Off the Rails
I was just one stop away from my destination when it hit me.
I had made all my connections, my train was about to pull into the station, and I hadn’t gotten lost, mugged, abducted by aliens or impressed into the British Navy.
No, everything had worked out for me and, apparently, that was the problem. My shadow self didn’t have anything to get upset about, so he set about creating misery out of nothing.
I suddenly started thinking about how I had wasted so much time in my life, how I caused my parents such anguish by my inability—(refusal?)—to find a career path.
It was the usual stuff that often runs through my mind, only this was magnified several thousand times.
It seemed to come from absolutely nowhere, but, of course, that isn’t true. Anxiety is a constant companion, only it rarely gets this aggressive—unless I’m an airplane and then I’ve got Xanax.
None of the other passengers on that train would’ve known that I was experiencing so much turmoil. As far as they were concerned, I was just a guy looking at the window. But I was going through hell on wheels.
I had to put a stop to this.
Years ago, my aunt introduced me to the Japanese art of Jin Shin Jyutsu, which uses hand pressure to balance the body’s energy and promote healing.
One of the few routines I know involves grasping certain fingers in response to your emotional state. The index finger is marked for fear, and I grabbed hold of mine like a drowning man taking grasping for a life rope.
I was raised Catholic, and this seemed like a very good time to start praying.
Fortunately, we have a saint for just about everything that ails you and since St. Dymphna is the patron saint of mental health, including anxiety, I begged her to get out of this train wreck.
All board
This may seem hypocritical seeing as how I haven’t stepped inside a church in quite a while and I’m still struggling with my hideous grammar school memories.
But I figured that since Catholicism is the source of so many of my problems, the least the faith can do is help me out in this terrible moment.
I’m trying to look at this incident dispassionately, to detach and observe, as Fred the Shrink used to say, and--we hope--keep it from happening again.
The last time I recall getting this emotionally twisted was during a pre-pandemic cab ride to my home after I attended my writing class in Park Slope that took a screaming U-turn into psycho country.
That emotional attack had me recalling a terrible childhood memory that I hadn’t thought about it ages.
Both these incidents share at least one common denominator in that I was at ease—feeling pretty good, actually--at the time of the assault.
There was no reason for me to be depressed, which was all the reason my inner assassin needed.
Part of the problem is a lack of mindfulness. I don’t spend enough time in the here and now, working on what’s real, so the unreal has a window of opportunity to mess with my head.
My company has a wellness program, and I recently had the pleasure of working with a lovely young woman for a few sessions who gave me some tips for coping with stress.
Chief among these was The Three Cs—Catch, Check, Change. The idea is that you catch yourself in a negative thought pattern, you ask yourself if it’s true, and then you set about changing your behavior.
I’ve been trying to apply this approach regularly, but I’m going up against a lifetime of unhealthy thinking, so it’s going to take a while.
As a reminder, I’ve taken to singing Catch, Check, Change to the tune of Three Blind Mice. If it was good enough for the Three Stooges, it’s good enough for me.
In my journal, I lke to list the Catch of the Day, like a restaurant menu, where I successfully halt a negative point of view.
I was in my gym’s locker room this morning when some crappy thoughts started creeping up on me. I thought about how quickly the years had gone by and how I wasn’t satisfied with how my life had turned out.
But then I gave St. Dymphna a shout and together we reeled in that mental Loch Ness Monster before it did any damage.
More of that, please.
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