Archive for the ‘Narrative’ Category

Introspection Part 9, Being interesting

Sunday, July 22nd, 2018

In the last blog post, I described the difference between existence (you as you are right now) and being (you in the process of becoming what you want to be).  Being is preferable.  Being means frequently asking yourself where you are headed in your life, your head, your values and morality.  Being isn’t just about goals, although they play an important role in being. Being is about a constant desire and attitude about wanting to be a better version of yourself, however you define “better.” The state of “being” is the ability and desire to say to yourself “I am right now in a better place in myself and my life than I was (pick a time in your history) and headed in the direction of being in an even better place.” Being is central to the importance of introspection because existence requires no self-awareness—being does.

I have a number of clients who probably met their initial therapy goals within the first year or two of seeing me, but then came back later or continued their therapy for other reasons. These clients sorted out the particular issues that were bothering them when they first came to see me. In the process of sorting through these issues, they became accustomed to “being,” to self-examination with the purpose of continuing to move in a direction toward greater satisfaction with themselves and their lives.  They also became accustomed to having someone to help them continue the process, to set new goals for themselves, to regularly challenge their daily decisions. Many of these clients see me infrequently (once a month or less). They have embraced being as a way of life for themselves.  Many clients also figure out how to do this on their own by the time they are done with therapy, and no longer need my assistance or encouragement. Either way is fine with me. As long as they continue the practice of becoming more of what they want to be for themselves, I will be happy for them.

You can set your mind to particular directions when thinking about what you want to become.  Start with what you are—really get to know who and what you are right now.  For more on ideas and tools for this, see Introspection Part 4.  At some point in the process of getting to know yourself as you are, you will have the capacity to think “what about myself do I want to emphasize, what part of myself do I want to grow, to focus on, and become more of that?”  It is much easier and more likely to lead to successful outcomes if you can say “I want to be more of thisabout me” than to say “I want to be more like that person.” Although having good role models is also an important method for self-improvement. Also, when you do think of other people, you can ask yourself, “what do I like about that person, about their personality, their lifestyle, their behavior, decisions and attitudes.” From there, you can ask yourself, “what parts of those things are already a part of myself that I want to grow and encourage?”  In either case, start with you and become more of whatever that is, so it will always be genuine, so you won’t be trying to become something you’re not, just because you see it in someone else and think you should be like them. You shouldn’t. You should be like you, only more. This is being. This is being… interested in yourself.

One of my favorite questions when getting to know a client is to ask them, “what do you think makes you interesting?”  Obviously, I don’t just ask this out of the blue. I also ask this question in many different ways, depending on the context. And it is certainly not one of the first questions I ever ask anyone.  I think I like the question for two reasons. First, I am almost always surprised and delighted to hear the wide variety of answers I get. Often clients have to first reorient their thinking about “being interesting” because they might never have thought of themselves as interesting, or asked themselves this kind of question so directly before. The process of therapy can be very helpful in this regard because it is by its nature demonstration that they are interesting—they can see by my curiosity about them that I am interested in them, that I find them interesting. After what is usually a fairly short period of time, most clients start to become much more interested in themselves.  They don’t just wait for the next therapy session for me to suggest questions about themselves. Clients start asking themselves all kinds of questions on their own, in between sessions, which is fantastic! Once clients are able to see themselves as at least having the possibility of being interesting, they are full of answers about what makes them interesting.

I have had clients tell me they consider themselves interesting because of the thoughts they have that they rarely if ever share with others, so others don’t think they are as interesting as they think they are.  Clients have histories and curiosities that they find interesting, but often tell themselves that others won’t find those things interesting.  I think this might be partly why social media has become so popular—it is much easier and much less risky to find others interested in what you find interesting, regardless of how narrow or obscure that topic might be.  Lately, I was taking a look at Reddit.  It was really amazing how diverse people’s interests are.  It took me easily half an hour just to scour through all the “subReddits” to decide which ones I wanted to follow when I signed up.  I unchecked categories of groups and didn’t even look into many general and specific topics I might have wanted to see.  This was a really great way to see the huge variety of interests that others have which I do not share.  That’s fine.  That’s great in fact, because it opens up so many ways others can connect to their own interests, which will almost certainly be shared by some other people, no matter what those interests might be. Once a person begins to think they might be interesting, they begin to take their own interests more seriously and become more curious, more invested, more confident about pursuing those interests. In doing so, they become even more interesting.

