By J. Bailey Molineux

To anyone who knows her superficially, Sue has everything anyone would want. She is attractive, intelligent and sociable. She is well educated, has a nice family and is successful in her work.

But Sue doesn't quite see herself this way. Although she realizes she has ability, and appreciates her blessings, she still has nagging doubts about her worth. In quiet, infrequent moments, she thinks to herself, "I really don't measure up. I haven't done enough. If people really knew me, they wouldn't think so highly of me."

As a result of these thoughts, Sue suffers periodic bouts of depression and anxiety which affects her relationship with her husband and children. She doesn't mean to do it, but sometimes she strikes out at them in an angry, hurtful manner.

Why should Sue be this way? She is a talented, likeable and successful person. Why should she become depressed or question her self-worth?, There is no objective reason for her to do so.

The answer to these questions must be found in Sue's past.

Raised in a middle class family, Sue enjoyed all of the economic benefits of that class. Her father was a hard working, successful professional person. Because of the pressures of his job, however, he had little time for his children. Her mother was conscientious and dutiful, although somewhat uncomfortable and aloof with her children.

In fact, although they loved their children, Sue's parents had difficulty expressing that love - except by material means - because of their own personal and marital problems.

Praise was also something that Sue's parents did not give out too freely, not because they weren't proud of their children, but because they honestly believed they could best help their offspring by correcting them often or showing them how to do things "the right way."

So Sue never learned to praise herself. And she grew up feeling her parents loved her only because she lived up to their high standards. Its no wonder, then, that Sue worked so hard in school and on her job. The pursuit of excellence was a value taught by her parents, although they may have used too much criticism and pressure to instill it in her.

If asked, however, Sue's parents would deny their love for her was contingent upon a certain level of performance, and would be hurt that she would think so. They have always felt love for their children and always tried to do the best for them.

Sue did well at whatever task she undertook, but her older brother often seemed to do better, leaving her to believe he was favored by their parents. Sue's teachers frequently told her how much ability she had - which was true - but she interpreted their messages as meaning she was not doing well enough. Knowing her history, anyone can see why Sue is periodically depressed and filled with self-doubt. But does she need psychotherapy for her problems?

No, not necessarily. The fact of the matter is that most of us are probably like Sue. Her human, and therefore imperfect, family, the product of an imperfect society, is representative of many families.- Although occasionally suffering from mild neurotic symptoms, we still function effectively in our jobs and with our families and friends.

But Sue is vulnerable to more serious problems. Any loss of support or severe conflict in her job or with her family could increase her insecurity and depression. If that were to happen, I hope she would have the good sense and courage to seek the services of a mental health profession.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED how some people discount compliments?

“My, that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing today.”

“What, this old thing? I’ve had it for ages. I really should give it to Goodwill.”

After that you want to say, “Gee, I’m sorry; I guess you’re right. It does look a little tacky, now that you mention it. In fact, I bet you could search the world over and all the stars of the universe, and never in a billion, trillion years find a dress quite that tacky.”

Once in a speech class I conducted, I told a student that he had a beautiful speaking voice. “It has great depth and resonance,” I announced.

The student grimaced and looked at the floor. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I’ve got a cold,” he grunted.

“Wait a minute,” I said, launching into my lecture mode, “listen to yourself. You just discounted a perfectly good compliment. You denied yourself the pleasure of a little recognition, and at the same time gave me a kick in the teeth. That’s not good for either of us.”

When someone does receive a compliment gracefully, it can be bewitching. That’s how I felt speaking to a clerk in a ski shop in Vail, Colorado. When it came to beautiful eyes, she was in the Guinness Book of Records. They were light green, the color of Listermint-you could swim in those eyes for weeks and come out a Jesuit monk.

“I hope I don’t embarrass you,” I said, “but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” Then she really disarmed me. She looked straight at me, smiled sweetly, and said with all the poise of a confident, mature woman, “Why, thank you so much. How kind of you to notice.”

When she said that I got this dopey, lovesick look on my face. My lips parted in wonder-just enough to form a classy spit bubble. All my moral fiber wadded up into a useless hairball. In an instant I fantasized the perfect speech. “Oh, please let me take you home with me. My wife is an understanding woman. Or maybe I could just hide you in the garage; where does it say she has to know every little thing anyway?” (Of course, that would never work. My wife would find out and say, “You put that thing right back where you found it.” Oh-hum.)

People sometimes get the idea that receiving a compliment with confidence is egotistical. I have a three-word response for that: BUNK, BUNK, BUNK. Receiving a compliment with grace is simply saying that you value yourself as a person. To ignore, reject, or discount a credit is nothing short of self-abuse. It is saying, in essence, I am not worthy of your attention.

Accepting compliments is important for another reason. By extending your thanks, you are returning the tribute. You are, in a small way, praising your friend’s good judgment.

I believe that loving oneself is a prerequisite to loving others. Who would want to give a shabby, unwanted gift to another? Moreover, who would want to receive it?

The next time someone gives you a compliment, look them straight in the eyes, flash the old pearly whites, and offer a gracious thank you. You don’t believe in yourself enough to do that? Pretend. It will be good for you and good for your friend.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I’m losing my hair, which is a funny thing to say. I mean, it’s not like I misplaced it somewhere.

“Sugar Cakes, have you seen my hair anywhere?”

“I don’t know, Honey. Have you checked the junk drawer?”

No, I’m not really losing it; it’s just kind of disappearing. Maybe the Hair Fairy comes in the middle of the night when I’m asleep and harvests a few strands at a time; I don’t know. I do know that it has been going on for some time. I’m not totally bald yet, but I may be by next Tuesday.

Now, when you first wake up to this cruel trick of nature, you begin doing funny things. You look in the mirror and consider new and creative ways to part your hair. Maybe you could crease it on the side-you know, just above the left ear-and sweep it across the top of your skull like a thatch of ivy. Or how about cutting a line straight down the middle like Dagwood Bumstead? Or what if you shaved it all off (my ultimate solution) and grew a beard and wore sunglasses a lot? People might not think of you as bald, just Bohemian.

When you’re losing your fur, you start to move funny in a room. You always keep your back to the wall and stand tall so that no one can see the inverted saucer on the crown of your head. You never walk directly to the door to leave a room. You edge around the outside walls, shuffling your feet sideways-step, pull together, step, pull together. When you’re bald, you have to allow for a lot of time to get from one side of the room to the other.

What a terrible condition: to face the world with more shine than twine, the curse of a leper chromosome. But is it really so bad?

Sure, I now buff what I once fluffed, but it’s not the end of the world. I still speak intelligible English. I still have a few friends-some of them with full heads of hair. I still manage to eke out a living. I am not ready to give it all up and ride the rails.

“Yep, I was a successful businessman back in ‘01, but then I lost my hair, and I began to fall so low.”

[A woeful harmonica is heard off stage.]

Ain’t got no cause for livin’

That is plain to see.

Cause when I went to Memphis

My hair went to Orleans.

“I lost my job, my family, everything. I knew I hit rock bottom

when I broke into my kid’s piggy bank to support my habit for baseball caps.”

No, it’s not that bad. We are all born with a collection of gifts and practical jokes. That is the way it is; no sense complaining about it. If you don’t like it, devise another system. Meanwhile, it seems to me that what makes most sense is to accept who I am, the way I am.

My wife has taught me that in her own playful way. She sustains a running joke about the other end of me: my toes. My wife’s toes are praiseworthy, small and regular, descending in size in an orderly manner.

“They are the way toes are supposed to be,” she says.

On the other hand-er, foot-my toes are a bulky, irregular, free-spirited lot of piggies. Whenever I take my socks off at the end of the day, my wife makes some kind of snide comment.

“Gee, didn’t I see those toes in the medical journal on tropical foot diseases?”

She never makes any sense, but I hide them anyway, feeling like Lon Chaney as the misunderstood werewolf. “I’m really a nice person, once you get to know me.”

Of course, my wife’s teasing is her way of saying that we are both perfectly all right the way we are-I with my glossy dome and she with her designer toes, which is exactly how it should be.

There is no sense agonizing over those physical characteristics that are outside my control-the family nose, the inherited love handles, the size 13 gondolas. What I can zero in on are my destructive habits, compulsive thoughts, and irrational behaviors. Those are the states I have the power to alter. And that is where my energy should be directed-toward the things I can change.

