The Thief of Joy

Last week I turned 31.  There were thunderstorms, and a trip to San Antonio with Steven, and fish and chips and hamburgers on the River Walk.  There were phone calls from my parents, and a letter from my Grandpa, and a delicious dinner cooked by my good friend, that ended with all of us stuffed to the gills with steak, pesto, and strawberry shortcake.

There was also the usual taking stock of how things have shaped up in the past year, and some reflection on what this next year might hold. I have done a lot of wrestling with the demons this year- a good old fashioned rattlesnake roundup of anxiety and sadness and fear of all the big unknowns.  This is not good or bad, just what it is.  I think this next year there will be far less rattlesnakes, for which I am grateful.

In thinking about my propensity towards worry and stress, I was reminded of a quote I saw on my friend Elizabeth's Facebook page. Also, for you Seattle folk, Elizabeth happens to be one of the smartest, funniest, most talented puppet makers and performers I have met.  What she posted was this:

Comparison is the thief of joy.

That got its own sentence so you could see it really clearly.  The humor in posting that on Facebook is not lost on me, and in fact it might be the perfect place to savor such wise words.  Now, this is familiar territory for me.  Comparison is to the anxious mind what peanut butter is to jelly- they just go so perfectly together.  Add a little perfectionism in there, and you've got a goddamn picnic.  

Let's look at some examples.  Sometimes I look at Facebook when my resolve and resiliency are not feeling too hot, and things like this happen- "Look at that picture of that wedding.  They are happy and beautiful and perfect. My life should be like that."  "Look at that new baby- those parents are happy and perfect and their baby never cries." Or, this is my favorite, "Look at my friends new puppy.  Their puppy is perfect and their lives are perfect, and my dog is shy and nervous and has trouble making friends."  

There is danger is mythologizing other people and experiences from the outside looking in.  The truth is that  by assigning a narrative to a photo we see on the internet, we put ourselves in the perfect position to do some very profound and unhelpful comparisons.  It basically runs us into a brick wall of SHOULDS.  

My dog should be perfect.  My body should look like hers.  My wedding should look like that.  The list goes on and on. 

I miss the old days, when you would meet the baby of a girl you went to high school with because you ran into her at the grocery store, not because you logged on to your "friendship" account online. When you would get news of an announcement from a friend through a letter instead of a online post.  

Now, I don't think everyone is as sensitive or susceptible to the thief of joy as I am, but I also think more people then you realize feel sad and depressed after going on Facebook, though they can't exactly say why.  

Some of the best medicine is to see the story in your head played out in reality.  I had convinced myself that my dog was a fuck up, and I was a fuck up, because I saw a picture of my friend's new puppy and decided he was perfect.  I met this puppy when I went home to Seattle, and found out that he is as cute as the pictures, but definitely not perfect.  He kept them up all night crying, he chewed pants while they were still on legs, he was willful.  My friend and I talked and I found out we had some of the same anxieties, that raising our own dogs was much different then we thought it would be, and a lot harder. 

This is key! Many of the good things in our life turn out much different then we thought they would be, but different does not mean bad. 

So, I don't have a life that fits my narrative of other people's pictures.  But I have thunderstorms in San Antonio, and Guthrie is snoring with his head on my pillow, and the trees are blooming in Texas.  I am going to do my best to enjoy my own magical, imperfect life.  And that is as good a goal as any for the next year.