The Monster

Linda and I go back for a therapy session with our two therapists David and Tom after a 3-month recess. Wow, do we need it. After two months of non-stop guests in our cottage on Maui, and all kinds of emotional dramas, Linda and I are both fried.

During the session , Linda goes through the weary litany of endless guests coming and going. Our two Australian shepherds (who always reflect our feelings), lie on the floor in front of us, more agitated than usual. 

Tom asks us, “What was the fantasy you had in inviting them all come?”

I jump in. “My fantasy was being with friends I’ve known for years and all of us having fun together—one big happy family.”

“And did it work?”

“No, I somehow fell into being the martyr, thinking I had to feed them, take care of them, show them the sights, entertain them, cater to their needs. I totally imploded.”    

David says, “Peter, it seems like there’s a little narcissism and grandiosity here. You’re the one who thinks he has to ‘take care of’ all these guests. Why do you feel that you have to feed them, coddle them, and respond to their every need?”

“I want them to be happy. I want to be everything to everybody. If I’m not the perfect host they won’t like me.”

“Why can’t you let them take care of themselves? They’re responsible adults.”

“Yes,” Linda cries out. “You ran me under the bus just to make them happy . . .”

Tom adds, “You also made them dependent on you, like they were little children.”

“He just couldn’t stop,” Linda says, shaking her head in amazement. “He tied himself in pretzels to make everyone happy—and he totally abandoned me.”

“I didn’t,” I cry out, shaking my head in wonder at my own stupidity. “I almost killed myself trying to keep you happy too!”

David says, “Peter, I don’t think you’re quite the ‘nice Peter’ you portray yourself to be. It seems to me like you’re the ‘master controller’ who wants to be totally in charge. It almost seems like you’re a Vince Vaughan.”

“Oh no,” I groan in mock horror. “That’s my worst nightmare!” Vince Vaughan, with his deep voice, high testosterone, and gross insensitivity, is my worst nightmare.

Suddenly it hits me. I have these two separate parts of myself that I don’t even recognize—the bossy guy in charge, and the sweet, thoughtful Peter who is always trying to please everyone. What a shock. Emotions start swirling around. I can’t even talk. I suddenly see that I’m not the sweet, kind, considerate, loving, gentle, “spiritual” person I imagined myself to be. I’m the person I loathe— bossy, judgmental, assertive, anti-intellectual, bigoted, and superior!   

Where’s the “real” Peter?

Whac-a-Mole

If we look deeply, we see that fear is the linchpin that holds our emotional sense of self intact. Adyashanti

Most of us have at least one core issue that we have not fully “seen through.” Our core issues have a way of catching us when we least expect it. We think we’ve dealt with them, fixed them, and gotten rid of them forever, when they suddenly pop up in a new and unexpected way. Mine is the fear of abandonment and loss. No wonder it’s a big one. My mother died when I was twelve and was never spoken of again in my family. Over a year passed before my younger brother, who was six at the time, found out that she had died (a friend told him). So my huge fear about loss keeps showing up in new ways, especially when I feel that I’m letting others down. I’m sure that I will lose their love and be left isolated and alone. In order to stay “safe” I’ll do anything to please everyone around me, forgetting my own needs. It’s like an addictive behavior. I can’t control it.

Holidays and big family events are always a good test to see how far I’ve come in letting go of these fears.
“Peter, we’ve saved a seat at the family table,” my sister says. “We so want you to come—it won’t be the same without you!”

Previously I would instinctively say, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll come!”—even it means flying 5,000 miles across the world to Canada in the middle of winter.

But for the first time ever I say no.

“I love you,” I say, “would really like to come, but this time I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, lightning doesn’t come out of the sky and strike me down. I don’t shrivel up into a sniveling little blob. But I do have to sit with the discomfort of taking a new stance in my life.

To my surprise, my response has a totally differently effect than I imagined it would. Instead of rejecting me, my family starts to respect me. Instead of being “invisible,” they now notice me. They see that I’m (finally) standing up for myself. What a relief it must be for them!

After this event, my “addiction” to approval doesn’t suddenly disappear. Once the family is taken care of, then I want to get love and approval from everyone else I’ve felt “abandoned” by. What about John and Sandy? What about Bill? Maybe I should reach out to them? The list goes on and on. But now I see that it’s my “addiction” popping up again and again. Once I’m willing to go through feeling the sense of discomfort, knowing I don’t need to change anything from what’s happening right now, the fear abates.

“We all want two things,” a dear friend says. “We either don’t want to lose what we have, or we want to be sure to get what we want.”

I start to see that my addictive tendencies are not just limited to people. Come to think of it, I’m addicted to just about everything—love, work, wine, sex, people, you name it! I’m glad I don’t have an iPhone, because I’d be addicted to that too.

“It’s like whac-a-mole,” my wife Linda laughs. “You no sooner have gotten rid of one of them and the next one pops up.”

“What am I going to do?” I ask, in mock desperation. The image of hitting one mole and having another one pop up is hysterical.

“Well, you have to go to the source of the addiction itself,” Linda says. She always has a way of seeing the things that I can’t see. That’s what makes our relationship such a good one.

“The source?”

“Yes, it’s based on the false belief that you are separate from God. You see yourself as someone who can be hurt, when in truth you can’t be. Your sense of separation is an illusion. It’s not true.”

“Ahh,” I say, stunned by the realization. “All this addictive behavior is based on my wanting to overcome my sense of separateness. If I was willing to “be” with what is happening right here, right now—including the pain—I wouldn’t need to run from it.”

“Like everyone else, you’re trying to seek pleasure and avoid pain. But after a while avoiding the pain has a way of kicking back on you.”

“But it’s fun,” I protest. “I love my wine, I love having everyone happy, I love working all day!”

“Well, you have two choices: sit with the discomfort and watch the part of you that wants to escape into the addiction, or go on playing whac-a-mole forever!”

“Whac-a-mole! Whac-a-mole!” I laugh. But I know she’s right.