I took a break from writing last week.
After posting the article on the grief of change, I had a major vulnerability hangover. I was washed over by self-doubt, worry, and a touch of panic. All I wanted to do was hiding under the bed and away from the world. But my monkey mind would not leave me alone: Was I being too emotional, too sensitive, or too self-indulgent? Did I make a big deal out of nothing? Was my story even worth sharing? What would other people think? Or no one really cares?
Since stopping escitalopram in April, I have become hyper-aware of, not only my own sensations, thoughts, and feelings, but also everything around me. I thought I was going crazy in the first month.
I sense subtle changes within my body almost instantly in real time – a knot in the gut, tension around the neck, or heat in the chest. In other times, I get emotional and cry easily from watching videos of animal rescues or hearing strangers’ back stories in talent shows. I also notice that I get exhausted quickly after spending more than a few hours in any crowded space.
It feels like this internal antenna that I have never known existing has finally been switched on. My body and mind are doing their best to receive, process and make sense of all these new incoming signals. The more I lean in and observe within with compassion and curiosity, the more I discover about my identity, preferences and boundaries. Over time, I start to appreciate this “new normal”.
Humans are gifted with this ability to connect with all sentinel beings and the environment through the diversity, richness and depth of our senses, emotions, and insights. When we share our lived experiences openly and authentically, we get to take a glimpse into each other’s world that may be (slightly or radically) different from our own. Through the exchange of personal stories, we inspire and cultivate empathy, loving-kindness, and mutual respect.
But why do I feel so awful about sharing my stories and that I “should have” toned down my emotional sensitivity?
The world we live in today tends to value individualism over collectivism. Mainstream systems and cultures reward independence, self-sufficiency, uniqueness, and personal achievements. Life is about the survival of the strongest, fastest, smartest, and wealthiest. The ego demands us to strive for perfection in the eyes of society, pushing us into the trap of homogeneity and conformity. Many of us have been conditioned to believe that being vulnerable and showing emotions are signs of weakness and imperfection.
A child who throws tantrums is naughty and needy. A teenager who voices their anger is deviant and troublesome. Someone who cries at work can be perceived as weak and not fit for promotion. We often worry about losing our credibility (or worse, our tribe) if we open up about our shadows and failures. Sometimes we even reject our own pain because we believe other people have it worse. Every new year we write down our resolutions, aspiring to be more measured, efficient, effective and productive.
When we grind through everyday life like machines, our bodies get sick, our hearts turn cold, and our souls wither into darkness. When we mask or bypass our feelings and emotions, we deny ourselves and people around us the opportunity to love and connect with one another.
In this chaotic digital world, it is more urgent and important than ever to examine and befriend our own humanness. Our emotions are our superpower. No machines and technologies can mimic or replace our ability to sense, feel and make meanings. Instead of getting scared or mad about AI/robot taking our jobs, we can choose to embrace and understand our feelings, turn this inner knowledge into creativity and wisdom, and make the world a better place for all.
Whenever I experience some strong, unusual physical sensations or emotional feelings, I would take a moment to contemplate the following questions:
What happened before, during and after the moment?
Where was I? What was I doing? Who was with me?
How did it feel in the body, the head, and the heart?
How do I perceive/feel about this sensation or emotion?
What story am I telling myself here? What are my assumptions?
What is it trying to tell me? What can I learn from this?
There is so much to learn from our joy, fear, anger, disgust and sadness.
Let’s stop reducing the complexity of human experiences into over-simplified, binary terms: good vs. bad, positive vs. negative, useful vs. useless, and so forth. Let’s embrace the fact that we are messy, wiggly, imperfect living organisms. Let’s honour this one precious lifetime that we get to live in this body on this planet. Surrender, trust, and be all in. When in doubts, read some Pema Chödrön:
“Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that's all that's happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction. On the other hand, wretchedness--life's painful aspect--softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody's eyes because you feel you haven't got anything to lose--you're just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We'd be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn't have enough energy to eat an apple. Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together.”
Just be honest with yourself and do whatever you believe in. No one knows what may hold in the future, but a true faith will always prevail.
Keep going Bonnie.
“I exist when we exist.”
― Abhijit Naskar