Sure, my hair has taken an extended leave of absence and, yes, my toes compose an admittedly ragged skyline, but that’s okay. No sense worrying about what other people think. Most likely, they’re not thinking about me anyway; they’re worrying about what I’m thinking about them.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

IT IS FRIDAY NIGHT, the day of the big game. The high school gym is pulsating, a sneeze away from cardiac thrombosis. Wearing our home whites, we explode onto the court. The first lay-up drill is flawless: basketball choreography.

The cheerleaders, with their cute little skirts and terminal enthusiasm, are burning 500 calories a minute. They love us: “ALLEN, ALLEN, HE’S OUR MAN; IF HE CAN’T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!”

I played in the band. I must have played at a hundred games. And in all that time not one cheerleader ever shouted, “Allen, Allen, he’s our man; if he can’t toot it, no one can.” Ooooh, no. They’d scream their buns off for a six-foot-four flagpole in boxer shorts. But a trumpet player never got boo. Am I bitter? Yes. Am I jealous? You bet. Do I want restitution? You’re darn tootin’. The problem is my athletic career peaked in the sixth grade. That was the year I was all-playground, the fastest kid at Emerson Elementary. I ran so fast my sneakers wheezed. But that supremacy was short-lived. In the seventh grade one or two kids with sprouts of hair on their chests could nose me out in a sprint.

In the eighth grade there were a few more. By the time I was a senior in high school, my great aunt, Boxcar Thelma, could whip me. I don’t know what happened; all my fast-twitch muscles suddenly went limp.

Oh, I’m not really bitter; I’m more envious than anything else. You see, the thing that I admire about athletes-the ones who really understand the meaning of teamwork-is how they support each other: cheering the victor and consoling the vanquished. They do it in simple ways: a high-five, a helmet butt, a pat on the bottom. I think they know instinctively what psychologists have been telling us for years. Recognition is a great motivator. That is very different from those who say that too much praise will turn the recipient into an egomaniac. That’s unlikely. Conceit is generally the fallout from too little praise, not too much. Narcissism is a defense mechanism, a way of compensating for the absence of recognition. Don’t think of praise as a jalapeno pepper-something to be used sparingly; think of it more like my favorite spice, chocolate-something that always tastes good, regardless of the setting. I’ve got it. Let’s start a campaign to follow the lead of our professional athletes who are constantly celebrating little victories. The next time the boss makes a topnotch presentation to the board of directors, why not deliver a quick swat to the caboose. “Nice job, boss.” Success is worth a high-10 (or low-five) in any league.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

ONE RECESS, during my short career as an elementary school music teacher, an eight-year-old girl took my hand, tilted her head back, and looked at the bottom side of my face. It was a new perspective for her. Suddenly, she announced in amazement, “Gee, you have little black hairs coming out of your nose.”

Her observation made me laugh so loudly I think I startled her. “How wonderful,” I thought, “to speak with such candor-innocent of all that is proper and fitting.” I love that quality in children; we could take a lesson from them. In fact, there is much that we could learn from our diminutive mentors. They are, after all, the most natural beings on earth.

While thinking this through, I have discovered something about myself. The people who I am most drawn to, the ones who I want to be around, are not afraid to be childlike. They are the ones who laugh, wink, joke, fantasize, play, explore, wonder, and use funny voices when they tell stories. In a phrase, they enjoy the moment. If you had a choice-and you do-would you rather be childlike or grown-up? Before you answer, consider the differences.

The childlike are spontaneous, curious, and adventuresome; the grown-up are orderly, apathetic, and resigned to long stretches of boredom. The childlike are genuine, straightforward, and accepting of others; the grown-up are guarded, secretive, and judgmental.

The childlike are trusting, silly, and refreshingly innovative; the grown-up are fearful, solemn, and victims of convention. Being childlike has nothing to do with chronology. I know responsible adults of every age who are delightfully childlike. Conversely, I’ve met some twelve-year-olds who are sadly and thoroughly grown-up-strutting around self-consciously in stiff, pubescent bodies. It’s amazing how quickly a free-spirited child can be transformed into an uptight elder. It is no wonder when you consider how we scold our youngsters for being childlike. “When are you going to grow up?”

“Don’t be so childish.”

“Why don’t you act your age?” And these messages begin about the time the infant learns to walk! It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how children will respond. “I hate it when they holler; I better start acting grown-up.”

Regrettably, children learn very quickly to abandon their natural instinct for fun and spontaneity. They concentrate on being more like their parents: rigid, judgmental, serious, and humorless. Soon, they are condemning their younger bothers and sisters for not being more “mature.” The cycle is never ending.

When I was eight years old, I lived in a trailer court. There was a common washroom with three showers and a couple of sinks. Every Saturday night my brother and I would march over to take our weekly bath-right, whether we needed it or not. I will never forget those scrubbings. We took something disgusting-getting clean, yuck!-and turned it into a carnival. After we had thoroughly soaped and rinsed, we cranked all three showers to full hot. In minutes the washroom was steaming, a soggy carton of wet, hot fog.

Then we did it. We went keister-sailing across the room on our gleaming, pink bottoms, hooting and hollering and crashing into porcelain. It’s amazing how slick concrete gets with a thin film of steam.

I am smiling now as I write about that adventure. I even feel the old excitement gurgling in my stomach. I don’t want to give that up. I want to slide on my labonza again and this time go for the world record.

Yes it is. And thank you for noticing.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

I WANTED TO SEE FOR MYSELF what it was like. I had read about Pamplona, Spain, in books by Ernest Hemingway. I had seen photographs of men with white shirts and red bandannas charging slam-bam down a narrow street, a raging bull in wild pursuit, plunging and tromping the most clumsy of runners. And, yes, there was that, but much, much more.

The day we arrived, my wife and I set up camp alongside the Arga River just outside Pamplona. After dinner-a few slices of salami and cheese on French bread-we drove into town. It was dark now. The air was warm and a little sultry; it was beginning to drizzle. The streets were jammed with tourists, all of them, like us, wandering aimlessly, taking in the scent and sounds of Pamplona. In the distance we could hear the night thunder tumbling on the hillside. Soon the drizzle became a light shower and then a driving rain. People darted into darkened doorways and nuzzled there, waiting for the rain to let up, giggling and whispering in Spanish or French or German. No one went home.

My wife and I kept walking. We were at the town square now. There was a small park with grand old trees that formed a protective canopy over the travelers who carpeted the grounds below. Some 500 people crammed into the modest park; a few huddled under small makeshift tents; most sprawled side-by-side in blankets and sleeping bags. I’ve never seen anything like it; it was as though the mayor called a slumber party and the whole town showed up.

Just then the sky erupted. The lightning came crashing down, illuminating the town square. (Man alive! There must have been a thousand people under the trees.) And then the thunder. BOOM! And again BOOM! And, yet, again BOOOOMMM! It was incredible. The Almighty was crashing and cracking and turning on every light in the house. My God! It made you hold your breath. And the people; I will never forget the people. They applauded! With every rip of lightning, every blast of thunder, they rose up in a single voice and cheered! And the louder the thunder rolled, the louder they bellowed. The bull was raging, and the crowd loved it. “Toro! Toro! Toro!”

I turned to my wife, overcome with joy. I held her in my arms, drenched in the pouring rain. I could say nothing.

That is a moment I remember when the lonely speak of dying, and the angry strike out, and the whiners and the moaners insist that people are no damn good. That is the moment I cling to, one summer night, when all of us were linked by a common love of peace and fellowship and the wonders of the universe, ready to join in, to throw our heads back and shout at the top of our voices, “Toro! Toro! Toro!”

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

FOR TWO YEARS my wife and I lived in an Algerian mountain village fifty miles south of the Mediterranean Sea. The town was called Larbaa Nath Irathen, which means “market day is on Thursday.” True to its name, every Thursday morning the narrow streets and open shops teemed with Berbers from the surrounding farms and villages, bartering over woolens, figs, and long haired goats.

I was especially fond of the meat market. There was never any question about what was fresh; the head of the “animal of the day” was mounted on a hook on the storefront wall like a big game trophy. They looked like incarnate gargoyles, tongues unfurled, all with the same pathetic expression: “Holy cow, was it something I said?”

There were no women on the streets-only men wrapped in their burnooses, squatting flatfooted on the roadside, their elbows between their legs. They looked like Moslem baseball catchers waiting for the delivery.

