Well...How did we get here?

We had a plan.

Recently married. A senior administrator at a growing technology firm. A modest stock portfolio. A home owner – an adorable house in Washington, DC. Small, but pretty. The sort of house you live in until your kids start school. Before bailing to the suburbs. Chasing after better schools, community swimming pools and nearby soccer programs.

I made a spreadsheet. I plotted our planned financial growth, right into retirement. Best and worst case scenarios. Either way we were set – a life of wealth. Not mansion and horse farm wealth, but enough for antique furniture, gadgets, international travel, and a comfortable, early retirement. A step or three above where our parents settled out.

Eighteen years as a government contractor. Repeated success at implementing financial databases, and more importantly, creative, thoughtful proposal-pricing that helped my companies acquire new contracts. Susan, equally or more successful as a fundraiser for a large environmental non-profit.

There was no question that we were set. Educated, hard-working, respected. Pegged as the next leaders of our companies. Clearly upwardly-mobile, Yuppies personified. Until it all started to unravel. Or really, until we unraveled it.

Sample:
Fat-Old-White-Guy

(This image was stolen off of the internet)

Neither of us were satisfied. Susan, constantly stressed, under continual pressure to be perfect. The high-end, celebrity donors to her organization requiring relentless maintenance and care. Me, bored with my work, disdainful of my co-workers, of my government clients. I called them the Fat-Old-White-Guys. Livers of narrow lives. Content with a nine to five job, a long commute, nightly TV and weekend grilling. The real work of life behind them, now coasting through to the finish, to retirement. I harbored secret fears that I was rapidly becoming one myself.

Susan reduced her hours to part time. And I moved to a new company, one outside of the government contracting industry. And then we moved away all together. Out of DC. Out of the area. With our two year old daughter and a baby on the way, we fled city-life. It's luster long worn off. We moved to a small town in Pennsylvania.

An abrupt change in some ways. The time lapse between first toying with a move and listing our house measured in weeks rather than months. In other ways, a very slow process. I telecommuted back to DC for over a year. Susan consulted with DC non-profits considerably longer.

But the change continued. I found a local job with a non-profit community center. Susan switched careers, and became a massage therapist. These changes included a painful reduction in our income. Over the course of three or four years, our income dropped by more than half.

I no longer know where my spreadsheet is, and I don't really care. Barring a sizable lottery win (which we don't play) or inheriting a fortune from an unknown rich relative, our planned life of wealth is out of reach. We have become the bourgeoisie, the hoi polloi, our own little chunk of "the masses." Except we haven't. These phrases are often used pejoratively to describe material striving. A desire to improve one's financial situation, one's station in life. Improvements through the acquisition of stuff.

This isn't us. As we've settled into our small town life, we've switched focus. We've stopped looking for that better station. Study after study shows that wealth doesn't bring happiness, happiness and financial security are mutually exclusive. We're a solid middle-class family, and that should be enough. Instead of material gain, we are working towards contentedness. Or really self-improvement, which we believe will bring contentedness.

I don't want to give the impression that we sat down together and made a conscious decision to alter the focus of our life. It wasn't a holistic change. It was a sloppy and incremental, with lots of hand-wringing and second guessing. But what started as a series of questionable choices has solidified into an intentional life-style of actualization. A desire to understand ourselves and our world, or at least how we interact with the world. And the mark we leave on it.

Since I've known her, Susan has dabbled around the edges of Buddhist spirituality. An intense focus on mindfulness. She is interested in yoga and meditation, and a long-time participant in Tara Brach's Insight Meditation Community. Her interest became a practice, and that practice is now a daily way of life. She radiates a calmness that is not lost on those around her. It is part of what makes her a great massage therapist. She is also a great teacher for me. She lives what she learns, and I try to follow her example.

My path was less intentional and less obvious. In my twenties, I wanted to write for a fitness magazine. But there is a deep gulf between wanting something and doing anything about it. I enjoyed writing, I thought I had something to say, but I never wrote. My dream akin to a non-musical teen's plan to become a rock star.

A few years ago, I set aside two hours per week to sit in a local coffee shop and craft essays. Initially, these focused on society, and my disgust with the world around me. Resistance is Futile railing against intrusive technology. The Worst Generation unfavorably comparing my generation to those before.

One morning on a bike ride, I started composing an essay in my head. I found myself comparing my current life to a character in Jefferson Airplane's song, Lather. I had never written specifically about myself, my life. As Lather found its way onto my computer screen, I learned a bit about who I am. And I wanted to learn more. This launched two years of self-analytical writing that has left me a truly changed person (and a much better writer). Each time I caught myself obsessing about a problem, a fear, an incident in my past, I wrote about it. And each time I did this, I became more aware, more in control, and ultimately happier.

We all have our nagging thoughts, our obsessions. Our regrets, our grudges, our embarrassments, our fears. I saw a life-coach for a while during my career change. She recognized that I was a grudge-holder. She suggested I write down the negative thoughts I harbor from my past – those things I obsess over – and then stick them in a hole, burn them with gasoline. I never did this, but what I do is better for me. I spend time with those thoughts. My wife's Buddhist teacher, Tara Brach suggests that like the Buddha, we must face our problems. She tells a parable of the Buddha facing is principal rival. A figurative and literal demon named Mara. One of Tara's favorite sayings is 'invite Mara in for tea.'

By avoiding our demons, we never resolve anything. A head in the sand approach to life. Tara suggests that by confronting problems, insecurities, obsessions, we begin to understand them. I found myself doing this through writing. By intentionally spending time with the topics that bother me, by writing about them, meditating on them, analyzing them, by inviting them in for tea – I gain power over them. I gain an understanding of myself.

