A Quick Primer On Empathy, or Empathy 101

I sometimes wonder if some people are judgmental because they lack certain life experiences, and are therefore incapable of imagining what other people's struggles feel like. Actually, I don't wonder that at all. I'm certain of it. So I offer the following list of unpleasantries that everyone should suffer at least once in their lifetime, in the interest of increasing empathy and becoming better people. I realize this list is incomplete and horribly biased toward my own stuff. And I should confess that this post is, in part, a reactive rant inspired by a rude comment on my essay about depression on Everyday Feminism. Whatever. I'm okay with that.

When you've endured each of these for a minimum of one or two hours, feel free to judge others:

• Labor (the childbearing kind, not manual)
• A debilitating migraine (as if there is any other kind)
• Severe depression (or any mental illness, really)
• Prejudice (being the target of racism, sexism, homophobia)
• Chronic pain (not visible to others)
• Poverty (or even the specter of being one crisis away from losing everything)
• Loneliness (not just feeling alone, but having literally no one to reach out to)
• Physical withdrawal (from prescription drugs, OTC drugs, street drugs, alcohol, cigarettes)
• Failure (of the big, humiliating, life-changing nature)
• Fear of losing a loved one (in a discrete, immediate sense)
• Spending time in a psych ward (yup, been there)
• Being kicked in the balls (for the men out there)
• Stupidity (throwing this in here because it seems only fair)

I believe there are traumas no one should ever have to experience: physical or sexual abuse, the death of a child, war, famine, manmade or natural disasters—the list goes on. These are easy to empathize with, perhaps because they seem so distant and unlikely to affect us personally.

So, what did I miss? What would you add to this list?

UPDATE: Considering the thoughtful comments (below), I stand corrected. Don't judge. Just don't. It's not nice.

Badvice

A list of some of the worst advice I've received in my 45 years. I like to think much of it was well-intentioned, but I suspect there was a lot of projecting going on. Most of these gems came from one or both of my parents, and a few from well-meaning friends.

Photo courtesy of the internets

1. "Fun is not a worthwhile pursuit."
Honestly, I never really believed this. Still, it's stupid advice.

2. "Expect the worst and hope for the best."
I fell hard for this one, and spent most of my childhood and adult life waiting for something awful to happen. I still have difficulty just being happy.

3. "Brad will never change."
Okay, this was good advice at the time, but it still turned out to be wrong. I love my girlfriends!

4. "Never quit a steady job, no matter what."

This, just before I took a six-month sabbatical and returned to my previous employer as a consultant, billing four times what I was paid before.

5. "Don't trust anyone. Not your realtor, not your best friend, not even your husband."
Wow. Just... wow. Not a great way to experience intimacy. Enough said.

6. "If you have to ask for help, it's not the same as if someone offers."
I spent so many years waiting for people to read my mind. That didn't work very well, and when I finally learned to ask for help, it was every bit as good—maybe better—than when people offered. It gave me a sense of control over my needs, and made it easier for me to help others who were brave enough to ask.

7. "You could manage your depression with diet and exercise, you know."
I am not exaggerating when I say I would be dead if it weren't for antidepressants. And yes, I have tried EVERYTHING ELSE, including talk therapy, diet and exercise, homeopathic crap, acupuncture, hypnosis, meditation, and a smelly shaman I met in Guatemala. (Okay, I made up that last one.) To those with so little understanding of chronic, clinical depression, I say: lucky you! And, you know, don't speak.

8. "Don't get a dog. You'll lose it someday and it will break your heart. It's not worth it."
I got my first dog when I was in college. She was a year old, and we were together 15 more years. She died in my arms and it broke my heart more than I ever imagined possible. But it was worth it, and I will do it again and again and again until the day I die. Dogs rule.

9. "Save the best for last."
What does this horrible cliché even mean? If I save the best for last, I'll be enjoying the shit out of all that mediocre stuff until... when? The end of the meal? Retirement?

10. "I don't think you should bother taking calculus again. You passed."
Oh, freshman year of college. While a D- is a passing grade, I should have taken that class again if only to prove to myself that I could do better. Going to class might have been a good start. Studying earlier than the night before the exam would have helped. Most important, I should have taken college more seriously from the start, an expensive lesson in priorities.

What badvice have you received?

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Shout out.