Another reason I like asking others what they think makes them interesting is that it is the kind of question I am constantly asking myself.  “Am I interesting?” “If I am interesting, why?”  “What do I find interesting about others that I also possess?” “Can I be more interesting in that way?”  “What do others seem to find interesting about me that I like about myself?” “Am I doing interesting things?” “Are there things I used to find interesting that I am not doing anymore and want to resume?”  “When I am with others, are we doing things and talking about things that interest me, that interest them?” “Am I open to ideas about how I can be more interested in my life, in my relationships, in my work, in my future, in myself?” I actually do ask myself these and other related questions all the time.

What does it mean to be “interesting?”  To be honest, I am not entirely sure how to answer this most basic question. Maybe that is also part of the reason I like the question—no matter what I say now, there will likely be a better answer later. I do think being interesting has something to do with complexity, with being multidimensional, multi-layered, of having many facets.  I have told this story before elsewhere, but it bears repeating here (in a shorter version), to demonstrate what I mean about being multidimensional.  When my son was 12, he asked me what I wanted him to be when he grew up.  After thinking about it for a while, I told him I wanted him to be as compassionate and honest as he could be, and to be interesting—how he did those things was up to him.  Later, in his mid-twenties, he was so focused on his music (he’s a musician), he had lost interest in many other things in his life.  I told him I was concerned that his focus on music was interesting, but because his focus excluded so many other parts of his life (his education, relationships, curiosity, time for other activities), he risked becoming one-dimensional, and therefore risked becoming uninteresting.  He was hurt, of course, but understood, and agreed to some extent.  It is a struggle we all face—to be interested in what we do, while also staying open to activities, ideas and ways of being that take us away from what we do, what we know, what is comfortable and familiar.

Another way to think about how complexity makes us interesting is to think about why we consider things outside of ourselves interesting—what sustains our interest in that thing.  A painting of a single object like a flower might capture our interest for a moment, but without some level of complexity in the painting, like the background in which the flower is situated, or differing facets of the perspective in the painting, we will lose interest quickly. Or, take a real flower.  We might adore a single rose in its prime, but we do so usually because it is complex and there is much to consider.  We don’t feel the same way about a single daisy. For a daisy, we’d like to see many of them, maybe all swaying together in the wind in front of a row of trees.  Complexity also sustains our interest in food.  We tend to stay interested in food that has some mixture of sweet, salty, sour and bitter. Any food that has just one of these tastes might be satisfying at certain times, but it won’t stay satisfying.  The perfume industry is constantly trying to find new formulas to capture our interest long enough to use that scent again and again. They do so by combining many different scents, to form a “bouquet” of subtle overtones and undertones.  We joke about how wine and beer manufactures will describe in great detail the complexities of their products, with beers for instance claiming their product has undertones of chocolate or cherries, while also bringing to the palette a hint of almond or honey.

Why do we need complexity and multiple layers or dimensions to keep us interested? Because we are complex. We are multilayered. We have many dimensions.  All of us do. No exceptions.  I emphasize the “all of us” part because I have met so many people who exclude themselves from this proposition. I can guess with some level of certainty that there will be those who read this and think, “not me, I am not complex, I am not multi-dimensional, I am simple.”  Or worst of all, “I am not interesting.”  There is something to be said for simplicity too, when appropriate. AA has the saying “Keep it simple,” which seems to mean don’t make a thing more complicated than it needs to be. Simplicity is not our natural state, though.  It cannot be. We are complex because life is complicated, relationships are complicated, trying to ascertain and predict things that matter to us is complicated. That is why our brains are arguably the most complicated thing we know about in the universe—we need the complexity of our brains to navigate the complexity of human life.

Embrace your complexity! Try to understand it.  Become more open and interested in your complexity as part of being more open and interested in yourself. Being interesting requires becoming interesting as a never-ending process.  Becoming interesting means seeing yourself as having multiple outlooks, feelings, thoughts, attitudes, perceptions, all the time, and trying to see them all simultaneously whenever possible.  Being interesting means being interested, interested in your life, your thoughts, your desires, your goals, your relationships, and being interested in all that you, as a complex person, can bring to these dimensions of yourself. Be interested in yourself and the world and you cannot help but be interesting.

 

Copyright, Michael Kinzer. Blog entries and other materials available on Jupiter Center’s website are only intended to stimulate thoughts and conversations and to supplement therapy work with Jupiter Center clients already in therapy. If you or someone you know suffers from a mental illness, you are strongly encouraged to seek help from a mental health professional. For further information about this blog, or Jupiter Center, contact Michael Kinzer at 612-701-0064 or michael(at)jupitercenter.com.