My wife and I taught English at the public high school. Every morning we walked through town to go to school. Every afternoon we walked back, stopping at Abdul’s “full-service supermarché” for the day’s groceries: a couple of artichokes, a few oranges, and the ever-present couscous, a kind of African farina without the lumps.

Each walk through town was a little like “Babes on Parade”-my wife on center stage. Where she walked, one thousand pairs of eyes followed.

There were times I swore I heard a Berber chant, “Sha-boom, chic-chic-boom, chic-chic-boom.”

Those were strange days. And we were strangers in a strange land.

The sounds, the smells, the customs-they were all new. It was like nothing either of us had ever known. It was sometimes scary, sometimes frustrating, and even occasionally infuriating. But despite all that, we adjusted. In fact, those two years were a time of terrific growth. We learned how to entertain ourselves without the questionable benefit of The Dukes of Hazard or Bowling for Dollars.

We read, wrote short stories, painted, composed music, developed friendships, and absorbed an intriguing and ancient culture.

In short, we adapted. It was no big deal-we merely tapped the resources that we all share. People exhibit incredible elasticity under crisis? When a home is destroyed, they rebuild. When a family is shaken, they pull together. When a business fails, they take another tack-they reset, they bounce back. That is the way people are; we have a wonderful aptitude for survival.

Yes, there are those who buckle under in times of change, but they are in the minority. They are the unfortunate ones who have not yet learned that they have what it takes: the intelligence and will to make it work. They were not born with self-doubt; they learned it along the way. They are the children who were dismissed as losers, the wives who were labeled stupid, the elderly who were written off as feebleminded. That is not uncommon; many of us have been told such rubbish. The difference is they gradually grew to accept it.

We often hear that people are designed for success. I believe it. The cruel and misguided voices of the past and present that tell us otherwise are to be pitied for their own insecurity. I will not listen to those unhappy voices. I resolve that when change comes, as it always does, that I will stand ready to assert, “Shoot, let me at it; I can handle it.” For in the end, when you think about it, change is just another word for growing up.

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

THE SUBTITLE OF MY BOOK, This Side of Crazy, is 54 Lessons On Living From Someone Who Should Know Better But Keeps Messing Up Anyway

At first the line was written for a laugh. But now, at the end of the book, I find that there is more truth than folly in the words. I should know better. My only comfort is that the telling of each story may awaken my senses and keep me on this side of crazy.

So, one final story to help me help myself:

It was the opening game of the season. I was coaching first base, and my wife was up to bat. The count was 3 and 0. The pitcher began his windup. My wife leaned over the plate, her bat resting demurely on her right shoulder.

“Take it!” I shouted.

The ball skittered through the air; it looked like a sure walk.

Incredibly, though, my wife cocked her bat and swung. The ball dribbled off her timber and rolled half way to the pitcher’s mound: an easy out.

“Why did you swing?” I demanded.

“You told me to,” she snapped back.

“I told you to take it.”

“I DID TAKE IT!”

Oh

About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Enjoy the Journey

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

WHEN I WAS A JUNIOR IN COLLEGE, I began wishing my life away. Enough, already, with French and philosophy and Principles of Education; I wanted a real job. I wanted to be in the classroom-exploring the great ideas and molding young, enthusiastic minds. I pictured myself a young Glenn Ford, turning the blackboard jungle into a serene, loving, educational commune-a kind of Woodstock with clothes.

That all changed the first day of my teaching career. In the first few minutes of the first period, I met a 16-year-old boy who sported a T-shirt with a caricature of a naked lady and the caption “Stronger than Beer.” He sat in the front seat of the middle row, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles, the pointed soles of his cowboy boots bellied-up. He looked as if he slept maybe once every three days.

Suddenly, I had the sickening feeling that I had made a horrible mistake. What did I know about teaching anyway? Maybe I was meant to be a doctor or a lawyer or . . . a shepherd in Afghanistan. Maybe, on the day I was born, my name tag was switched with another kid, and I should really be a cosmopolitan playboy. Yeah, that must be it. Surely, I was not destined to suffer through 120 sophomore themes over a meat loaf and Tater Tots TV dinner.

That experience was a revelation. I suddenly realized that I had been acting as though life were a destination. It is not, of course; it is a journey. Somehow, I had forgotten that. For four years, I had focused all my energy on becoming a teacher. When the day finally arrived, I stopped, looked around, and-like Peggy Lee-asked, “Is that all there is?” I expected nirvana; instead I discovered troubled kids and a cold, standup radiator that clanked in the winter. I felt empty and disillusioned.

At that moment I was on the far side of crazy. The problem, though, was not with the school or with the kids; it was with me. I had the idea that life should be orderly and predictable-kind of like fast food or half-hour doses of sitcom television. I expected everything to be pat and comfortable-a pleasant destination; then I would be happy.

I was wrong. I’m persuaded now that the best times are when I live on the edge, gently nudged out of my comfort zone. That is when I feel most alive, when I can experience-and relish-the tension of the journey.

That first day at school was not the last day of my teaching career. I was determined to make something happen in the classroom, to act as a learning “travel agent.” So I pushed against the envelope of my comfort zone in small ways: reading Edgar Allan Poe by candlelight, holding a trial on the quality of education, staging a fight with a student to kick off a lesson on conflict. My goal was to make learning as experiential as possible. My ideas did not always work, but I had a helluva good time. I was learning to embrace the uncertain adventures in my life: the tension of a new idea, the ambivalence of a rare sensation, the misgivings of confrontation. I was learning to enjoy the journey and to yearn for the road not yet taken.

---

About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.

Enough With the Drama

By D.C. Morrow

It is easy in the self-indulgent microcosm of college to fall into a soap opera mode of communication. The importance of the day-to-day events of your life becomes exaggerated and everything tends to be played out at a high emotional level. We have been inundated with reality TV shows and mini dramas that owe their success largely to the American preoccupation with voyeurism and the acceptance of flippant and pointed remarks as the conversational norm. Most of the dialogue in these shows involves lashing out at perceived, often trivial, shortcomings of others.

Some of the outrage is expressed as criticism that might border on tough love if the clear intentions to hurt weren’t so blatant. The other verbal attacks, often more malicious, are carried out behind the backs of the intended targets. Although most of these broadcasts don’t come close to achieving their “reality” label, for many viewers, seeing becomes believing. Hateful behavior toward individuals has become a socially acceptable substitute for the discrimination practices of the past.

I challenge you in your new life outside of college to quit playing to imaginary audiences and cameras. You must behave and respond to others as the sensitive humans that they are, not as fellow actors who can instantly move on with their lives when each scene is over.

Some problems do arise in the best of work and living environments that you must address. There are numerous books and articles that suggest a number of interpersonal communication techniques to help you resolve those disputes. If you’re trying to find “in your face, cruel and profane insults” in any of those references you’ll discover them indexed under “lose-lose” strategies.

Avoidance of behind-the back cruelty also applies to your work and home lives. Getting onto the latest gossip train at work won’t put you onto a fast track. Ganging up on a problem roommate or ostracizing someone else in your household, in time, may lead you out the door. In our desire to become parts of inner circles, any of us can be guilty of such indiscretions. In the end, we do not emerge as the suffering victims. We merely expose ourselves as petty and cruel. If others in our circles encourage and get off on that sort of thing, let them rely on their TV reality shows, not on comments they’ve elicited to expose your worst side.

DC Morrow is the author of Survival After College available directly from Selfhelpbooks.com
(c) Copyright 2003 DC Morrow/Selfhelpbooks.com

Growing Up: Safety Versus Growth

By J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D.

Every new experience, every major change in our lives, involves a plunge into the unknown and unfamiliar, and so is potentially frightening. Whenever I go to school for the first time, for example, I experience a twinge of anxiety and insecurity. I wonder what they will think if I can't help them. But this anxiety passes. With most people, big events such as when they graduate, or decide to get married or decide to take a new job in another town or state, are usually experienced with some disturbing questions which are a threat to our self confidence. How will I do in this new situation? Will I like it? Will I be adequate, skilled or competent enough to handle it?

Life is a continuous, never-ending series of choices, and it is the choices we make that determine what kind of individuals we are. Only by facing and overcoming the anxiety produced by new experiences will we be able to expand our horizons, develop our potentialities and live our lives to the full.

The American psychologist, Abraham Maslow, was unique in the history of psychology. He was the first to concern himself with the study of mentally healthy, creative, self-actualized people rather than emotionally troubled individuals.