I always love comments on my blog — even the nasty ones! Yesterday's batch truly made my day, however, and I wanted to say a heartfelt thank you, to friends and strangers. At times I can't imagine my ruminations could be of interest to anyone but my parents (actually, I'm pretty sure they stopped reading this a long time ago because of all the swearing). So why blog? I blog out of a need to write; I blog because it brings some order to the chaos in my brain; and yes, I blog to promote my book. The unexpected side effect has been the connection I feel when someone gets what I'm saying. So again, thank you!

Happy New Year!

One of my very favorite people, Lisa Tomlin, emailed this to me recently. It resonated, and seems like a dog-diggity great way to start the new year.

The Two Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all."

"One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego."

"The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Thank you, Lisa. You continue to astound me.

Perspective, with a side of humility.

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Comic relief.

My parents sent this to me when I was in college, and I've kept it this long because it always makes me laugh. (Click to enlarge.)

Good bread, good meat.

Since Grace was with her father on her birthday, Michael made an extra special dinner to cheer me up. (Apologies to my vegetarian and vegan friends.) I will say this: that man knows how to grill meat to perfection.

Also, the yummy sourdough bread and mushrooms, along with a bottle of wine (so gone!), were a last minute gift from a woman in the neighborhood who Michael helped get back into her house earlier this week in the wee hours. That night, while he tinkered with the lock, I commiserated about the whole locking out bit, with which I am painfully familiar. (And tonight, I took the opportunity to plug my book and hand her a business card, since Annie Bloom's has chosen to remove my one remaining book from their shelves.)

I digress. Happy birthday, Gigi; I miss you. And thanks to Michael and Ivy for a delicious meal! I'm full, and my faith in the goodness of (most) neighbors has been reinforced.

Really, REALLY bad timing.

Here's my car after I was cut out of it July 1st. (News story here.) I like little old ladies as much as the next person, but I don't necessarily think they should be driving unless they can stay in their own lane. She didn't drift into my lane; she turned so quickly, it was like she was aiming for me. I was able to swerve just enough to avoid a head-on collision — which means she nailed me right in the driver's side door. I remember that awful crunching noise, glass, smoke, spinning as if the car was airborne, and airbags. I actually tried to get out of the car when it stopped, because I watch enough movies to know that cars explode when they crash. But I couldn't really manage anything other than dialing 911 on my cell, then handing it to the guy who appeared in my window. Turns out he was an off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, and while I couldn't pick him out of a lineup, I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life. He started an IV, gave me gauze to hold on my face, had another guy climb in back to hold my head still, called my parents and talked to everyone else who called after that. Most important, HE WAS THERE. I was completely in shock, shaking uncontrollably and not at all comfortable with the amount of blood soaking my clothes. It took the emergency crew what seemed like FOREVER to arrive, and I simply cannot imagine being alone that whole time, or even being with just regular good samaritans (who also stopped). He was my guardian angel that day.

I thought I could blog about this with some sense of perspective, that it might even be cathartic. I was glib about the accident on facebook, probably because of the painkillers. But now that I'm home with Grace and I realize how close I came to never being home with Grace, I don't think I have enough distance from the experience just yet. So I will say this: thank God I was alone in the car and that the old couple wasn't hurt. My face is a mess and my body is sore, but I'll heal; I'm lucky to be alive. I'm not sure when I'll get behind the wheel again. I suppose when I get a car and need to go somewhere.

A birthday haiku

May twenty-seventh
I am forty-two years old.
How did this happen?

The stuff that Brady's dreams are made of.

The squirrels relentlessly pilfer seeds from the bird feeder inches from our kitchen window. I've seen ONE bird, but at least three squirrel heists. (The underbelly of a squirrel is not nearly as cute as you might think when it is dangling outside the window while you eat your granola.) Grace goes into some sort of spastic overload when this happens; if Brady ever sees what's going on IN HER OWN YARD, she will likely launch herself onto the kitchen table and through the window.


Boldly eyeballing us through the window. Cheeky bugger.


Even Grace's hysterics didn't deter him.


Pretty nimble.


Seriously, how is this possible?


Greedy little dude just kept eating. I can relate.

Hiatus

I haven't posted lately because my home computer is in intensive care, and I don't feel comfortable blogging at work. The culprit is the hard drive, which will undergo a transplant. All of my files, however, are permanenty lost to amnesia. Photos. Videos. My address book. My novel. And even though I'm a computer geek, I do not back up regularly, and it's been a while. I've got a rental so I can still access the internet, but it's just not the same, you know? First my camera and now my computer; I think it's a sign I should take a break for a while.

