The Truth Tied Up With a Pretty Pink Ribbon

The Truth Tied Up With a Pretty Pink Ribbon

I do a lot of things when I can’t sleep. Mostly I lie there and think about stuff, but sometimes I grab my phone, hop on the internet and check out Facebook. Of course it’s fun to see what people post at these times of night, but reading down the newsfeed tonight (or this morning, depending on your personal propensity for delineating one day from the next), it occurred to me: Facebook is really my way for me to feel good about myself.

Let me try to explain.

Years ago when I was a professional public speaker and communication consultant, I did what you’re supposed to do – what a lot of professional speakers and trainers do – and conducted exit surveys of my audiences immediately upon the conclusion of each session. Now, those of you who do this sort of thing for a living, be it training or public speaking, know the value of such evaluations is limited to gauging the immediate gut reaction of only those who had strong enough such reaction to take the 90 seconds it took to fill out the thing (usually a series of questions or statements responded on a likert or numerical scale). But they offer little to no reliable metric about the true return on investment in holding the seminar in the first place. But such evaluations are all we’ve got, so we use them and take them for what they’re worth.

Anyways …

If I had been hired by a third party, I would usually scan through the stack of evals (almost everyone completed them in those days), make mental notes about things they liked, found valuable, planned to share with others, etc., and also about the things they said that could help me improve my skills in my chosen craft.

I will never forget this one seminar – I think the topic was, “Professional Etiquette: More Than Using the Right Fork” – and if memory serves it was for a group of credit union employees in Massachusetts. I did my thing – my dog and pony dance, I used to call it – laced with the right amount of humor, balanced with my own gems of wisdom, and laden with (what I hoped were) helpful suggestions for making their business world a better place. Something like that. At the conclusion, as usual, I asked participants to complete the post-seminar evaluation, as the third party who had hired me (a Credit Union Association), was hoping to hold more such seminars as they’d enjoyed that evening.

As a side note, I’m not sure if they’d enjoyed the evening because of the seminar, or because of the prime rib dinner they’d just consumed, but I digress.

As people filtered out, they left their completed forms in the designated box, and when the last person had left I, as a matter of course, picked up the stack of opinions and began to read. Most were filled with the kind of innocuous flattery that came with the territory of working in the industry. I read through the stack, smiling here and there at the high scores and kind words offered by the many fine folks who’d attended and truly enjoyed the seminar. Then I came across this one evaluation that was just plain awful. The participant hated everything about the seminar: the food, the wait staff, me, and even my hair. This person had criticized everything about me, including my accent, as a complete waste of her time (I assume it was a woman from the way it was written) and the company’s money. It was like a slap in the face, one critical evaluation amid the torrent of compliments whose warm glow I’d just bathed in. I set it aside and went on to the next one, and it was filled with the same level of censure. And so was the next one. Three ego-destroying litanies, one right after the other (I figure they sat next to one another). It was like, “Ouch,” and then, “Ouch!” and then, “OUCH!” again. Well, I finished reading the evals, packed up my goodies, got in my car and commenced the long drive back to New York. But I was mad.

Really mad.

My inner monologue over the next six hours ranged from “How dare they” to “Oh my God, they’re right. I’m completely worthless.” It was a painful commute. Beating myself up over what these women had written – despite that 97 other evaluations (there were about 100) had been nothing but praise – allowing their opinions to have tremendous power over me and how I felt about myself, my career, and my life (one had actually written, “Don’t quit your day job.” Well, I said they were critical. I didn’t say they were original in their insults). I was, to say the very least, in a very … bad … mood … when I arrived home.

That’s when it dawned on me.

You see, one of the other seminars I offered at the time was on assertive communication, and one of the main themes of that seminar was around the concept of “letting go.” One particular pain point we discussed was letting go of caring so much what other people think. It was inspired by a chapter in a book I’d read in this area, by Maria Arapakis, entitled SoftPower: How to Speak Up, Set Limits, and Say No Without Losing Your Lover, Your Job, or Your Friends (a fabulous read, by the way, but sadly out of print. I found my copy on Amazon). The idea of letting go of caring so much of what other people think was that in doing so, we free ourselves to make decisions and choices in our lives we can truly own and own up to. If you allow others to dictate what you should or shouldn’t do, you will eventually find yourself, one day, at the end of someone else’s life. You have to live with the choices you make, so you might as well make them for yourself. As Maria put it, you are the expert, after all, on you (hmmm, perhaps the subject of a future blog post?).