 

Introspection Part 5, Your inner narrative

Sunday, February 18th, 2018

Now that you have some tools for accessing your inner self (See the previous blog post, Introspection Part 4), what are you supposed to do once you are “in there” (looking around within yourself)? Answer: find your “inner narrative”—the story you tell yourself about you and your world. That’s really it. Sounds simple, and it can be, but it can also be very difficult to identify the parts of the story that matter to you, that influence your outlook, your feelings, attitudes, values, and your responses to various situations. The good news is that you get to explore these stories as often as you want and as long as you want because you are constantly full of stories!

We all tell stories. All the time. We tell stories to others. We tell stories to ourselves. We do it so often, we mostly don’t know we are doing it. We also constantly revise our stories. The further we move from any given moment, the more our story of that moment is likely to change, as it becomes integrated into the larger story of our lives. You tell yourself stories about what you did today, yesterday, last week, last year. The story you tell yourself (and others) about what you did earlier today is slightly different than the story that was running through your head earlier today. The story you tell yourself now about yesterday is different than the story you told yourself about your day while it was still yesterday. The stories you tell yourself about last year are considerably different than the stories you were telling yourself during last year. See what I mean? Memory is a funny thing. It is complicated. Memory is partly retrieval of our perceptions in any given situation and partly pieces of a larger puzzle we edit to make fit the larger story of our lives. How we feel about that memory, the information it provides us now, which parts of the situation we retrieve—these are all very dependent on the story we tell ourselves about that situation, why it happened, why it is important, and our place in it.

One of my favorite stories about the importance of stories comes from a time when I was a trial attorney. John, a more senior colleague, and I were meeting with the executives of a company, pitching to them the ideas we (John) had about how we would conduct this large case if they gave the case to us. I was fairly young in my career then, essentially John’s “Sherpa” (carried the stuff and got it set up for him). I sat in silence as John made his presentation. John spent the better part of two hours or so going over in fine detail all the likely and possible twists and turns of how the case would proceed to trial once we filed the lawsuit. The meeting was almost over. The presentation was complete.

The executives had asked all their questions, and seemed satisfied with John’s answers. We were wrapping up. Then the CEO asked a final question. He did not ask John. He directed the question to me (remember, up until this point, I hadn’t said much of anything). He asked, “Michael, if you were me, is there anything you would you ask that we haven’t already asked?” In my ignorance of the politics of being subordinate to John, I made the mistake of giving an honest answer. Looking back, I can now see I was supposed to say “I can’t think of a single thing—I think John covered it all brilliantly!” The problem was that John hadn’t covered it all. John had actually failed to cover the most important part of what he should have been explaining to them: the story of their case! I told the CEO (something like the following), “I would want to know, once we get to the trial, how are you going to win this for us, what story will you tell the jury to convince the jury they should decide in our favor?” Silence. Oops! The client redirected my question back to John. John recovered well, as I recall (or at least that’s the story of this situation I tell myself now). He then spent some time explaining how he would reframe the complexities (it was a very complicated case) in a way the jury could digest, understand and believe. The point of my story here is that John had become so focused on the details of the lawsuit, he overlooked the client’s basic need —to be able to get in front of a group of people (the jury) and tell a story about why the client had been wronged and needed to be compensated (given substantial sums of money) to make things right. FYI, we did get the case and the client did get the money they needed to be satisfied.

What is a “story?” At its most fundamental level, a “story” is nothing more than a link between two causally related events. I just took a break from writing this post. Here’s the story of the break. I was feeling shaky, typing with more typos than usual. I had begun to lose track of my thoughts. Something was off. I kept going, though, because I was on a roll and didn’t want to lose my momentum. Things got worse, to the point that I could no longer ignore what was happening. I realized my blood sugar was low (I have Type 1 diabetes). Then, I remembered when I woke up a few hours ago, my blood sugar was at “almost perfect” (perfect is “100” and mine was “113”) and I’d had nothing to eat or drink other than coffee. So, I got up and grabbed a small glass of Mango juice. Now I am back writing. This is the story of my break. In it, I have described to myself (and now you), what prompted the break. I have also told myself the perceptions (more typos), feelings (annoyed), physical symptoms (shaky and weak), observations (memory of earlier normal blood sugar), and attitudes (I didn’t want to stop until I had to). These are the “inner states” I was having during the time of the story. I have made causal connections between those inner states and the likely causes (low blood sugar), and then what I did to respond to and modify the cause (drink mango juice) and the effect (my stability). The result: satisfaction after an interlude of minor difficulty.