It was Maslow's contention that there is within every one of us a drive to learn and to grow. But he also felt that every life decision involves a choice between safety and growth. In other words, we want to experience and master much that is new and different in life, but we are afraid. If our desire to grow is greater than our fear of change, we will opt for growth. If the dangers of growth seem to outweigh its benefits, however, we will choose safety and stagnation instead.Consider the infant who scatters Daddy's shoes all over the bedroom floor. She wants to explore and manipulate this exciting, new world into which she has recently been born. If she is severely punished or spanked for this behavior, however, she will have learned early in her life not to be so daring and inquisitive, and will come to suppress her innate curiosity.

Or consider the older child who is learning a new skill. If he is taught this skill with patience, encouragement and praise, he will slowly and gradually master it and gain greater confidence in himself. If taught with impatience, frequent correction and criticism, however, he will shy away from the new task and lose an opportunity to develop greater confidence.

Make no mistake about it, Maslow warns us, if given a choice between growth and safety, the child will always choose safety whenever threatened or insecure. If given a choice between her own opinion of herself and her parents' opinion of her, she will always choose the latter even if it is a negative evaluation and means denying her own interests and ambitions.

And yet the truly mentally healthy, morally strong, and self-loving adult is one who bases her sense of worth primarily upon her own opinion of herself and secondarily upon the opinions of others, She is not one who needs to follow the crowd because she can stand emotionally and intellectually on her own.

As effective, caring parents who want our children to become this type of person, we must help them to develop a sense of trust in their abilities, opinions and judgments so that throughout their lives they will choose growth over safety. And we do this by enhancing the delights and benefits of growth and minimizing the lure of safety.

We do this by saying in effect to them: We prize and value you for what you are and not always for what you can do. We will try to accept your feelings, opinions and decisions, and respect your human right to make mistakes.

We want to create a secure, supportive environment in which you can grow and fully experience this life we have given you.

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About the Author: J. Bailey Molineux, a psychologist with Adult and Child Counseling, has incorporated many of his articles in a book, Loving Isn't Easy, Isbn 1587410419, sold through bookstores everywhere or available directly from Selfhelpbooks.com. Copyright 2002, J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include authors copyright and website hyperlinks.

Have Inner Strength

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

IT NEVER FAILS. I’m playing basketball at the city park, right? I’m having a good time jostling with the guys under the backboard-leaning in a little on the drives. Then, at the end of the game, this big 250-pound lug with bib overalls tries to dunk the ball. He can’t do it, of course, but he gets high enough to grab the rim and hang there like a bloated Christmas bulb. And, naturally, the rim drops about an inch. The last time that happened, I spoke up.

“Hey!” I barked, “don’t do that.” If I had stopped there, it would have been fine. I didn’t. I decided my demand required a descriptive title to underscore the seriousness of the crime. “Hey! Don’t do that, CLOWN!”

That was a mistake. The joker whipped his head around, peeled back his lips, and made a lewd remark about the legitimacy of my birth. About that time someone suggested we play another game. I knew I would be guarding Clarabell; suddenly, “jostling with the guys” lost a large chunk of appeal. So I bowed out, making up some virile excuse, like having to mount a gun rack on my four-wheel-drive pickup truck.

That is one way to deal with conflict-to push back. But “pushing back” almost always escalates the dialogue and aggravates the situation. It becomes a name-calling contest; the person with the most colorful vocabulary or heaviest fist wins.

When I shared these thoughts with a friend recently, he quoted a line from a book by Chris Griscom: “Where there is no resistance, there is no harm.” At first, the statement didn’t make sense to me, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Why, of course, there is safety in letting go. I can resist the 250-pound lug-and possibly have my teeth reshuffled in the transaction-or I can let go, stating my case as an adult if necessary, but avoiding hostility. Griscom’s statement is in line with an image of civility and tranquility that I’ve been carrying around in my head lately. I call it the “Silent Samurai.”

The “Silent Samurai” is the person who is calm, self-assured, at peace with himself and his surroundings. He is mentally disciplined, physically powerful, and spiritually centered. But he does not need to boast or flex his muscles. He has nothing to prove; he is fully aware of his virtues and shortcomings and, at the same time, acceptant of the condition of others.

The “Silent Samurai” is a mighty warrior; he can move with the quickness of a cat. Still, he seldom strikes. He never swaggers into a saloon and assumes the crane position-wahaaaaa. His inner peace tempers his aggression and dissuades his opponents. When he does act, it is more like a dance. He simply flows with the thrust of his assailant, who tumbles to the ground under his own force.

I would like to be like a “Silent Samurai.” Just think how liberating that would be. No longer would I have to prove my toughness or cleverness or superiority. No longer would I have to “beat up” on people, like some stag asserting my position in the herd.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “Yeah, but sometimes you have to stand up and fight. Otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.”

I agree in part. I do believe you have to stand up for what you value. But I do not believe in fighting.

Let’s replay the incident at the park. I think my best strategy would have been to speak as an adult.

“You know, all of us use this court, and it’s a lot more fun when the rim is level. I, for one, would appreciate it if you didn’t hang on it.”

That is a straight message; there is nothing disparaging about that statement. And most people will respond favorably. But what if he doesn’t? What if he keeps at it? At that point I need to remember that I am not responsible for his behavior; it is not my job to fix him. Force of any kind-even a threat to call the police-is unlikely to change his style.

I think my best choice is simply to walk away. To resist further would only result in harm. That does not make me a pacifist, for a battle is still raging, an inner battle to preserve my personal dignity. For me, that is the only struggle worth pursuing.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Living Need Not Be Hazardous to Your Health

By J. Bailey Molineux

"I lost a friend yesterday," wrote John W. Farquhar, M.D., founder and director of the Stanford Heart Disease Prevention Program. "Death set upon him like a monster, gripping him with pain and fear, overwhelming him with fatigue, and finally shaking him loose, lifeless. Gone is a husband, gone a father, gone a brother. In my grief, I am angry. Death came early, uninvited: it was not a welcome release at the end of a fulfilled life. It came as an interloper, seizing a man at the center of his time."

Dr. Farquhar's friend, Roger, was only 48 years old when he died of a heart attack. With a diet rich in sugar, salt, cholesterol, saturated fats and too many calories, Roger was overweight. He had smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since he was 23 and he exercised only on the weekends. Proficient in his profession and respected by his colleagues, nevertheless he drove himself relentlessly in his work and in his pursuit of success. Roger's lifestyle - common to many Americans - was what caused his heart attack, says Dr. Farquhar. And it could have been prevented. Had he be* a different life­style or had he changed his habits of living, Roger probably would have lived longer.

Every year 500,000 Americans suffer premature heart attacks - before the age of 65 - and every year 153,000 of them die. Another 100,000 people have strokes before they are 65, and 30,000 of these die also.

To prevent this needless suffering, Dr. Farquhar has written a book, The American Way of Life Need Not Be Hazardous To Your Health (W.W. Norton, 1978). it, he discusses the factors that increase the risk of cardiovascular disease and suggests ways to reduce that risk. Stress. The "big three" cardiovascular risk factors are smoking, high blood cholesterol and high blood pressure. Chronic stress increases the risk of a heart attack because it increases blood pressure. By slowing down, we can live longer.

Exercise. The effects of exercise on cardiovascular health are many. In addition to making the heart more mechanically efficient and lowering both blood pressure and cholesterol, exercise helps us to better control our weight.

Fifteen to twenty minutes of vigorous, sustained exercise - jogging, swimming, bicycling or walking, as examples - three to four times per week is recommended by Dr. Farguhar. If we haven't exercised in a long time or are older, however, he recommends that we go slowly and see a physician before starting an exercise program.

Diet. Too much cholesterol, salt and sugar contributes to cardiovascular disease by clogging coronary arteries, increasing blood pressure and adding nutritionally valueless calories to the diet. A change of our eating patterns may be necessary if we are to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease.

Overweight. More than 80°0 of all Americans are at least 5% over their ideal weight, claims Dr. Farquhar, making us heavier than any other people on earth. Excessive weight contributes to cardiovascular risk by increasing blood pressure and blood cholesterol.

Smoking. Although smoking contributes to cancer and chronic lung disease, Dr. Farquhar argues that it poses a greater cardiovascular risk. The smoker is twice as likely to develop a premature cardiovascular disease as the non-smoker.

