#sit with the cognitive dissonance like the rest of us or shut up honestly

[likeabxrdinflight]

tired of early 20-somethings acting like harry potter was never good or had no value in its day like shut the fuck up half of you weren't even there when it peaked

#sit with the cognitive dissonance like the rest of us or shut up honestly #was it a product of its time yes #was it's author a very basic neoliberal white lady from a country with a long and unchecked imperialist history yes #was the story influenced by said neoliberal worldviews and unexamined biases obviously #does any of that make it a bad story or an unimaginative world no #you can pick apart any fantasy world if you try hard enough #harry potter was a good telling of the hero's journey written in the format of seven mystery novels set against a fantasy backdrop #we can certainly talk about its flaws or how the author's biases leaked onto the page #but stop acting like it was never good and there was never a reason those books resonated with people #it's condescending for one thing and again- if you're younger than like...24-25 you didn't actually experience the heyday of the books #if you're 25 now you'd have been like 8 or 9 when the last book came out and probably weren't reading them yet #you might remember the latter half of the movie era but you have no idea how much it was the BOOKS that drove its popularity #never before and never since has any book series had the fanfare that harry potter did and that didn't happen for no reason #so find a way to make peace with that instead of acting intellectually superior because you grew up with percy jackson instead #this 'well MY generation's preferred childhood book series is morally superior to YOURS so I'm better than you' shit drives me up a wall #like get over yourself honestly #...sorry had to get that off my chest there was this youtube video and it was irritating me

[coughupmoney]

Dead On Arrival

Awakening to a sharp pain in your chest is scary, but also it’s really really funny. It was funny even at the time. I had started my first antidepressant about a month before this incident; Viibryd. I hate to say that I love doing drugs but I love doing drugs.

When I was diagnosed with depression, Viibryd had just hit the antidepressant scene, a new drug that would dramatically decrease the latency period before the antidepressant would take effect. The day I was prescribed, I was told the effects would be immediate. As soon as I took the drug, I didn’t even feel happy--I felt balanced. It wasn’t an “upper”: a perky, pleasure pill. It was a secret ingredient that provided my brain with some homeostasis. As immediate as the effects were, so were the adverse effects; but that is the trial by fire you face when you relinquish yourself to the world of pharmaceuticals.

The stability I was finally feeling was wonderful, but was it worth the cost of waking up everyday at four in the morning with a searing pain in your chest? I’ll tell you two truths: one, that this deliciously, delectable drug exacerbated my anxiety and two, I secretly enjoyed waking up everyday at four A.M because it was something I could count on. I’ve always been comforted by stability even if it came in the form of torment. All I craved was some structure. However, the pain started to worry me.

At the time I hadn’t recognized that this searing pain was an anxiety attack. That diagnosis came later, in the hospital. Day after day, I awoke in pain, my hypochondria sighing in sorrow. For the sear, for the burn, for the meeting of tomorrow. Every attack was greeted with overwhelming fear. Fear that I was dying. That I was having a heart attack. I went to sleep thinking that every night would be my last. Eventually, after I had let this fear build up in my chest, the fear overwhelmed me. So naturally, I turned it loose on my parents. I allowed my screams and cries to fall upon their sleeping ears. I desperately knocked on their bedroom door.

I hear muffled voices and footsteps creaking on the hardwood floor. “What’s wrong?” Father answers through a crack of the door. I’m not sure how to explain the pain that I’m in.

“My chest hurts.” I say, with efforts of sincerity. My fear is that my plea will be disregarded. Luckily, I was first held at the will of my overbearing Father.

For him, my plea was an immediate call to action. “Do you want to go to a hospital?” He responded. “I think I have to.” I said. Here’s where the water works start. How pathetic. I mean at this point, couldn’t you have just quietly driven yourself to the ER? Here we go, become a burden on all those forced to love you.

Father and I were panicked, quickly collecting ourselves and carrying our urgent vessels into the vehicle. Mother, on the other hand, was at ease. What a fucking bitch. She slowly made her way out of bed and into the shower. While she soaked herself in relaxing hot water, I waited in the car clutching my chest. Like, way to make me feel like shit, I’m sitting in this musky-ass car possibly having a heart attack and here you are taking your sweet time probably awaiting my possible death. She took her time, drying her hair, putting her face on, and adorning herself in a beautiful outfit. I was clearly no cause for her concern. Not like I’ve ever been...are you kidding? She finally made her way out of the house and into the passenger side of the car. Fuckin’ bitch. As soon as her door shut, Father hit the road and said nothing. How could he just sit there and say nothing to her while she treats me like nothing?