You tell yourself similar stories all day, every day. They are not always so mundane or casual. They are most of the time though—mundane and casual. As time goes by, stories become connected to each other. We integrate the stories. We give them greater meaning than they might have had in the moment, as they become part of a larger whole. We form attitudes about them. And then those attitudes in turn change the stories we tell, the parts of the stories we recall. Over time, these attitudes, coupled with the patterns we remember, help us to form meanings about the stories, what those stories mean to us in our larger lives, as part of what we are, who we are, the kind of person we are and the kind of lives we have. I can’t say I will remember this one particular story about needing to take a break to get a cup of juice. I can say that this kind of story is one that occurs daily, sometimes several times per day. Over time, it wears on me. I add up the annoying aspect of having to “always” take breaks, check my sugar, etc. Of course, I am not “always” having to do this. It is a nuisance, to be sure. The way I tell myself the story of my diabetes effects the way I remember the important parts of each of the isolated incidents like the one that happened just now. The way I tell that story and the parts of each of these related I remember then can have a profound affect on how I feel about having diabetes, and even what it means to be “me” as a person with diabetes.

Nearly all therapy approaches have in common getting at the way you tell yourself stories of your self. Three of the most popular therapeutic approaches come to mind that will demonstrate this: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Narrative Therapy and Psychoanalysis. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy teases out the logic you use in making causal connections between your perceptions to test your capacity to recognize “mistakes in thinking” that can then be “corrected” once identified so you don’t continue to make those “mistakes” to your detriment. A simple and very frequent example of this is when a client takes an “all or nothing” approach to a situation. Say Jennifer has been told by her supervisor that she is getting a promotion, but it will mean changing locations. She fears that she may now lose her job because she doesn’t want to change locations. Jennifer has made the “mistake” of assuming that she has only two choices: take the promotion (and transfer) or lose her job. It hasn’t occurred to her that she could very well just say to her supervisor that she’d prefer to stay in her present position if it means she can stay in that location. The story Jennifer is telling herself about her supervisor’s announcement, what it means, and how it will affect her, all have a significant impact on how Jennifer thinks she can respond to this situation going forward, even to the point of having considered taking a position she doesn’t want due to the way she has told herself the story of her situation.

Psychoanalysis focuses on the way your childhood development, including the relationships you formed during early and later childhood, continues to influence your way of being in the world now. Narrative therapy takes this a step further (and closer to the point of this blog post) by emphasizing that it isn’t only the actual way you developed as a child that influences you now—it is also the story you now tell yourself about your development—that profoundly affects the way you see and feel about yourself and your life now. I regularly use narrative therapy in my practice. It is consistent with my belief that the stories we tell ourselves about our whole lives, all the way from our early childhood to the lunch we had today, become part of an integrated story of ourselves that directs our perceptions, attitudes, values, interactional patterns, choices, and behaviors—everything we are and everything we do. How’s that for a unified theory of the self!

Let’s get back to the point of this post: once we figure out how to look inside ourselves (Introspection, Part 4), what are we supposed to be looking for? Stories. Messages. Linkages. Connections. Plot lines. Subjective experiences and your reflections on those experiences. Ways of seeing the world. Ways of seeing yourself in the world. Ways of seeing yourself interacting with others. The stories you tell yourself about those relationships, those patterns of interactions. Start asking yourself, in any given situation you might remember: “Why do I remember it this way?” “Are there parts to this story that I might not be remembering, or remembering fully, or accurately?” “How do I feel about this story?” “What does this story I am telling myself about this situation tell me about myself, about the situation, about the other people in the story?” “Can I change the story?” “Can I change the way the story tells me about myself?” “Why do I tell myself this story and not another story about this situation?” “How is my story the result of influences from others, now, and in the past?”

A story has many events in it that follow one another in a sequence. This is the plot of the story. The specific events are “plot points.” We chose which plot points to focus on and which to dismiss. How we make these choices is dependent on many things, including previous similar stories and on how we are told by others to identify and connect the plot points. Once you begin to see how you do this internally, you will have a much greater chance at directing this process going forward, instead of continuing to allow the messages others have given you about how to do this to control how you do it. The most important point in this whole discussion is this: just because you do not know you are telling yourself a story doesn’t mean you are not telling yourself a story. So, if you are telling yourself stories about you and your life (and you definitely are), it would be a very good thing to know what stories you are telling yourself and why.