The American Way of Life Need Not Be Hazardous to Your Health does not make for reassuring reading. It can be a sobering experience.

Scare tactics usually do not work in getting people to change their behavior unless they can be shown a way to avoid what they fear. Dr. Farquhar suggests that way: by changing our habits, we cannot extend our normal life span but we can significantly improve our chances of reaching its potential.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist and author of the book Loving Isn't Easy
Copyright 2003 J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article maybe reprinted but must include author's copyright and website hyperlinks to SelfHelpBooks.com.

Meditation - The Practice of Mental Discipline

By J. Bailey Molineux

The person sits in a comfortable position, back straight, usually with his eyes closed, counting his breath, or repeating a word, or concentrating on an object, image, word, or saying. He is meditating.

What is meditation? How can it help? What are the benefits of meditation?

In the past few weeks in this feature, I have argued that our thoughts and assumptions about the world determine our emotional reactions, that what we think determines how we feel. If this is true, then it follows that by controlling our thoughts we can control our emotions. But how can this be done? How is it possible to control our thoughts? How can we reduce our needless worrying?

One answer is through the use of meditation - the practice of mental discipline. Meditation is an act in which the mediator concentrates, centers, or focuses his attention on a single entity - a body process, a sound, an object or image, a word or saying - and attempts to exclude or ignore all other distracting thoughts.

You might want to try this experiment: sit in a comfortable spot at a time in which you will not be disturbed for fifteen minutes. Relax each part of your body as much as you can, then concentrate all of your attention on your breathing.

What happens? You will probably find that it is extremely difficult to focus on your breathing for a full fifteen minutes. Your mind wanders aimlessly as it flits from thought to thought or image to image. It is as if the mind abhors a vacuum and so rushes to fill itself with thoughts and images, a rush of mental content that is hard to control.

And how often do we do this in our everyday lives - keep ourselves stirred up with distracting, worrisome thoughts; fail to stick to a thought or problem; or think about all the possible bad or fearful consequences that might befall us rather than imagine the good?

Meditation can help us to reduce this sort of unproductive, purposeless think­ing and can enable us to employ our minds more constructively. Michael J. Eastcott, in his book, The Silent Path: An Introduction to Meditation (Samual Weiser, 1973), describes the effects and benefits of meditation this way: "We are begin­ning to see that thought is a tangible potency which creates, influences, and has effect ... who has not found that by continual thinking about some worry it has assumed gigantic proportions? And that fear builds up out of practically nothing if we permit it to be fed by thought? Put these things out of mind and they atrophy and disappear.

"Thought rightly used can recreate both ourselves and our surroundings ... most of us miss out on much of our potential because of the little recreating that we do with our minds. We permit them a great deal of free range in unprofitable fields, whereas controlled use of them could harness valuable, constructive energy. Think love and we build it into ourselves; think of joy and we become more joyous."

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist and author of the book Loving Isn't Easy
Copyright 2003 J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article maybe reprinted but must include author's copyright and website hyperlinks to SelfHelpBooks.com.

Pamper Yourself

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

I WAS SITTING in the Las Vegas airport, reading a discarded, day-old copy of the Los Angeles Times when I heard my name called over the intercom. “Mister Allen Johnson, please return to the checkout counter.

”Oh-oh, what was wrong? Were my tickets out of order? Were they overbooked? Was there an emergency at home?

“We are changing your seating assignment, Mr. Johnson,” the attendant said smiling. “We need a little more room in coach.” I looked at my new boarding pass. The number was 3B. I had never seen a number that low before. Three-B? Hey, that was first class! That’s cool, I said to myself; I can handle that. Instantly, I was transformed into the Dalai Lama of business tycoons. I puffed out my chest, flared my nostrils, and draped my topcoat over my shoulders continental style, both arms outside the sleeves. I was the last to board-after all the riffraff. Everything about me said, “Yes, I am wealthy, I am successful, I am every woman’s wildest desire.” (Hey, why not? It’s my fantasy. I can think whatever I want.)

A moment later I was seated in an overstuffed, leather lounge chair. There was enough room for two of me. I crossed my legs with a flair and then gauged the depth of the seat cushion with a few surreptitious vertical plunges of my buttocks. “Deep.” “May I serve you a drink?” asked the perky flight attendant. She seemed more gracious, more fawning than any hostess I had ever encountered in coach. I was more accustomed to “Hey, you. That’s right, you, the one trying to sleep. Catch your nuts.”

I almost asked for a glass of “the bubbly,” and then remembered that I didn’t drink alcohol. So I said, “Yes, a ginger ale if you will,” and then in a stroke of inspiration added, “with a twist.” Classic! As soon as we were in flight, the perky attendant was at my elbow again. “Sir, will we be dining this evening?”
I giggled in spite of myself. I had never dined on an airplane in my entire life. I have nibbled, munched, even scarfed, but never dined.

“Indeed,” I said, regaining my composure. A moment later the flight attendant was standing over me with a three-foot square of linen. For a moment I thought that she was going to tuck it in under my chin for me. I put my book down and smiled up at her. “Let me assist you,” she said. She popped the cover of my armrest, exhumed the double-fold table, and delicately flipped the small linen tablecloth into place. My silverware-that’s right, silverware-was also wrapped in linen. There was a knife, a fork, a spoon, and a cute little set of salt and pepper shakers. Yes, I would be truly dining.

That was on the first leg of my trip back home. On the second leg I was in coach again, back in the galley with my friends, Riff and Raff. I sat with my knees squeezed together like a modest debutante in a high-water skirt, protecting the world from indiscretion. I looked longingly through the slit in the curtain that separates the world of first class from the world of coach. How agonizing to have once known the pleasures of aristocracy and then to huddle unadorned with the proletariat, fallen from grace.

I think everyone should experience flying first class. I plan, as a matter of routine, to volunteer my services anytime coach looks a little cramped for space. After all, I am worthy of primo service; I deserve to be pampered now and then. Ah, but then there is the question of money; how often can I afford to fly in luxury? Not often. But I can afford to treat myself with first-class respect, attending to my personal needs with the same standards of service embraced by the best of first-class flight attendants. I’ve decided. I plan to be gracious to me: speak well of myself and bathe in luxury from time to time. Heck, I’m worth it. I’m a first-class passenger, despite seating assignment 38B, one row this side of luggage.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Put the Brakes on Negative Thoughts

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

ONE FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER WORK, I drove home on a new stretch of freeway between the place where I work and the place where I live. I felt great. I was looking forward to dinner with my wife and a game of tennis with a friend on Saturday. I was feeling so good I began singing about my plans for the weekend, beating out the rhythm on the dashboard.

Well, I’m drivin’ on home. Scoobie-shoobie doo. Gonna paint the town With my Sweet Baloo I was working on the second verse when I caught a glimpse of a woman in a BMW, tailgating close enough to kiss me on the lips. I tried to get out of her way, but I was flanked on both sides by other cars.

There we were, the four of us, looking like the Blue Angles flying down the highway in a perfect “T” formation. I looked in my rear view mirror again. The lady did not look happy.

Finally, the car to my right pealed off at the next exit. I faded over to the right lane, giving the “Beamer” a clear lane to pass. Then, just as the BMW pulled along side, I turned my head to get a closer look at the driver. I don’t know why I looked. Maybe I wanted a peek at raw impatience. Or maybe I just wanted to see what a person rich enough to drive a BMW looks like. So I looked. What happened next caught me by surprise. The woman cranked her head toward me, screwed up her face like a dead cat on the freeway, placed her right index finger to her temple, and twisted her hand back and forth, the universal sign for that philosophical question posed on all the streets and highways in all the world: “ARE YOU WACKO OR WHAT?”

Now, I don’t think I had any control over my first impulse; you know, that jolt of adrenaline that squirts into your stomach. That was my defense mechanism, my “fight or flight” impulse going into action. That’s natural; I had no power over that instinctive, physiological response. But I did have control over my thoughts and actions from that point on.

Frankly, I have to admit that my first thought was spiteful. “She’s speeding, right? What if she were pulled over by the state patrol? Then when I drove by at 55 miles per hour in my ‘79 Honda Accord, I could give her the are-you-wacko-or-what? sign.” And then I thought, “Hold on, you don’t know this lady. She’s a total stranger to you. What she thinks of you doesn’t matter in the slightest. Are you going to let an impatient woman ruin a perfectly good weekend?”