The closest hospital was only 10 minutes away. The ride halted at a red stop light. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I would assume if anyone gave a fuck about me they would have flown through that stupid stop light to get me some proper medical care. On the outside I was cold, stern, and stoic. WHY HE WASN’T RUNNING THE FUCKING RED LIGHT? It was five in morning, there was no other car in sight. The silence was broken by my Father who needed my Mother’s permission to run the light. Of course she made us wait. For a moment I couldn’t believe it. Until I could. It made so much sense. No ticket was worth the potential danger my life was in to this woman.

When I had finally realized that, I laughed my fucking head off. In the car, my explosion of laughter was grounds for mental insanity. My Mother questioned the validity of my pain-of course-but I just couldn’t stop laughing even as I clutched onto my chest. The pain had not subsided, even when the light turned green, even when we had made our way into the emergency room. The pain remained, but the irony was not lost on me. It was truly funny to me. This was the first time I had the full realization that I meant nothing to her. I meant absolutely nothing. I had also seen my Father for the coward his is. I realized that there was no one that could protect me from this environment and at that point all I could do was laugh. My laughter was rooted in disbelief, even though I had an entire lifetime of evidence that convinced me that this experience was completely plausible. I found this cognitive dissonance hilarious.

I guess with some introspection I realized that the alternative reactions wouldn’t have served me well. This is difficult to describe to people. Like, how am I going to tell you that depression and anxiety has been the worst challenge of my life? That it has given me insurmountable pain, and yet it has saved my life on multiple occasions? I revere mental illness as the miracle reaper of life. It has challenged every molecule of my being to give into death, yet has allowed me to navigate traumatic situations with ease because, of course, with anxiety, I expected all this to happen anyway.  

The rest of the trip wasn’t as eventful. The first course of action included attaching stickers onto my chest to monitor my heart’s rhythms. I remember two things about this scene; I had to take off my shirt, and I was afraid. What does it say about me that I was more concerned with the fact that I would be taking me shirt off rather than being concerned with the probable cause of my lurid chest pain? The technician was sweet. Tasty even, his skin looked soft and I wanted to touch it. From what I remember, I had made it clear to him that I was uncomfortable. I fear that I secretly wanted his pity. I realized that this would be the first time I was going to take my shirt off in front of a man. Honestly, it was hard to not be a little turned on.  I had spent about two years trying to avoid this moment and here my life was depending on it. I took off the white cotton sweatshirt I had fallen asleep in. Sexy right? I laid myself down on the thin, noisy paper availed upon the hospital bed bust. Pieces of my skin stuck to the leather peeking from beneath the tissue.

I knew this was standard procedure, I knew he did this everyday to all sorts of people. It still felt intimate for me. He and I made eye contact while he slowly stuck cold plastic stickers all over my chest. It made me embarrassed. I was a little wet. I was self conscience about my body. He assured me that I was doing great. The technician had no idea that I was slightly turned on and that’s okay with me. But honestly I thought we had a connection. He turned to me and showed me my heart monitor. The technician said that my results were normal. Normal heart rate, regular rhythm and if I remember correctly, he said I had a beautiful heart rhythm. What did I tell you? He loved me.

After we had ruled out that I was in fact not having a heart attack, we moved on to see if there was any damage to my upper body organs. I walked with another technician to get a chest x-ray. For this I had to change into a fabulous white hospital gown that showed off the spine line that led to my glorious plush pyjama pants. This technician was different. He was more personable. He left the room while I changed and when he stepped back in, he lifted my chart from the box above the door. I studied his face as he read my chart. I was looking for hints and tone. How was he going to address me? When he finally looked up at me, he smiled and asked, “How are you liking Viibryd?”

I was surprised but I responded slyly, “It’s pretty immediate actually, I’ve heard that other antidepressants can take up to six months to take effect.” When two people with mental illnesses get into a room together, there's an immediate sense of comradery. As long as someone is brave enough to out themselves first, the bond of emotional strife, taking drugs, and going to therapy is pretty immediate.

“I’ve been taking Zoloft for a while now”, he added.

