Mental Health and General Life Advice Gained Over the Years
Here is a list of some things I’ve learned over the years that have, I think, helped me live a better life
Be flexible in my narrative. When I say things like ‘I’m just an anxious person,’ or ‘I suck at confrontation,’ then I risk fixing onto this narrative rather than managing it in a healthy way. I become unwilling to recognize instances where I’m not anxious. I ignore opportunities for growth. Instead, I find it better to foster a flexible narrative. I know it’s important to acknowledge, normalize, and even embrace my identities, but I don’t want to mistake an aspect of my identity for my identity wholesale. I’m not my anxiety. Rather, I struggle with anxiety. I’m not Depression. Rather, depression has had a formative influence on my sense of self. This, too, goes for my social identities. Identities are real, and they have very real impacts on our world and our experience, but they are not everything. To paraphrase James Baldwin, identities are like garments that ought to be worn loosely so that our nakedness—and ability to change—can still be felt.
Steep in my fallibility. The more I’ve learned about my personal fallibility—which is prodigious—the healthier my relationships and general approach to the world has become. Embracing my tendency to be biased and make mistakes has, I hope, fostered a strong sense of humility. Thank goodness, since this world is messy and complex as shit, and we are often—so very, very often—wrong about things. Or at least overly-simplistic. And because things are so goddamn complicated, it can be hard, even impossible, to see nuance. Our limited and parochial natures can lead us to ignore complexity, especially if that complexity doesn’t cast a favorable light on our beliefs about the world. I’ve developed an almost fetishistic obsession with learning about cognitive biases and the seemingly infinite number of ways my psychology leads me astray (as evidenced by the persistent string of posts I’ve made on it, like here, here, here, here, and here). Paradoxically, fully embracing and seeking out my fallibility has led me to have a much deeper understanding of the world around me. As Simone de Beauvoir says, ‘It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our life that we must draw our strength to live and our reason for acting.’ My genuine condition is that of a mistake-prone, biased, and mercurial ape. (And that’s pretty cool.)
Get in touch with the messiness. Why is it important to have a flexible narrative and to embrace our fallibility? Because shit’s complex! Incredibly, intensely, bone-chillingly, awe-inspiringly complex. Our brains have evolved as taxonomy machines where we carve up the world and separate everything into nice and neat little boxes. If only things could be so simple. As it so happens, though, the world is, as William James wrote, ‘multitudinous beyond imagination, tangled, muddy, painful and perplexed.’ I have found it to be very helpful to reflect on the complexity of everything, even the seemingly simple and straightforward.
Mindfulness exercises. ‘Mindfulness’ has, like ‘empathy,’ become a pop-psych buzzword over the last several years. This is partly because mindfulness is a very potent tool. It can fundamentally alter our day-to-day existence. There is no shortage of ancient schools of wisdom that have prescribed mindfulness as key to a meaningful existence. I’m partial to David Foster Wallace’s construction of mindfulness when he said that it is the true aim of a good education. With mindfulness we cultivate the power to choose where to focus our mental energies, to choose what has meaning and what does not. With practice, ‘it will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.’ In short, continued Wallace, ‘you get to decide what to worship.’
Thinking about thankfulness. Gratitude exercises are a form of mindfulness I’ve found to be especially beneficial. When I have the mental energy to do so, I try to get creative about my gratitude. I try to find gratitude in the mundane, the trivial, the invisible. It’s much too easy to be grateful for grand adventures and emotionally rewarding escapades. It can be much more difficult—but equally meaningful—to find gratitude in the humdrum, or to appreciate the infinite number of shitty things that didn’t happen to me, or to embrace the vast confluence of luck that has led me to this single moment of unadorned contentedness. This is another subject I’ve written about to a near-obnoxious extent (see some here, here, here, here, and here). I sometimes feel reservations recommending gratitude exercises, since, when things are really awful, as they so often are, it can feel patronizing and hurtful to have someone tell you that you should just be grateful. This is not my intention. The world is capricious and fucked up, far more often than it should be. This is why I try to access gratitude in the moments where things are okay. I try to seize moments of grace and calm and squeeze out those drops of thankfulness. This can add water to the reservoir that I will need to pull from when I’m thirsty and in pain. In my better moments, then, I can find gratitude, or some semblance or peace or perspective, even when I’m suffering. I can, as Nietschze wrote, ‘throw roses in to the abyss and say: “Here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.”’ And, ultimately, this has helped me get to a place where I can, more often than not, remain in a ‘contented dazzlement of surprise,’ to use Lewis Thomas’ turn of phrase.