The answer to that, of course, was “no.” So I decided to take a different approach. I decided to use a popular behaviorist technique called “thought stopping.” I use it whenever I want to dispose of mental garbage. It works like this.

1. As soon as I catch myself obsessing over a miserable thought, I shout, “STOP!” At the same time, I give myself a little pinch on the wrist. Some people press their fingernails into the palm of their hands. Others will snap their wrists with a rubber band “bracelet.” Whatever the technique, it is not necessary to draw blood. The idea is merely to let the brain know that this “miserablizing” will not be tolerated.

2. I immediately visualize something extremely pleasant. Use whatever works for you: skiing down a beautiful mountain slope or sunbathing on a deserted, tropical beach. I usually rely on a good sexual fantasy myself.

3. If the miserable thought returns-and it usually does in about 10 to 15 seconds-I repeat steps one and two. After doing this a few times, I find that the negative thought eventually disappears altogether. The beauty of this technique is that you can use it anywhere, even in a business meeting. Of course, you do draw attention to yourself if you suddenly belt out: “STOP!” People tend to wonder. But, with a little practice, the technique works just as well by saying, whispering, or even thinking “stop.”

So I did the “thought stop,” and it worked. I had a wonderful evening with my wife and a great tennis match the next morning. And I never once thought about the impatient woman in the BMW, except to write this piece. And for that, BMW Lady, I thank you, wherever you are.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.

Rejection is the Flipside

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

I THOUGHT I WAS ON A ROLL. My jokes were working, my examples were dramatic, and the faces in the audience were all plugged in. All, that is, except for one. A man in the middle of the auditorium sat with his arms folded, his legs crossed, and his eyes waning like two pale moons rising, rising . . . gone. He wasn’t ugly, just miserable.

I notice those things. I don’t know-call me funny that way-I can tell when someone would rather be in Cleveland. So I decided to confront the man.

“Excuse me, sir. I get the feeling that you’re not really buying any of this. Are you willing to share with me what’s going on?” You’ll notice that I did not say, “Pardon me, but have you recently passed away?”

The man was not afraid to speak up. His words were simple and to the point. “I don’t like what you’re saying, and I don’t like the way you’re saying it.” The crowd of about 150 raised and lowered their eyebrows in unison. My scalp shifted about an inch and a half to the west.

“Gee,” I finally said, “if you’re not finding any of this helpful, please feel free to leave.”

“I can’t,” he droned. “I’m with a car pool, and I’m stuck here for the next two hours.”

So there he sat through the rest of the seminar, Chief Bump-on-a-Log, defying me to say anything remotely interesting.

That happens every so often. In fact, in a crowd of that size, you can usually expect to find one or two faces that have retired for the evening. Rejection! Like most everyone, I’ve had my share: the final cut from the basketball squad, the botched job interview, and-heartache of heartaches-the kiss-off from my college sweetheart.

“I’m looking for somebody more sensitive,” she said gently.

“I can be sensitive.”

“Yeees, but I also want a man who’s rugged.”

“I can be rugged. You want rugged? I’ll be rugged.”

“Uh, I’m really looking for . . . somebody else.”

“I CAN BE SOMEBODY ELSE! WHO DO YOU WANT ME TO BE?”

With time I have grown to accept the fact that rejection is part of living. Really, when I think about it-when my head is cool and my passions tempered-I wouldn’t want it any other way. For me to ask for a world without rejection is to demand a world without choices. And who wants that? People have the capacity-and right-to make their own selections; that’s just the way it is.

One final example to make my point. Included in our natural right of selection is the freedom to choose our own professional title. A number of years ago, a woman delivered our mail. One Saturday morning I happened to glance out the window as she was walking toward our front door. “Here comes the mailman,” I announced to my wife without thinking.

“Not a mailman,” she corrected, “a mailperson.”

I’m a fast learner, so I sprung open the door and chortled, “Gooood morning, mailperson.” I knew right away that I had said something wrong. She shot me a look usually reserved for child molesters and mother rapers.

“I’m a letter carrier!” she barked indignantly.

That’s all she said. She turned on her heels, and reeled off in search of more deserving mail slots. I was left with my mouth open and my index finger drooping in midair.

“Gee, what’d I say?” Rejected again.

I’ve learned my lesson-the mailman is now a letter carrier. But if a letter carrier should suddenly become a “mail escort” or a “correspondence hostess,” I will not be surprised, nor will I fall apart if my ignorance is met with displeasure. In the end, my status as a fully functioning human being is not contingent on approval or rejection by others-after all, that is their natural right; it is contingent on the approval and selection of myself.

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About the Author: Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Routinely Recreate Yourself

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

AN INTERESTING THING HAPPENED at the company Christmas party this year. I danced with a half dozen lovely ladies, all decked out in their holiday gowns. That’s not particularly noteworthy; I’ve danced with women in holiday gowns before. It might have been interesting if I had been decked out in a holiday gown, but that was not the case and, moreover, digresses from the point.

What was striking to me was the realization that each of my partners had one favorite dance step that carried her through the entire night. One step. One of my companions held out both hands, like a kid waiting to be spanked with a teacher’s ruler, and then made little hand-circles, first clockwise and then counter clockwise. Initially, I thought, “Gee, that’s kinda cute,” but by the end of “Louie, Louie,” I was considerably bored with the Eddie Cantor gesture. So I danced with another partner.

“Ah ha,” I said to myself, “I can see by your demeanor that you have rhythm.”

And she did. Her right shoulder dipped to the off-beat and then rolled back on the on-beat. At the same time, her left knee buckled in and then out again. It looked real spiffy. But 16 measures into the song, 32 measures into the song, I was wondering when I might see another step: maybe a dip with the left shoulder and a buckle with the right knee-that would be a novelty. But no, 128 measures of dip right, buckle left.

I began to develop a theory. I hypothesized that sometime in junior high school each of my daring partners discovered a step that worked, a step that was conventional and efficient-but primarily a step that did not attract attention. When that movement was conceived, they latched on to it with a vengeance.

At that moment, each of these self-conscious teenagers experienced DANCE BRAIN DAMAGE. The circuits in their heads that control dance creativity blew up, and now that portion of cerebral hardware is a glob of mangled wire-endings and burnt PVC. With that, all dance learning stopped. You could hear the soft, melancholic refrain of taps playing in the distance: Ta-ta-taaa. Ta-ta-taaa. What if my theory is correct? Moreover, what if the same thing happens in all sectors of our lives? Maybe we have eating brain damage: “I’m sorry. I only know how to eat pudding. My brain blew up before I was introduced to vegetables.”

Or people brain damage: “I can’t speak to you; I only talk to people who resemble my mother-brain damage, you know.” Is it possible we grab on to one thing that works and stick with it forever and ever, until death takes us home and we do the same thing in heaven? How boring.

It is time to connect the wires, to clean out the caked PVC, to accept a new opportunity for growth. Sure, making little circles left and right works, but so do jabs and undulations and twirls and hip thrusts and, Willy Begonia, THE POSSIBILITIES ARE MIND-BOGGLING! It is time to break out. It is time to ask ourselves some industrial-strength questions. If we did not have brain damage, how would our lives be different? How would our self-images be altered? What new career paths would we take? How would our relationships change? What new challenges would we accept? Ideally, life should be a process of routinely recreating ourselves-of continually asking, “What can I do today to learn, to experience, to expand the paradigm of my world?”

For just once, I would like to have seen one courageous, brain-healthy dancer doing the alligator: flip-flopping on all fours, flamboozling the whole crowd. Sure, it’s risky. And, yeah, it’s different. But it sure ain’t boring.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Self Actualization - Developing Our Potential

By J. Bailey Molineux

Sigmund Freud, the pioneer in the study and treatment of mental and emotional problems, had a pessimistic outlook about the human race. He felt that there were two basic instincts or drives within people - a life instinct and a death instinct. He used the latter to explain much of the self-destructive behavior that he saw in people and to predict that there would always be wars.

Freud also had a narrow view of what motivates humankind. He proposed a tension reduction theory of human motivation. In other words, he argued that people are moti­vated only to reduce their needs and tensions, suggesting that man, like a well-fed animal in a zoo, would be satisfied and lazy if all his basic physiological needs were met.

There are many students of human behavior, myself included, who disagree with Freud's theory. Granted that the fulfillment of our basic physiological needs is important to our welfare, and granted that we need to be well fed, clothed, housed, and safe from danger in order to achieve a minimum of happiness, there is more to human motivation than this.