“How long have you been depressed?” I asked. I was really hoping he’d say “Not very long! It was a temporary thing for me.” That was not the answer I received, of course.

He told me he had been depressed his entire life. That’s it. That’s always it. No one ever just does a stint with depression, it’s always a life sentence. A struggle that starts but never ends. At least, not until you end. He went on to tell met that it’s been an ongoing struggle for him and that he’s only recently been properly medicated. This is another thing that bothers me. Anytime you talk to someone struggling with depression They suffer for so long before they seek treatment. I am curious to know whether this is a folly on culture and institution or just a hazard of the illness.

He interrupted my thought, he had to ask me some health related questions before we did the chest x-ray. The technician jotted down some quick information about my age and medications I was taking. He also shyly asked if there was any way I could be pregnant. I said, “There’s no possible way.”

He responded “You’re not practicing huh?” I quickly wanted to change the subject but instead replied with a stern “no”. I don’t know why I was embarrassed to be a virgin. Maybe I was just embarrassed, about being a virgin and about my body. Two singularities existing in the multiplex of life. Whatever. He lead me to the machine. He placed a heavy lead cover on my chest. I knew this was to protect me from ray scatter.

“Just like the dentist” I joked. He told me that he was going to step into the small boxy closet in the corner of the room to take a few pictures. I stood still. I never thought anything could be wrong with my chest organs, yet my hypochondria sense was tingling. He left to take the pictures. It was painless. When he came back, I wanted to probe him with questions. “So is my chest okay?” My organs? My lungs? Was I slowly but surely dying? Was this the end of life as I knew it?

He spoke casually, “Only the doctor can really tell you that, I only take pictures.”

“That doesn’t help me.” I said.

He turned to me, not as a technician but as a person, and said, “I really think you’re fine.” I smiled and nodded. That is honestly all I’ve ever wanted anyone to say.

He walked me back to a regular hospital room to wait to speak with the doctor. I sat on the bed while both my parents sat in chairs in the corner of the room looking at their phones. Eventually, Father looked up at me, the gleam of screen still in his eyes, and asked how it went. I replied “It was fine”, so that he could get back to his phone.

Soon after, the ER Doctor knocked on the door and walked in. She looked at me hopefully. I feel like a sigh, like deflated air. She was carrying my chart, she flipped a few pages and said that my heart and lungs looked perfectly healthy. She deduced that my chest pain was an adverse effect of my new antidepressant and should subside over time. Of course at this point, Mother chimed in to say “I told you, antidepressants are bad for you.”

The ER Doctor responded, “Actually these symptoms are common while the body acclimates to the new drug.”

I’m not sure if Mother listened to one word that came out of the doctor’s mouth, she only replied, “I just believe that they’re bad.”

The doctor wasn’t sure how to respond. She told me that she was going to give me some Klonopin and beta blockers to subdue the anxiety. I took them both before we left. Within 30 minutes, my chest pain subsided. I felt lightheaded in the best way possible. We walked out of the ER and I listened to my parents talk as I slid back into the car. The only thing Mother had to say to Father about the experience was, “I can’t wait to see how much that bill will be, she shouldn’t even take antidepressants.” And maybe I would’ve cared, if I wasn’t so fucking high.

#short story #depression #humor #spilled ink

[lati-will]

SELF-HONESTY: Where All Healing Begins

Self-honesty is the most important kind of honesty because true change and healing cannot happen without it.

When we are emotionally triggered or challenged by something someone says, logic and honest self-reflection have a hard time sinking in. When in a dispute or disagreement with someone who will not see the facts, and who keeps shooting down your logic, we can feel helpless to get them to reckon with reality.

After years of meditating on this dynamic and trying just about everything to get through someone’s defenses, the best way I know to approach such an impasse, is to ask them: “When you vulnerably look into your heart with an honest mind, what truth do you find there?”

The reason for this approach is that no amount of logic is going to get another (or 99% of folks) to see the light when they have an emotional investment about facts that counters their existing framework of reality. This is called cognitive dissonance: an inability to believe what contradicts current knowledge, often because it’s just too scary to turn one’s world upside down with new knowledge. Few people are willing to be their own skeptic.

We cannot break through cognitive dissonance with logic, unless someone is willing to address the underlying emotional fear of what causes them to reject what they hear. And, the more you press against this resistance, the more they shut out the only thing that might actually wake them up. This is why the only solution might be to ask them to look honestly into their heart—because only they are able to bypass their defenses.