Two years later, two hundred thousand words blogged, almost entirely about me, I'm in a position to take stock, to reflect on my success. My problems aren't gone, but they have all improved. I am less obsessive. I'm no longer embarrassed by having Tourette's. I'm in control of my drinking. And I'm now more comfortable with the choices I've made throughout my life.

I'm certainly not done. Actualization is a life-long process. If the Buddha was correct, the work of many lifetimes. I'll surely continue to second-guess our life-choices. Retirement, though still off in the distance, is visible on our horizon. And before we get there, college tuition for our children. The wealth we haven't accumulated would be helpful over the coming years.

One of my father's favorite sayings is "you made your life, now you have to live it." Meaning there is no point in regret. The past is fact, it doesn't change. Look forward and make the most of it. And so far, no regrets for Susan and me. When we look to our future, the things we want don't cost money. We want intelligent, self-supporting children; jobs that help people; a space to create art; access to the outdoors for running, hiking, bicycling.

But mostly, we want to keep improving ourselves.  

When Everything is Going Well

Twelve days ago, I stopped drinking, Almost. Maybe. Not sure yet. A lifetime of substance abuse. Serious and destructive in my teens, in my twenties and thirties. Under control in my forties and fifties, sort of. I drink daily, two drinks, three drinks. Never drunk but unable to quit. Afraid to quit. Always worried that without my relaxing, day-end glasses of wine, life won't be worth living. Now I'm not sure this is true.

On Sunday morning, I ran ten miles and change. Thirty years ago, I did this weekly, sometimes twice a week. Long exploring runs throughout Washington, DC. National parks, nice neighborhoods, not-so-nice neighborhoods. That was before knee-bursitis hobbled me. Limited my runs to four or five miles at a shot, my weekly total to less than fifteen. There have been times I've been able to push out longer runs, including a ten mile race three years ago, but since Sunday was actually a quarter-mile longer than ten, this was my longest run in at least twenty years.

Eighteen months ago, I started blogging.  Writing at a local coffee shop, once or twice a week. I envisioned myself a curmudgeon. I believed that I had funny, insightful complaints about society. My blog would be my outlet. I would get attention and become a syndicated columnist. Paid to bitch – everybody’s dream. This didn't happen, or it hasn't happened yet. I'm not funny, and for the most part, I only write about myself. My writing sessions have expanded to four or five per week, and the stuff that comes out, all very personal. Not about society, except in ways that I mirror society. Self-exploration in a way that has allowed me to better understand myself and make some positive changes.

And here, at the start of a new year, a time when it is natural to take stock of your life, I've been thinking about the impact that writing has had on my physical and mental health. We all have nagging thoughts. Weight issues, financial worries, chronic injuries, relationship problems. Because I have OCD, my nagging thoughts probably nag a bit more than others'. And when those thoughts become unbearable, when I develop the courage to face a topic, when I decide to spend four to eight hours thinking and writing about a problem, I often solve that problem. Probably too strong a word. Most problems are unsolvable. But I gain understanding, acceptance, peace. I change or improve the way the problem affects me.

At times we need to step back and assess. It is easy to get caught up in the problem of the day. Assume that because something isn't right, everything is wrong. By looking back at what I was concerned about a few years ago, I realize that I'm a completely different person. I'm more confident, more balanced, kinder. Actualized, at least a little. Three years ago, all I could think about was how much I hated my job. Frustration with co-workers, my boss, my pay, my responsibilities. I felt like a loser. A smallish fish in a small pond. I compared myself to those around me. Their profession, their pay, their athletic ability. Everyone was more impressive. Everyone else had their act together.

I was agitated, quick to anger, quick to put myself down. Obsessive thoughts, Tourette’s tics, chronic injuries that limited my running, my overall fitness. Social anxiety – unable to connect with those around me. That was three years ago. Today? OCD, Tourette’s Syndrome, injuries, social anxiety – they are all still present. But they leave me less agitated, less angry. As my wife’s Buddhist guru, Tara Brach would say, “by exploring these subjects, by inviting them in, by spending time with my problems, I take away their power."  

Last Monday morning, I was riding the double high of a week without alcohol, and a Sunday morning run long enough to leave me fully winded. I was buzzing. Feeling like all of my problems were solved. My OCD has been simmering on low. The unattractive retching I experience when stressed, unexpected dry-heaves, and occasionally vomiting, has disappeared. Missing for four weeks. I don’t know where it went, but I’m glad it’s gone. Tourette’s tics, omnipresent, have become a non-issue. I’ve told everyone I know that I have Tourette's Syndrome. The tics are just part of who I am. Take me or leave me.

Monday morning, everything was cured. Throw away the Prozac and cancel my therapy appointments. Sign up for a marathon and book me to give a presentation at the chamber of commerce. I was fixed. My blogging, my self-analysis, my therapy, my incessant foam rolling. Changes to my running style, my form.  All of the things I’ve incorporated to combat these problems, they worked. Not a problem left in the world.

Monday afternoon, I was a mess. Elevated, agitated beyond belief. Obsessing about everything in my life. Unable to focus at work, unable to control my tics, even a little. I know these ups and downs are part of mental illness, and actually part of everyone's life. Mine are likely to be more dramatic than the next person's, but I am now blessed with the ability to understand what's happening. When OCD and anxiety strike, I'm not blind-sided. I don't lash out at my co-workers, my wife, my kids. I'm able to fall back on my experiences to weather the storm, knowing that tomorrow – or even later today – will be better.

For the first time since I started my self-improvement regeime of therapy and theraputic writing, I am able to look at myself, my overall being and say I'm better. Not cured. This stuff isn't curable. But I'm better, much better, than I was.