Don't Feed the Deranged Squirrels

Don’t Feed the Deranged Squirrels…

I don’t know about you, but there are rodents in my head, several of them, pulling circus stunts on wheels that go around and around but get neither them nor me, anywhere. 

Obsession, compulsion, addiction, worry, plotting, scheming, meticulous record keeping, pattern making nonsense. 

I’ve lived long enough and come far enough to know these are simply squirrels. Sometimes rabid, anxious, ferocious squirrels with absolutely no power to protect me let alone serve me or make me happy. 

Lately, I’ve been coming to identify them - made up stories, narratives I tell myself to explain the antagonistic ghost pains I feel: inferiority, rejection, insatiability, failure, et al.  

I eat. 

I barrage my lovers with inquiries and accusations. Sometimes out loud. Usually in the screaming silence of the night. 

I run, for miles, in place - as metaphor of course, but also quite literally - on a treadmill - the mockery of movement, of advancement. 

I vacillate between old, unfulfilling careers, slinging spreadsheets or analyzing booze and the unconsciousness of those around me. And sometimes of myself. 

This is tantamount to throwing breadcrumbs, er, entire fucking loaves of bread out to the insatiable squirrels running madly on their prison wheels. 

Without metaphor it goes something like this: 

I have a doubt. Who knows where it comes from? Where it comes from is irrelevant. Some long held, false belief about the way the universe works, who I am, what I deserve, what role other people’s ideas play or should play into my existence - blah, blah, blah - irrelevant doubt. 

The doubt becomes an itch,  innocuous enough at first, but with my attention, its intensity grows. Soon, I feel COMPELLED to validate the doubt. I start investigating. Looking for evidence to support this doubt. It isn’t difficult to find evidence you seek. Scientists and mathematicians have known this for centuries. Confirmation bias. Ignore all findings that don't support your theory. Magnify findings that do support your theory. Viola. Doubt confirmed. Squirrels fed. And for the fact that these doubts AND finding have no basis in reality whatsoever? No matter. Perception is reality. I’m rejected if I say I am, and no amount of cajoling will appease me. Prophesy (doubt) fulfilled. I feel like shit. I am shit. I was right!!

Awesome.

Well, if that isn’t just the prettiest little pickle. Is there a solution? Thank my lucky stars, I believe there is. 

I’m starving out those fucking squirrels. 

Not to ply you with yet another animal analogy, but my (hilarious and angry) grandmother used to say, “You can’t keep the birds from flying over your head, but you CAN keep them from building a nest in your hair.” What she meant was, thoughts will come, but the attention you give to them is a CHOICE. I’ve modified this adage to “I’m starving out those fucking squirrels.”

Doubts still come. I accept they will likely continue to arise for years, if not for forever and ever and ever… (ahem, amen).  But I’m starving them. I’m paying attention to the attention I pay them. I’m not feeding them half-cocked evidence. I’m not giving them the satisfaction of looking to others - not by way of requesting validation, nor by means of comparing myself to others. 

Now, I say “I’m doing this…!” very emphatically, because I want to impress this behavior and thinking into regular service, but the truth is, it IS practice. It is tantamount to turning an ocean liner around. I have been thinking habitually for over thirty years. To start new ways of thinking means stumbles, pitfalls and set backs. It means when times are trying, if I’m not sleeping or eating well, if my heart breaks, this will be more of a challenge than on those sunny days when all faces you see are smiling. That's ok. Nevertheless, I will persevere in this active decision to starve those fucking squirrels. 

As usual, its an inside job. So I go lightly, tenderly into this activity with gratitude, presence and forgiveness - not for the deranged squirrels, but for the me in which they reside.