colors are simply green. Driving home from our cabin up north last week the forests were alive with color and shape for Deb, the shades very distinct. I can appreciate a sunset and the like, and I even commented to Deb on how we might have a full moon next week, but I am not moved by things visual the way so many people are.

People who are more gifted in matters visual are a gift to the world. Such people are those who create visual things and those who appreciate them. Clearly, artists of all visual forms are those who use their talents to enhance the visual beauty of the world. There is something special in the artist who often feels compelled to create visual art. Michelangelo reportedly “saw” David before he carved him and only needed to chip away the marble from what he “saw.” Artists certainly have an appreciation for art in its many forms, perhaps especially in their chosen modality, but appreciation of art is something that many people have. Things that are seen include the created art of painting, natural art of the Colorado Mountains or Niagara Falls, or the simple beauty of two young girls dressed up for a dance recital. In everything seen, there is potential for joy or for disgust. Consider how many times you have spoken of what you have seen noting the frequency of your comments about what is beautiful.

There are many more things seen that are quite beautiful, often only to the eye of the beholder. Once while playing basketball, I was lucky enough to catch a “baseball pass” from a teammate and make a layup. A few minutes later another teammate graciously said my play was “a thing of beauty.” There are many such things of beauty that the “eye of the beholder” might see that others might not including shapes of objects, like elements of nature, human-made objects, or the human body. Use your imagination.

With all of the senses we are discussing, consider if for you it is easier to focus on the negative compared to the joyful. Then you might just share this joy coming from one or more of your senses, or you might be just as pleased to recognize it and remember it.

Further reading

Previous 7 blogs on Feelings

Forthcoming Feelings IX: joy from the sixth sense (intuition)