Yet, the brave, the few, those who have integrity and a soulful hankering for truth—and are willing to suffer to be aligned with reality—will accept discomforting and disorienting cognitive dissonance over the fear of rejecting new truths just because the latter bring up too much fear. Essentially, when we care about discovering the truth more than protecting our worldview, the pain of denying truth is more painful than facing it. What makes this pain of denial more or less painful is one’s moral compass. The few, the brave, the integral warriors for truth, sacrifice tidy explanations and the comfort of static perceptions in order to remain at the frontier of discovery and a constantly adjusting worldview, which experience and new knowledge foster.

Integrity, for intellectual and emotional honesty, won’t let us stay in denial, won’t let us avoid the pain (to the ego) of self-correction and humility at the cost of what is true. One way we find out what is true is by listening and genuinely considering information presented to us. Another is by using argument and debate—even with your partner, a friend, or boss—more as a learning tool than to “win.” Putting forth one’s reasoning and argument is all good, as long as we also are honest about the veracity of our opponent’s (read: ally’s) points. 

Mind you, our fear of reality that flies in the face of wrong beliefs is usually unconscious in such individuals and manifests as denial, anger, and even violence—all to protect one’s worldview when it’s threatened by inconvenient truth. These are the symptoms of cognitive dissonance. Donald Trump’s “alternative facts” are a fine example of the denial of truth that threatens his fragile ego and narcissistic self-delusion. Kellyanne Conway’s pervasive dodging of questions from interviewers that threaten her with cognitive dissonance is another example. Both are examples of intellectual dishonesty generated by excessive, and likely underlying, emotional insecurity. See Kellyanne debunked and figured out here.

We see that every interviewer gets nowhere with her. This is because she has no interest in being honest or seeing herself clearly. One of the top comments on the video reads:

“She is a very intelligent woman and knows exactly what she is doing. Could other people do what she does? Absolutely, if they had no conscience or had no shame.”

To my mind, the commenter alludes to the lack of awareness and integrity, the emotional denial and lack of self-honesty (“no shame”), it takes to be so manipulative and disrespectful of her interviewers. Imagine if the interviewer asked her: “When you vulnerably look into your heart with an honest mind, what truth do you find there regarding this issue?”

All we can do in the face of dishonesty and denial might be to plant the seed of self-honesty; and if it sprouts, great. If it doesn’t, there is usually no other way to manually sprout self-realization in another person. If it doesn’t sprout, then you have to practice radical self-acceptance and let it go the best you can. And/or, make a video to help relieve your stress.

Self-honesty is the driver of change, evolution, compassion, and peace. So, next time you sense someone just can’t hear your point, ask them the question that fosters self-honesty, and see if you can let it rest at that, because there is likely no other way they will come around:

“When you vulnerably look into your heart with an honest mind, what truth do you find there?”

If they are too angry, defensive, or in denial, the planting of this seed still has the power to stay with them. It will bother the conscience of anyone worth being bothered by the truth, or who in the best version of themselves, is humble, aware, and self-honest enough to see their folly. Of course, one who is afraid of truth will likely not be truly open in heart to be able to self-reflect so emotionally and intellectually honestly. But, it’s all we can do, I think, and in the least damaging and most compassionate way possible.

And, of course, we get to sit with our own self-honesty too. Are we being honest with ourselves . . . are we denying to hear and to believe what is being shared with us? In a game of egos, it’s the first one to let go their defenses, get vulnerable (if only with themselves), and recognize the truth in that sacred chalice of an open heart and honest mind, united. When we are able to honestly inquire, maybe when we are calm enough, we can ask ourselves:

“When I vulnerably look into my heart, and examine my own thoughts and beliefs, with an honest mind, what truth do I find there?”

If we clear our self-honesty and self-reflection via a clear mind and regulated heart, then we can rest in our own integrity and practice radical acceptance of what another is not able to. Planting the seed of self-reflection and agreeing to disagree is all we can do sometimes. This is because any waking up relies first and foremost on our willingness to be honest with ourselves.

In sum, most healing relies on self-honesty; since fear mediates the degree to which we can be honest, the more we can ride out neurotic fear, the more honest we can be and the more we can heal.

By: Jack Adam Weber

#honest #honesty #truth #self love #life #consciousness #spiritual #spirituality