Me and everyone I love will die. You know what else I’m grateful for? This breath. And this one. And this one. It’s pretty wild to be alive, to be a self-aware extension of nature itself. What a stunning convergence of necessary circumstance needed to randomly grant me such a privilege. And, just as it came, so it will go. Randomly and inexorably. Death awaits. There is no stopping it. Dark, suffocating, oblivion. This can be scary, of course. But it’s also motivating and contextualizing. Death is not yet here, after all. And that makes each and every breath, smile, kiss, and laugh a priceless cosmic treasure. Indeed, it is precisely because of our limited time that life is so meaningful. Emily Dickinson, as she was wont to do, summed it up eloquently when she said, ‘That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.’
I am not free. At the very least, I am not free in the way I’ve long thought. I am a physical being, subject to the laws of nature, of cause and effect. My thoughts are not authored by some mystical volition or unrestrained willpower. I am thoroughly restrained. I am, indeed, destined to write this sentence from the very moment the cosmos silently but extravagantly whispered itself into life. Some people recoil from this idea, thinking that if our thoughts and actions are determined by external factors, then life is meaningless, and change is futile. These conclusions do not follow. Change is occurring constantly. Our actions have consequences. What we do chaotically reverberates into our surroundings. We are determined, but not fated. We have power, even if it is not free. Instead of catastrophizing and fearing the implications of our lack of freedom, I like to reflect on what this means for how I treat myself and others. A lack of freedom motivates in me a deep sense of compassion. It demands forgiveness for both my mistakes and those of others. None of us asked to be here. We are, as Heidegger said, thrown into existence, awoken to a set of determined circumstance. I am the type of person who has been able to receive an education, to have supportive loved ones, to have a functioning moral compass, a disposition for moving and meaningful emotional experiences, and to want to work to make the world a better place. But I didn’t choose to be or have any of this. This is all luck, luck, luck. From my country of birth to my balding head and hairy back to every last neuronal blast fashioning my inner life—not one atom or twist of the genetic braid was chosen exclusively by me. So, if I find myself as the type of person who doesn’t want to harm others, who doesn’t have unmanageable compulsions, who doesn’t suffer from debilitating isolation, who isn’t disproportionately oppressed by the unconscious machinations of social systems, then this, like everything and all of it, is luck, luck, luck.
Interpersonal stuff. I’ve been very lucky to have had resources in my life, including access to healthcare, a support system, and loved ones who happen to be badass psychologists and counselors. I’ve gleaned invaluable life advice from these dear friends of mine. And thank the cosmos, as such advice has proven to profoundly improve my interpersonal relationships. A couple of quick ones: avoid ‘Shoulding’ on people. When I’m upset and in pain, I typically desire a compassionate and patient ear rather than practical advice. When people come at me with ‘Well, you should do this…’ I often just feel misunderstood or further alienated. Even worse is the ‘Nike Advice,’ where someone says ‘Just do such and such…’ This often feels invalidating because if it were a matter of ‘Just’ doing something, I would’ve already done it. Things are rarely so simple. Similarly, I’ve found it helpful to listen rather than problem-solve. I will commiserate and look for solutions if that is what the person asks for, but usually, I will try to be simply present for the other person, to sit with their pain and offer my compassion and understanding.
Meta-advice. Here’s some advice on my advice: take it with a fat, ballpark-sized soft-pretzel’s worth of salt. I am a philosopher, not a psychologist. I try to be very science- and research-driven, and I’ve been lucky to enough to draw from the hard-earned wisdom of other experts, but, nonetheless, I am not an expert myself. I try to live well. I try to be smart and kind and humble and patient, and I often fail. I am human, all-too-human. This is simply meant to be a sloppily-rendered summary of some helpful pieces of anecdotal advice I’ve gathered on my never-ending journey toward eudaimonia. Nothing more. It is non-exhaustive (this post is, like me after a night at home with a book and a DiGiornio, far too bloated), and I’m sure I’ll regret leaving out many pieces of pivotal information. But the above advice has (so far) been useful in my life. This does not mean it will be helpful for everyone. I hope, at least, that it would not be harmful. Do with it what you will, my friends, and good luck.