What primarily distinguishes us from the animals is the fact that we have an enlarged brain that has enabled us to probe the depths of the atom and push the known limits of the universe back twenty-six billion light years. We are a curious, active, seeking species. We want to know, explore, discover, and create.

Witness the innate curiosity of the toddler as he scatters mother's pots and pans all over the kitchen floor. He is not being "bad" or "naughty." He just wants to learn as much as he can about the big, exciting, and new world into which he has recently been born. '' And nature has very wisely implanted this innate curiosity within him as it will enable him to acquire the knowledge and skills that he will need in order to function as an adult.

In comparison to the age of the earth - roughly four billion years - our average allotment of three score and ten years is a mighty short time to be here on earth. What a shame to waste it! What a shame it would be to come to the end of our days and feel that we had misspent our lives.

Perhaps the older individual who is near death but is not afraid of it is one who has led a full, rich, varied life, while the oldster who is most frightened of his impending death is one who wants more time to do the things he failed to do when he was younger. The older individual who is most successful in the aging process, and who probably lives the longest, is one who has developed many hobbies and interests in 'a is lifetime which keep him busy and occupied right up to the end.

For those of us who are younger, the time to prepare for old age and death is now when we can still cram our lives with as much varied experience as possible, when we can develop the hobbies, interests, and activities that will last us for a lifetime.

And this is what self-actualization is - the development of all of our latent potentialities, interests, and talents.

The self-actualizing person is one who lives, cherishes, and enjoys his life to the full because he realizes that it may suddenly and unexpectedly be taken from him. He realizes that he cannot change the past and that the best way to prepare for the future is to handle problems and challenges as they occur each day. Moreover, he is dedicated to his own continued growth and development. To this end, he looks for new challenges to tackle, new interests to develop, new hobbies to cultivate, and new skills to master. To him, life is a challenge and an opportunity never to stop changing and growing.

The prayer of an unknown Confederate soldier best summarizes the attitude of the self-actualizing person: "I asked for all things that I might enjoy life; I was given life that I might enjoy all things."

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist and author of the book Loving Isn't Easy
Copyright 2003 J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article maybe reprinted but must include author's copyright and website hyperlinks to SelfHelpBooks.com.

The Benefits of Meditation

By J. Bailey Molineux

The introduction of Transcendental Meditation - a type of meditation in which the mediator is instructed to repeat or concentrate on a mantra, or word - has had a surprisingly good reception in this country. Perhaps many Americans had thought of meditation as a mysterious, Eastern phenomenon not suitable to our Western style of living with its hurried pace and emphasis on material prosperity, despite the fact that Christians have been meditating for centuries.

The growing popularity of Transcendental Meditation demonstrates that many Americans may now feel the need to slow down and turn inward at times for comfort and guidance. Perhaps we are learning that material comfort and goods constitute a necessary but not sufficient condition for human happiness and peace of mind. Perhaps we are coming to realize that we need the basic necessities of life in order to enjoy life, but these alone are not sufficient to bring genuine contentment.

There is more to life than a new home and car.

What are the benefits of meditation?

First, meditation can help us to relax and gain a measure of calm and serenity, if only for a short time, so as to better strengthen us to face the problems of the day. Just to sit quietly for fifteen to twenty minutes, once or twice a day, and attempt to relax our muscles while concentrating on a single entity, cannot fail to have a beneficial effect upon us. Perhaps many of us need to slacken our pace and spend a quiet moment with ourselves and our thoughts.

Second, meditation helps us to forget our problems and worries, again if only for a while, by enabling us to ignore or reduce those distracting worries. It is a way for us to temporarily clear and refresh our minds since we cannot worry about one thing while focusing all of our attention on another.

Third, what we choose to meditate about can have a beneficial effect upon us. If, for example, we choose to meditate on peace, or love, or joy, or on a favorite religious or philosophical saying that gives us strength, we cannot help but be affected or strengthened by that meditation. To think of peace makes us more peaceful; to concentrate on love makes us more loving; to meditate on joy makes us more joyful.

Fourth, the practice of meditation makes us more efficient in solving problems simply because we have taught ourselves to concentrate more effectively. Moreover, meditation often gives us a different view of reality by enabling us to step back temporarily and look more dispassionately at ourselves and our lives. By doing so, some of our worries and problems, which seem so overwhelming and burdensome, often fade into cosmic insignificance.

Finally, and perhaps most important and hardest of all, mediation helps us to achieve a greater sense of unity and identification with other people, the world, and the universe. The meditative act is fundamentally an act of unification, an attempt to relate ourselves to nature, the universe, or God.

Through meditation we come to find our place in the universal scheme of things and to feel at home in the cosmos. And with that sense of unity or identification comes a great love for self and others, and the realization that ultimately we are our brother's keeper.

For those of you who might want to meditate on a regular basis, I would recommend that you read one of the many good books available on this topic. Go to the Categories sections of Selfhelpbooks,com and select "Meditation." Or you might consider taking a Transcendental Meditation course.

Whichever you do, you would begin an inner adventure of self discovery that could benefit you for a lifetime.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist and author of the book Loving Isn't Easy
Copyright 2003 J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article maybe reprinted but must include author's copyright and website hyperlinks to SelfHelpBooks.com.

The Problem with Pride

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

WE SAT TRANSFIXED on the football bleachers, Diane’s hand in mine. In seventh grade holding hands was just about the extent of my romantic exploits. Oh, sure, I knew about kissing, but it took me 15 months to rally the courage to hold hands; I figured I’d get my first kiss about the time I sprouted ear hair.

So there we nestled-our compacted palms sopping in a puddle of sweat-watching the eighth and ninth grade boys play “tackle-the-man-with-the-ball” below us.

The more we watched, the more I realized that this could be my chance to prove myself. After all, I was known as the “Rocket” in sixth grade; I could out run anyone my age. I’ll show those big kids a thing or two. Just give me that football and I’ll dazzle them with my footwork. I’ll give them a hip and take it away. I’ll fake left and spin right. I’ll leave them with their tongues unfurled and sucking wind:

“Who was that guy anyway?” The girls will talk about me in the bathroom, their words bouncing off the porcelain like a trumpet fanfare.

Veronica (The most provocative girl in ninth grade): Did you see that Allen Johnson? Isn’t he just the cutest thing? Jessica (The second most provocative girl in ninth grade): Adorable. Absolutely adorable.

Veronica (Writing something on the mirror over the sink with pink lipstick.) Do you think “Allencakes, make me your love slave” is too forward?

YES! I separated my hand from Diane. Schplachk! “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I said with a sneer.

Out on the field I hiked my Levi’s up a notch and waited for the chance to make playground history. Then it happened. Four or five of the bigger kids huddled for a moment, glancing over their shoulders in my direction. The leader-an early entry on the food chain-outfitted with fat lips and a five-o’clock shadow, thrust his finger at me and said something less than nurturing. I zoomed in on his muzzle: “YOU’RE . . . DEAD . . . MEAT!” he mouthed. All my bravissimo drained out of the breathe holes in my sneakers. Before I cold scramble back to the bleachers for safety they had tossed the pigskin to me. This was it: the moment of truth: hero or road kill.

Somewhere on earth the sun was shinning. Somewhere in time the songbirds sang. But for me . . . life was the pits.

At first my legs were my friends. They did amazing things: wheeling and whirling through space, leaving the outstretched arms of my assailants grasping at air. I scoffed at their feeble attempts, “HA!” I slipped one, two, three more tackles and shot an eye at Diane in the grandstands. She smiled demurely. Then I reversed directions and ran-SPLAT-into “Hefty Lips.” I slid off his face like a flapjack. While I lay there, partially entombed, 20 hands yanked at my blue jeans. OH, NO, I WAS BEING DEFROCKED OF MY LEVI’S, PANTSED ON THE 50 YARD LINE FOR ALL THE WORLD AND DIANE TO SEE! This was not happening to me-not to me, not the “Rocket.”

