Stories we tell ourselves - part 2

In the last post, I shared the sequence leading up to the stories we tell ourselves:

• An event happens, or someone does something.
• I attach a meaning to it.
• I judge the meaning to be good or bad.
• Based on that, I get an instant ping of either pleasure or pain.
  
• I choose what I think is the right way to feel about it.
• I create a story to justify how I feel - and to explain why feeling this way isn't my fault.

The ping we feel is -

• spontaneous,
• short-lived, and
• not under our control.

It's what we do after the ping that's important!

There's a tiny gap between the ping and the feeling we choose. If we automatically choose what we've always chosen, we'll feel the way we usually feel in similar situations, and the story will be predictable.

We can't change the ping - but we can always change the story!

In the previous post, Mary was able to change the story when she got correct information. But sometimes that's not possible - like in Justin's case.

Justin attended a Choice Theory youth group for several years, and his story is a great example of how this works. Here's what he asked at one group session:

I've been working hard to change what I do, but it's not working. Is it possible to do things better to get what I want - and still feel bad?

Here's what happened: I got home from work the other night, and the house was a mess.

The first ping: What he wanted was a clean house. What he had was not a clean house. And he judged this as bad, and felt frustrated.

So I asked my three roommates to help clean up so I could make dinner. They were busy doing their own thing and basically ignored me.

The second ping: He wanted his roommates to help clean up - but that's not what they wanted to do. And he judged this as worse, and felt more frustrated.

So I went ahead and did it myself.

Here, he took more effective control to get what he wanted...

But I noticed that I complained to myself the whole time: "Those lazy bums! They don't do anything around here! They're adults, and they should help out. After all, they live here too - and most of this is their mess!"

...but he decided the right way to feel was angry and resentful, and he created a story about that...

By the time I was done, the house was clean (which was what I wanted) - but I felt worse!

 ...which reinforced how he was feeling - and "proved" he was right!

So he decided to try an experiment: The next time he found himself in that situation, he would go ahead and clean up, but he wouldn't complain about it.

A few days later, I went into the kitchen to make dinner, and the kitchen was a mess. I started cleaning up - and noticed that I'd also started complaining. So I said to myself, "There's no point in complaining. That didn't work well last time. Even if I'm right, so what? So just this once, no complaining, and let's see what happens."

By the time I'd finished the kitchen, I felt really good. I went and had a shower and came back into a nice clean kitchen and made myself a good meal. And I felt great!

 It's usually a simple choice:

Do I want to be right,

or do I want to be happy?

So what story do you want to change this week?!

Stories we tell ourselves

A few parents have asked, "How can I keep an open heart when my teen swears and yells at me and calls me names? How do I keep my heart open when she's so demanding, when he behaves so badly?!"

We say we can't keep our hearts open because then we'd be vulnerable. But is a closed heart really any safer than an open one? And which feels better?

So why do we close our hearts? Because we tell ourselves stories.

Once upon a time ... and they all lived happily ever after.

It's just the part in the middle that's such a problem!

Here's how it seems to go:

• An event happens, or someone does something.
• I attach a meaning to it.
• Based on that, I judge the meaning to be good or bad.
• I get an instant ping of either pleasure or pain.
• I decide the right way to feel about it.
• I create a story to justify how I feel - and to explain why feeling this way isn't my fault.

Here's a true story: Mary's husband Jeff used to get up early every Saturday morning and empty the dishwasher. And he let everybody in the house know he was emptying the dishwasher.

The meaning Mary attached to it was, "He's angry about having to empty the dishwasher."

Having judged this to be bad, she became angry and went on to create a story around it: "Well, if it makes him so angry to empty the damn dishwasher, why does he do it? Why doesn't he just leave it for me? He does this every Saturday - my only day to sleep in! This is ridiculous!"

Once the adrenelin had kicked in, she'd storm downstairs, demand to know why he was so angry, and confront him with his inconsiderate behaviour - all of which left him bewildered and confused.

This story played itself out every Saturday morning for years. Same beginning, same ending.

Then one Saturday morning, she resisted the urge to attach a meaning, judge it, or create a story around it. Instead, she walked downstairs and calmly asked him why he was banging the dishes around. "Oh. I didn't know I was. I guess I'm just a noisy kind of person." Turns out he wasn't angry at all. In fact, he liked emptying the dishwasher. He just wasn't aware that he made so much racket when he did it.

Jeff still empties the dishwasher every Saturday morning - and Mary sleeps through it. And they all lived happily ever after.

So how is it that our stories are responsible for the state of our hearts if the meaning and judgement came first? Aah, that's next week's post!

Under arrest - or head vs. heart

A mother I know shared this story with me, and agreed to let me publish it here. Some details have been changed or omitted to protect her identity:

The call came at 3:00 Friday afternoon: "Hello, ma'am. This is Constable (blank) with the police. Your son has been arrested for stealing a bike. We'll be releasing him in about an hour. Please come to the police station and pick him up."

I had a shower and got dressed. (After all, it was important that I make a good impression.) And all the while I was thinking, Why this? Why now? How could this be?

I arrived at the station at 4:00, the epitome (or so I hoped) of a concerned and responsible parent. What happened next is what's most critical: I asked a lot of questions and gathered a lot of information. Why? So I would know what to think about my son, how to feel about him, and how to treat him.

The constable expressed concern - more about my son's attitude than about the offence itself. He said he was cocky, indifferent and unco-operative, and when he was put in a holding cell with his friend, he had the nerve to ask if he could have his iPod back. This was alarming. What had happened to the kid who left my house that morning? And do I really know him at all?

I was escorted in to see him a few minutes later, and refrained from saying, "Who are you, and what have you done with my son?!" I squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek before we were taken to the staff sergeant to sign the necessary paperwork. Then we were free to go.

On the way home, the silence was suffocating, and I ended up asking more questions than I should have. What had he been thinking while he was stealing it? "I'd rather not answer that." Had he given any thought to the person who's bike he'd stolen? No response. "I hope you're not planning on making this your next career." He looked taken aback. "What would you like for dinner?" Shrug.

Then I told him by biggest concern: what the officer had said about his attitude. "My attitude? Mom, it wasn't my attitude that was the problem!" I understood his point, and just nodded.

I went to bed that night with an uneasy mind, thinking of my grandfather. He was intelligent, wise, insightful, had a wonderful sense of humour, and was unfailingly kind.

But what I remember most is that he always had faith in me, and he always believed in me. My mother told me that, when she was at her wit's end with me in my 20s, he would say to her, "Leave her alone. She's a smart girl. She'll figure it out." Really? He said that? How extraordinary! And those words stayed with me and sustained me, gave me hope and encouraged me throughout my life.

I dreamed about my grandfather that night. I don't remember the dream; I only remember waking up crying.

When my son got up later that morning, I took him aside and said, "This is what I should have done when I saw you at the police station yesterday." And I wrapped my arms around him and held him and rocked him. As I let him go, I said, "That's what I would have done if you'd been hurt or in trouble. And that's what I should always do."

I also told him that whatever was going on with the stolen bike was between him and the police, and that it had nothing to do with him and me. He blurted out, "Thanks, mom. I love you," and threw his arms around me.

What did I learn? I learned that, when I treat someone else the way I think they deserve to be treated, I pass judgement on them. This is the biggest trap there is, because judgement comes from the head, not the heart. As soon as I judge, I close my heart, and a closed heart can't respond lovingly or compassionately to another human being.

When I die, I won't be held accountable for how anyone else treated me. I'll only be held accountable for how I treated them.

Thanks, Grandpa, for showing me what words could never have taught me.