Here’s a possible story.  It could even be about you (but maybe not). Let’s say it is Sunday afternoon. You recount your morning. Your morning included getting up, getting the kids to various activities (sports, gymnastics, etc.), then you picked up around the house, did some laundry, and prepared a nice lunch for the family. A productive morning. Something to feel good about. But you don’t. At first, this morning looks a lot like yesterday morning, and yesterday you felt great about the first part of your day. Now, let’s say you were raised in a family that went to church every Sunday, without fail. It was a really big deal. Your spouse doesn’t care about church. It’s an argument if you insist. So you don’t insist. You go to church now only on the holidays. Your mom and sister tell you they miss seeing you at church, wish you would start going again. So, you feel bad about your morning. You did many good things, but in your mind, you didn’t do the one important thing you should have done: gone to church. This is an important part of your story about your morning. It is the thing you are focused on—the one thing missing, the one plot point that should be there, but isn’t. Now that you know this, you can begin to think about which is more important: going to church or letting go of that as an influence on how you should feel about Sundays, and therefore about your life. Knowing this will also influence your behavior. Will you now risk more conflicts with your spouse, or will you resign yourself to the differences you each feel about church and just go to church alone. Either decision is fine, but at least you have greater awareness of something that has meaning for you that has been missing in your life.

Here’s another example. It’s the story about Theresa and her body. Theresa is 48. She is relatively fit. She takes a “spinning class” (stationary bike) twice a week at the gym. She eats fairly healthy, allowing herself only a few desserts per week, and tries to stay away from processed foods when she can. At her recent annual physical, her doctor had only good news about her health, including her cholesterol levels and blood pressure. She has much to feel good about with her body. She doesn’t. She doesn’t like to look at herself in the mirror, especially without clothes on. She fears the scale, and weighs herself once per week, only because she thinks she must. Robert, her boyfriend, tells her she looks great. She thinks he means it. But, still… she feels bad about her body. It isn’t up to her standards. Whenever Theresa thinks of her body, when she sees herself in the mirror, or imagines what Robert sees when they are in bed together, she almost becomes queezy at the thought, shrugging it off as quickly as possible. She is dreading spring break with Robert in a few weeks because she will need to find swimwear that doesn’t look terrible on her. Theresa doesn’t realize that, with each of these thoughts—of herself in the mirror, with Robert, on the beach—she is superimposing on that image what she looked like twenty-five years ago. Theresa thinks she should still look like she did when she was 25. Of course it isn’t rational for her to compare herself at 48 to the way she looked at 25. More than that, though, is the standard she held for herself when she was 25. Back then, she ate very little, went to the gym three or four times per week, and was thinner than what was really healthy. Back then, and now, she held herself to the standards set by Victoria’s Secret, Hollywood, and billboards adorning our freeways with photoshopped women less than half Theresa’s age, all telling her, “if you don’t look like this, you are not how you are supposed to be [insert many other very negative messages].” If Theresa could see more clearly how she is telling herself the story of her body and age subject to the influence of marketers who want her to feel this way so she buys their products, she could begin to accept her body and her age with more grace, and without terrible and unnecessary guilt and shame. This is a simplistic explanation of a complicated problem for many people, especially women, in our society, so I don’t want to trivialize it. Yet, more awareness of this complex set of stories are part of recovering from these constant negative influences.

Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves can reveal reasons we have certain kinds of lingering moods. Someone who tends toward depression might simply tell stories that are overly focused on the negative aspects of their experiences. Someone with anxiety might focus mostly on those possibilities that could be potentially harmful outcomes. If either of these people were able to fill in their stories with more balanced perspectives, their moods might begin to improve quickly and dramatically. A client just helped me think about this (you know who you are).                                                                                    .

When you “go inside yourself” through introspection, look for your “inner narrative.” Start looking at what happens in your life and how you feel about what happens. Start identifying the plot points you remember. Start figuring out why you choose those plot points as your focus, including how you relate them to each other. Think about plot points in the situation that you are not including in your story. Once you have done this, you can ask yourself if your choices about the plot points you remember and connect are choices you want to continue to make. Are they really “your” choices, or are they choices others have told you to make? You get to decide, but only if you know what you are deciding. Your stories become “intentional” (it is your intent that informs how the story should be told, not the intent of others). Once you engage in these practices on a regular basis, you won’t merely have an “inner narrative,” you will have an “intentional inner narrative.” An intentional inner narrative allows us to throw out things like debilitating shame, inappropriate guilt, useless bitterness, and longstanding resentments. When we do this, we begin to clear a path toward accepting ourselves as we are, not as we think we must be or how others want us to be. This is the ultimate goal of introspection and an intentional inner narrative: self-acceptance, which is the topic of the next post in this series of blogs on introspection.

 

Copyright, Michael Kinzer. Blog entries and other materials available on Jupiter Center’s website are only intended to stimulate thoughts and conversations and to supplement therapy work with Jupiter Center clients already in therapy. If you or someone you know suffers from a mental illness, you are strongly encouraged to seek help from a mental health professional. For further information about this blog, or Jupiter Center, contact Michael Kinzer at 612-701-0064 or michael(at)jupitercenter.com.