At that moment in time, my trousers languoring at my ankles like a pool of blood, I could only think of my mother’s prophetic counsel, “Don’t forget to change your undies, dear; you never know when you may be in an accident.” Aarrgh! Could it have been worse? I suppose. Thank God I was not wearing my special edition Howdy Doody boxer shorts. Or they could have run my breeches up the flagpole, leaving me in the middle of the field “in the dawn’s early light.” Yeah, it could have been worse; still, the embarrassment [em-bare-ass-ment] was enough to steam clean my wardrobe for a week. Despite all that, I did endure. I did not fade away. I did not even have to change my name or transfer to another school. Even my girlfriend still liked me. (Although after 18 months of courtship, she lost interest. I couldn’t blame her. Whenever I thought about kissing her, my lips fell off my face like a slinky.)

I walked away from that experience with two insights. The first was this: an embarrassing experience has a half-life 10,000 times longer for the recipient than it does for the casual observer. I went through school with those same kids for the next six years. In all that time no one ever said a single word to me about the incident; I don’t think anyone particularly cared. The second learning? Never, ever be too cool. I think that was my undoing. I thought that in order to be cool, others had to be uncool. (Hefty Lips must have sensed that.) It doesn’t have to be that way. To be overly cool-or, in adult language, arrogant-is always driven by a comparative mentality that is inevitably based on insecurity. Every shock talk shows feeds off this human flaw, beckoning the viewer to say, “I may be messed up, but those people are really fried.” (Shame on Hollywood for exploiting our most base selves; and shame on us for watch it.) Comparative thinking-I’m cooler than you are-is both insulting and self-defeating. Conversely, I am at my best when I recognize and accept “coolness” in everyone-including myself. It’s a better idea. It’s also a good way to keep your pants securely hoisted.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

There are No Victims, Only Flawed Thinkers

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

WHEN I WAS DATING IN HIGH SCHOOL, midnight was the bewitching hour. I knew that if I unlocked the latch to the front door on the morning of the next day, my life would be in great jeopardy. That was understood. The rule seemed fair enough to me; so I consented, and there was peace and goodwill in the household. Except once. One Friday night I lost track of time. My date and I were at a friend’s house. It was all relatively innocent. The four of us sprawled out in front of the fireplace, munched on popcorn, and asked the important questions: Can you imagine an infinite universe? Would you rather be wise and miserable, or naive and happy? Is it polite to make armpit noises in mixed company? You know, all the really important stuff.

Then I looked at my watch; it was 2:30 in the morning. I did not know how that happened-I’m still not sure-but I did know I was in deep trouble.

I stared frantically at my date. “Quick, get in the car,” I shouted. (Actually, the exact command was “Quick, get dressed, get in the car.”)

I drove my date home in record time. Then, half a block from my house, I turned off the lights and engine and coasted to a stop at the front curb. That’s when I saw it. THE LIGHTS WERE STILL ON. I had a small post-pubescent heart attack. This was not going to be easy.

I got out of the car and walked the last steps of the condemned. I was halfway to the front stoop when the front door flew open. My mother loomed silhouetted in the doorway. I knew it was Mom; I recognized the fire and smoke. Immediately, she launched into the WORRIED MOTHER’S SPEECH. Perhaps you know the diatribe:

“How dare you come home at this hour? What kind of son are you? I thought I raised you better than that. Staying out all hours of the night. Don’t you EVER do that again! Do you hear me?”

I wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, so I started to answer.

“Don’t you talk back to me,” she snapped, a little pause between each word for dramatic emphasis. “I was worried to death. For all I knew you could have been dead in a ditch some place.” It flashed through my mind that my demise was always destined for “a ditch someplace”-as though that were the only place on earth where a teenager could die. That seemed a little funny to me, but I didn’t think it was the right time to challenge her choice of vocabulary. The speech continued, but you get the idea. I learned two things that night. First, not to be late. But what is more important, I learned that I had control of my mother’s emotions. If I wanted to make my mom crazy (which I didn’t), all I had to do was to stay out a little past midnight. I had the power to make Mom sick with worry. Following that line of logic, the reverse was also true: Mom had the power to make me sick or worried or angry or depressed. Although this kind of thinking is often unconscious, it is, nevertheless, flawed. It is based on the notion that all of us are victims of circumstances: something we dislike happens, and we have no other alternative but to fall to pieces. It doesn’t work that way; there is a middle step. Events in themselves don’t control our emotions; our interpretation of the events does that. When a son comes home late from a date, parents have a choice. They can decide to be miserable-based on their interpretation of the event-or they can decide to deal with the problem. Coming home late is not a problem I have any more. (I get sleepy every night around 10 o’clock.) But if I were uncommonly late one night, and my wife exceedingly distraught, I might pose this gentle question (not during the heat of battle, you understand, but in the cool, calm light of day): “I’m okay, honey; what have you been telling yourself tonight?”

That question leads naturally to the real source of concern: the internal horror movies. I think it is important that those concerns be voiced-even the images of a loved one “lying dead in a ditch somewhere”-for listening validates the feelings of the other. But the discussion must not end there (as it so often does in dysfunctional families). It must move on to the only thing we can measure and control: Behaviors. When we focus on behavior, our approach is more scientific, and, have you noticed, true scientists are rarely victims. They make observations and test hypotheses. They are problem-solvers-the antithesis of victims.

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About the Author: Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY

available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks

Transcend the Fight or Flight Instinct

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

MY WIFE AND I HAD STRUCK OUT for a walk on the outskirts of town near the place where the Yakima River merges with the Columbia. We were having a good time racing each other on the spine of the railroad track, picking up colorful rocks and watching the industry of ants and bugs. Then, about half a mile down the line, we saw a dark figure waving at us.

“Hold up,” he shouted.

There was a kind of desperation in his voice, so we reversed our course and headed his way, thinking he might be in some sort of trouble.

The man started running toward us. By the time he reached us, he was panting heavily. He held up his hand, a signal for us to wait while he caught his breath.

“Please, have you seen a little boy about so high?” he finally asked, slicing the air with his open hand. His voice was trembling, filled with worry.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re the first person we’ve seen all day, but we’ll keep a sharp look out. We’ll send him . . .”

The man had already turned. He was scrambling down the track, shouting his son’s name, “Jason, Jason, JASON!”

A moment later two small figures emerged from the underbrush near the river.

“Hey, Dad!” one of them shouted.

The father pulled up with a jerk.

“You get you’re little butt over here right now,” he screamed. The boy put his head down and advanced slowly. “Move it!” the man bellowed. When the youngster got within arm’s reach the father snatched him by the collar, giving him a snap that dropped the boy to his knees. “Now you get yourself home,” he barked. “You’re in big trouble mister. You haven’t heard the last of this yet.”

“What a shame,” I thought. All the young boy saw was an angry man. He did not witness the heart-felt anxiety that had been exposed to us.

He might have said, “Son, I love you; I care about what happens to you. We need to talk about safe boundaries for your explorations.” Instead, his frustration masked his genuine concern. When people are under stress, they will “fight” (like Jason’s father) or “take flight.” It is their anxiety-provoked backup style, their choice of battle stations. Those who tend to be assertive in times of calm will generally become demanding when under pressure. On the other hand, people who are more timid, believing that relationships are too fragile to endure conflict, will usually withdraw or give in when under fire.

I was feeling pretty righteous about my assessment of Jason’s father: “He really should do something about that temper.” A few hours later, I proved to myself that I relied on the same attacking backup style. After our walk, I drove into town to exchange a set of guitar strings at the music shop.

“We don’t take exchanges,” I was told. “But the set is unopened,” I argued. “Plus I want to exchange this packet for a set that costs less; you can even keep the change.”

“Nope, we don’t do that,” the shopkeeper said. Then another customer spoke up.

“It says right here that the store does not take exchanges,” she said pointing at a sign under the glass counter.

That’s when I attacked. I turned on the woman and snapped at her like a cranky pit bull.

“Who invited you into this conversation?” I demanded.

She shriveled.

I did not gain anything in that volley. In fact, I probably lost a good deal of respect. And I know better. I should have said in an adult voice, “Excuse me, ma’am, this is a private conversation.” In that way I would have expressed what was important to me without lambasting her. What can I say? I goofed up. I let my take-no-prisoners backup style pull rank. In the end I walked out of the shop with the same set of guitar strings and the hint of a headache over my right eye. Sadly, all of that nonsense could have been adroitly averted if I had countered my pesky fight instinct with adult logic and civility-one of the most reliable maneuvers of maturity.

Well, that was the day Jason’s father debated how many swats to give his son. Jason was scared, the shopkeeper was miffed, and the woman customer was left bleeding. I hope somebody had a good day.

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About the Author:

Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.

© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.