My point is that I was allowing the opinions of three petty women to have tremendous power over my own opinion of myself, to the complete exclusion of the other 97% of those in attendance, who thought the seminar offered the greatest workplace advice since “Never let them see you sweat.” NINETY-SEVEN PEOPLE had offered praise and affirmation, but instead of believing them, I had chosen to believe what they had to say was crap, and that these other three were the only ones who spoke the truth.

Well, the next morning I went into my office and gathered up all the evaluations, cards, letters of recommendation I could find, which I had received over the course of my career. I read through them, picked out a dozen or so of my favorites, put them in a small shoe box, and tied it all with a pretty pink ribbon. I slipped the box up onto the shelf of my closet and kept it there, and even added to it over time. After that, whenever I received criticism or negative feedback – whether well-deserved or not – that tempted me to go down that emotional rabbit hole of self-loathing, I’d reach for that box, untie the pretty pink ribbon, and read through the contents, all the while reminding myself: this, too, is the truth.

I don’t have that box anymore. It, along with many of the materials from my consulting days, has disappeared during one of the moves I’ve made from house to house and back again, over the last ten years. But I do have the internet.

And I have Facebook.

Now, a lot of smack gets talked on Facebook. You know it; I know it; and if we are at all honest with ourselves, we have all done it to some extent, from time to time. Some of the comments I read on other people’s posts are simply beyond rude and insensitive. They are downright mean. And, to those who have posted them, they represent nothing but the complete and honest truth.

Personally, I don’t see the point of loosing such venom, many times, on those who are supposed to be our friends. But why people do what they do on Facebook is another subject entirely.  

My point is this: Facebook offers an opportunity for us to speak our minds, tell our truth, and get out in public what we feel needs to be said or recognized. And it gets abused. We all know it. People post an enormous number of petty, ignorant, scathing and soul-sucking things there; things, we must admit, they would never have the courage to say out loud if the people to whom they are targeted were standing right in front of them. These days, the notion of hiding behind a computer screen and dishing out ruthless, often uneducated opinions and incomplete, insidious thoughts is so often cited, it’s almost a cliché. It’s exactly what those vengeful harpies who completed those rotten evaluations did after that etiquette seminar, so many years ago. I considered it cowardly and unwarranted, to them, it was the truth.

Although a lot of smack gets talked on Facebook, and a lot of depressing and sometimes disgusting news is perpetuated there, a lot of praise and gratitude are posted there as well. Prayers are sent, victories are shared, positive energy and warm thoughts are offered, and support is given. As a friend put it recently, it is such a blessing to live in a time when we can be there, like this, for one another and stay in touch this easily, even over vast geographical distances.

So now, when I find myself on the receiving end of scathing criticism, or experience such crushing stress that it feels like the entire universe is against me, or I, in any other way, start down that emotional rabbit-hole, I just go on Facebook and read down my Wall. I look at pictures of my friends, I count up all the “Likes” I’ve received in recent days, check out what’s been posted on the Black Sheep group and think, “This too, is the truth.”

And inevitably, I start to feel good about myself again.

Facebook is my new shoe box, tied up with a pretty pink ribbon.

A Special Place in Heaven

A Special Place in Heaven … for Therapists

In the wake of Robin Williams’ death, there have been a plethora of blog-spots, postings and articles about depression and suicide. It seems almost everyone has felt the desire or the need to weigh in with opinions, pontifications, advice, and pleadings. Some are friends or family members of those who have committed suicide, or attempted suicide. Some are simply kind and caring folks, with no immediate connection to either depression or suicide, simply responding to their shock and dismay in a way they feel might at least make a difference to those around them and across the globe who may be suffering and not know how to ask for help. And then, one posting I read made an earnest request. “It’s time to raise awareness, increase empathy and kindness, and bring those numbers (of suicides and attempts) down. It’s time to talk about suicide and depression.”

I had friends who committed suicide. I like to think of myself as a kind and caring person, and those who know me best know that I generally have an opinion … about nearly everything. But this time… this time I can offer more than an opinion. I have a story. I am so shaken by the death of a wonderful actor and a really funny man, someone whom we not only thought would be the last person in the world to do this, the thought –the notion –never came near crossing our minds.

