Cognitive Dissonence

It is important, before delving into this post, that I convey the mental state from which it came. This will help with context, not only for those of you “outside” myself who may have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, but also for myself reading this in the future. I don’t know if any of you have a problem with this, but I frequently have difficulties believing myself based on the frame of mind in which I do certain things. I feel a compelling need to be open and honest with myself in evaluating the things I will discuss. Many of you know my cynicism, which has basically become a way of life. Occasionally, for whatever reason, I will have a moment of insight or a triggering of a different thought pattern. Perhaps it is from a good night’s sleep or a good meal (or an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese…) or just the product of statistical probability of specific dendrites firing through glial cells. Whatever the cause, this frame of mind is often correlated with an unflinching view of what I am doing and how it needs to change to make my situation better. I am not happy, and have not been for some time now. It’s difficult to say precisely when I began to feel so disenfranchised and unfairly saddened, but if I had to narrow it down to a single event I would choose a time when I was seven. My family and I were living in Orem and I was in third grade (the placement of my birthday seems to give the illusion that I was ahead by a year, though this was not the case). I remember myself as a silly and rather happy child, though a bit scrawny (that’s right, scrawny). I wouldn’t say I was popular, but I had a good group of friends which I recall covered most of my class. The principal (whose name I can’t remember) was an attractive younger woman from Hawaii whose constant message was one of love and the Aloha spirit (this may be difficult to understand if you don’t know much about Hawaiian culture). I had just learned that my family was moving to Lindon, something far out of my control. I recall my best friend at the time, David, took the news particularly hard. He was wearing these awful looking grey moon boots (it was November in the 80’s) and we were standing near one of the large Poplars that used to line the fence of Sharon Elementary. I remember he didn’t want to hang out with me much after that. I didn’t have much time to fret over it because it wasn’t long and I was attending a new school, Aspen Elementary. I can only vaguely recall the first day there in Mrs. Glazier’s third grade class room, but the details I do remember were entirely hostile. It was then and there that I met some of the children that would bully me through Elementary, Jr. High and High school, during a time when my young mind was shaping into its adult form. Ben, Clayton, Austin, Isaac (for whom I have kindled a wildfire of special hatred), and later Seth and Bobby were among the most prevalent offenders. These are people who if I were to meet them today, my first instinct would be to soundly hit them in the throat with the blade of my palm. This is one reason I still dislike going to the grocery store in my old neighborhood (after all, who wants a trip to the store to end up in an arrest on assault charges?). In a few short months, it felt to me as though I had gone from the top of the social ladder to the very bottom, and all through events over which I had no control. Skip forward to today. The experiences I had growing up helped shape me as an adult (no surprise there). I learned how to grow a thick skin, and more importantly how to wear masks to cover my feelings and thoughts. I’ve gotten pretty good at this, and I had to. It was/is a survival tactic. Showing weakness only seemed to provoke more attacks. Adults didn’t seem to care about the underlying emotional problems you were facing, they just wanted you to shut up and listen to what THEY had to say (a condition I have found myself in now that I am a father, and something I try to be conscious of and sensitive to against my nature). This mask wearing proved to be invaluable as an adult. One of the many side effects of my childhood was that I became a rather pronounced introvert. If you’re not familiar with all of the ways in which introversion manifests, I suggest you spend some time looking into it (at the very least it will give you some insights on why some people thrive in different environments while others wilt). A common characteristic of introverts is this mask wearing, or “faking it” when in specific situations. It’s normally not a problem, until you find one day that you’re wearing so many masks that you don’t know who you are anymore. You cannot identify which mask represents the real you. And that’s the problem, there is more “not you” than there is of the “actual you”. I believe this is where I am today. I have spent so much of my time being someone I am not, that I don’t know who I am anymore. However, ask me to put one of the masks on and I can flip it like a light switch (sometimes this is done so fast and so seamlessly that it’s even difficult for me to identify). It’s only a problem when you break the fourth wall and understand that there is a real you somewhere out there pulling the levers and going through the motions, meanwhile dying of atrophy. It has taken a lot of introspection, a lot of research, a small amount of counseling, and also a fair amount of just time for me to get to this point (and the counseling proved to be bit of a waste of time and money, as there was nothing discovered there that I couldn’t/haven’t found on my own for free, and besides it means more when it comes from the inside). Much like Pandora’s Box, once opened it cannot be closed. Now I just need to figure out what to do about the situation I find myself in. I recognize I am not happy with the life I live today. I can be honest inside my own head and pinpoint contributing factors, but when asked to externalize them (even by those whom I’m close to) I cannot resist the urge to put the masks back on, to filter my responses, to preserve the status quo. After all, by comparison my life is pretty good and I should be grateful for what I have. I am not convinced that airing my frustrations will improve circumstances, and it has a high probability of worsening them. Also, having not thoroughly explored what I want/need to be happy, I am likely to say something foolish that I haven’t thought through. No, every time I think about it I end up talking myself out of it. Even confiding in myself bears risk. This is a major reason I don’t keep a journal, it’s too risky. Someone, somewhere will find it, they’ll read it, and they’ll use the information against me. Even (especially) those closest to me (seems irrational, and yet is not unprecedented). So the façade continues, driving me mad inside, undermining my health, propagating the lie. I recognize this is an unsustainable course. Eventually, I will lose my sanity (among my greatest fears), lose my patience (and probably perform some terrible act in the process), or lose my life (squander it meeting the expectations of others and not living a moment for myself). I do not yet know how to proceed. It seems that, for now at least, I must do this alone. Sadly, I cannot focus solely on this process (as I must still be a father, husband, employee, coach and teacher). I suppose this is pretty close to a midlife crisis, although sort of a retarded one. I don’t want the usual expressions of youth characterized in the stereotype, but rather I just want to find a way to be happy again. I want to be like the 7 year old me again, who looks at the future with hope and promise instead of bitterness and cynicism.