Affirmations

So, I've always been a total cynic about affirmations. I mean, really--cloying sayings that are supposed to improve my self esteem? Really?

So, when my very smart therapist recommended them as a strategy for dealing with job interview anxiety, I thought, okay, I'll give 'em a try. And a few months later, I finally got around to it.

So, in addition to the usual "I am strong," "I am beautiful" sorts of affirmations, I've got some good "I can" and "I will" statements:
I can let go of fear.
I can ask for what I want.
I can love myself for who I am.

I will ask for what I want.
I will take a new risk each day.

I'm also working hard at limiting the whole negative self-talk thing. In addition to the usual "shut the f*** up" response--which is really quite effective--I've started noticing the flip side of my flaws. Because it seems that frequently, the things I don't like about myself are just Side B of the things that I do.

Like the thin skin. Yeah, really thin skin. Easily hurt, quick to cry, slow to recover. But you know, I'm also very sensitive to others' needs, not just my own. And I'm quick to defend them--even folks I may be in competition with.

But that's another story.

So, final affirmation for today:
I can love my Side B's along with the Side A's.

Oh, and last week, I went to two different social events by myself--where I knew no one. I won't say I had the best time ever, but not bad.

Crying

Yesterday, on my hour and 20-minute commute home, listening to NPR, I cried. This in itself is not that unusual; I frequently reach for the kleenex in the glove box. In fact, on the morning drive, I was desperately saving my eye makeup when they played a clip of Fred Rogers telling me he liked me just the way I am.

But this round of tears was followed by a round of soul searching. This story on All Things Considered is about two dogs brought to the US from Iraq by the family of a deceased soldier. It seems Sgt. Peter Neesley had been caring for the dogs on the outskirts of his base, and when he died last Christmas, his family decided to find a way to bring the dogs to Michigan. It's a tribute to Neesley and to his family, an expression of love and respect.

And yet. What does this say about us as Americans, that we can find a way to rescue a pair of dogs, while the civilian death toll rises? Don't get me wrong--I have nothing but admiration for this soldier and his family. Their devotion and courage and energy are remarkable.

I'm unhappy with myself. That I can cry over a pair of dogs, refugees from a war-torn nation, while I routinely tune out the numbers announced on the radio each day: 28 dead. 18 killed. Soldiers, police officers, unemployed seeking work. Merchants, children, families at a pet bazaar.
You may think I'm being hard on myself. But I don't think I'm being hard enough. Case in point: the day following the shooting at NIU, I caught a bit of a news report: 28 dead. My heart sank. And then I heard that this was the number killed in a suicide bombing--I can't even remember where. Iraq? Afghanistan? Pakistan? And for a moment, I was relieved. And then horrified at myself.

There's a term for this, I know--this ability, or willingness, of the human brain to distance itself from the pain of others. It's one reason we're more compelled by the story of one person who dies than we are by statistics. Somehow, we can connect, we can empathize, with experiences similar to ourselves. As our students often say, we can relate.

The challenge is to find a way--without giving in to the sort of tearful handwringing I'm engaging in here--to respond actively, to do something, about those we have so little in common with, who seem so very different from ourselves.