I finally feel moved enough to tell that story.

Some of you know part of the story. I've mentioned it in passing now and again, without any details or further discussion. Perhaps, because it’s not easy to talk about, or easy to listen to. But many of you, including my very close friends and even my family don’t know the full story.

Once, about 12 years ago, I decided to kill myself. I planned to commit suicide.

I was, as we all were, reeling in the wake of 9/11. I had just broken off a 10-month loveless relationship. I was 35 going on 36, still single, and childless. My best friend had moved 3000 miles away. My career was on the brink of collapse. And like so many others, I felt lost, confused, friendless, hopeless, and helpless. But put simply, I was tired. There were so many things I needed to deal with, and it was so overwhelming, I thought a permanent solution was the only way. I just didn't know what else to do … yet.

I don’t think I showed any so-called “warning signs.” I was actually basically a cheerful person ... on the outside. Always ready with a joke; always the life of the party. But the inside was a different story. Basically, a miserable person. Always feeling inadequate; no self confidence; no sense of self worth.

I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist, and a spiritual counselor. They were kind, and caring; they had listened and helped me work through some of my difficulties. But it wasn't enough. There were deep, dark, frightening places in my mind and soul no one could touch. Even me. I was sad. So very, very sad. I just didn't know what else to do … yet.

So I started to plan. I didn't want anything messy, so shooting myself or slitting my wrists was definitely out. I wasn't smart enough to rig a noose and try to hang myself; and I didn't want carbon monoxide to get into the house and harm my cat, so getting in the car with the engine running, closed in the garage was also out. But I did have access to anti-depression medications, and tranquilizers. I had over-the-counter pharmaceuticals and plenty of alcohol in the house. If I took a few handfuls of pills and washed them down with half a bottle of gin or whiskey, that was bound to work.

Then, I started a list. I would put down 3 – 4 days of food for the cat so he wouldn't starve before someone found me. I made sure my IRA beneficiary information was up-to-date. I wrote out my parents’ names and phone number and tacked it to the ‘fridge.  I cleaned the house. I paid all my outstanding bills, many of which weren't due for several weeks. I left a note to my bank, about who and where the equity in my home was to go to, as I didn't have a Will written, and I didn't want to die intestate. I had a mail-forwarding card all filled out, ready to drop off at the Post Office, when I got ready to go. I had everything in order.

I had the “what” and the “how.” I just needed to decide … “when.”

And that’s when it hit me. I have to admit, I’d thought about suicide before this, always dismissing the idea, mainly out of embarrassment for what would be said or thought about me in the aftermath. But this time, none of that mattered. This time I had a plan.

I actually … had … a plan. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I knew I needed more help. I needed to … talk about it.

And just like I had decided to kill myself, I just decided not to. The next day, I called my therapist. Her name was Ruth.

Ruth got me through it. I lived. She helped me learn the skills to cope. It took a long, painful few years, but I've worked hard to learn how to achieve balance in my life. I know I don’t have to do it all. And if I feel like I do want to do it all, I know I don’t have to do it all at once. And I don’t have to do it alone. When I start to feel overwhelmed … friendless, helpless, hopeless … I know what to do now. I know how to say, “No.” I know how to ask for what I want and what I need. I know how to ask for help.

For me, it was all about the therapy. I’m a big fan of therapy. Professional help is not to be underestimated. These people know what to do. There is a special place in heaven, I’m convinced, reserved for psychiatric therapists. Some of them will work for cheap, or even for free. If you’re hurting in this way, believe me, I know what you’re going through. It's hard to talk about this stuff. But you must. You must talk about it.

And if you’re lucky enough to have already achieved that balance … you must listen. And you must … MUST … direct your loved one to a professional. PLEASE do not try –or even let yourself believe –that you can deal with this alone. The person who is hurting, depressed, and contemplating suicide is far beyond any help that you can give. Your intentions, while noble, will not save their life.

Start with the national suicide hotline, and have the number handy. It's 1-800-273-8255. And you can always call 9-1-1. Many local police departments have family and domestic centers who have people who know what to do. Please, please … if you do anything to help a friend who is hurting so badly they truly believe death is the only option: get them some professional help. Because, maybe, just maybe … like me… they just don’t know what else to do … yet.