Who's the biggest loser?

Actual conversation:

"I think I was rejected today by someone I hadn't even decided I wanted. Yesterday he confessed his feelings for me, so I spent a night weighing the possibilities, then today he said he couldn't just walk away from all of his obligations. He seemed angry. I actually cried when we hung up."

"Wow. Poor honey. So I think the wedding planner broke up with me on the phone the other night. I was kind of drunk and he woke me up, so I don't exactly remember what we said, but I don't think it was good. You think I should call and ask what happened, or wait and see if he ever calls again?"

Dating must suck.

Serendipity doo dah...

In my ongoing quest to confuse people from my past by contacting them out of the blue (some to whom I haven't spoken in almost twenty years), I may have found a little of what I've been looking for. After a Google search and a couple of emails, today I spoke with David, my boss from my first job out of college. I worked in the marketing department of a liquor distributor, and David was The Don of Fine Wines. I grew up in a really small town, and my college experience in St. Louis was a four-year game I couldn't win because nobody bothered to tell me the rules. David was everything I wanted to be, and I was completely infatuated with him. He was older; he knew wine and food; he was effortlessly dapper and cultured; he had traveled; and, to top it all off, he was funny rather than boorish, which wine people can tend to be. He also provided me with a shitload of free wine (gotta know the product) and took me to fabulous parties, wine tastings and all the hottest restaurants in St. Louis. He put a mini-fridge in my office and brought me lunches he had cooked himself, introducing me to the idea that Italian food can taste good even when it's not smothered in gooey sauce. And he turned me on to cooking, for which I will always be most grateful. I can quickly and easily julienne basil, de-vein shrimp and peel tomatoes thanks to time spent as his sous-chef, and I will never be able to stand inferior olive oil or overcooked poultry. Hearing his voice this afternoon, I felt like it was just yesterday he pounded on the wall between our offices to get my attention.

What does this have to do with the little pirate above? Just that I appreciate the influence he had on my life, the ripple effect of having known one person for a short while. Working for David for one year was like getting paid to go to finishing school. But had he managed to convince the bobble-head running the company to pay me more, I might never have left St. Louis, moved to Chicago, met John and had this kooky little girl that makes me laugh every day. I wasn't my best self when we knew each other, but he put up with me then and sounded genuinely happy to hear from me today. That's pretty wild if you think about it. Thanks, David, for that and for the David's Old World Brand Pastrami I'm going to pick up at Elephant's tomorrow.

As for Rachel, David's wife and business partner, I had a feeling he had met his match the day she came into the office wearing leather pants. She was smokin' hot. Lucky man.

Out with the old.

I grew so tired of this faux-wood stapler pilfered from a Chicago ad agency almost twenty years ago. It depressed me. Guess where I got the sleek new one? Uh huh, STAPLES. What, like you've never been overcome by a bout of shallow consumeritis? I'm not embarrassed to admit, it brings a twinge of joy every time I use it. Is that so wrong?

The things that really matter.

I've gotten some grief over the bruise post -- not because I was immodest enough to share a picture of myself in my underwear, but because of what one friend, who shall remain nameless, referred to as my "granny panties." Apparently he would have preferred to see me in a lacy black thong, or something at least a little fancier than blue cotton. I feel I should defend myself here, because it's a Victoria's Secret bikini, not some gray polyester number that goes all the way up to my waist and sags in the bum. It may even have been a low-rise bikini -- I'd check but I'm doing laundry. Of course, this is the same person who complimented me on my photo in the bathroom, pointing out, "Your hair doesn't look as greasy as it usually does." And, as long as I'm on a rant, he ended an anecdote about running into a friend of his ex's by muttering, "Thank God I'm skinny." You know who you are, and why I love you so much -- because we think alike, but you actually say it all out loud.

Salmonella. Not nearly as fun as Salman Rushdie.

And I hear he can be a real stitch after one too many vodka gimlets. Honestly? I wouldn't recommend it.

Too much information, clearly.

File yesterday's contribution under "Laurel sharing a bit more than necessary while whacked out on Vicodin," unless you are a fan of other people's tedious medical experiences. And Happy Birthday, Dad!

Morphine, Dilaudid and Zofran, oh my!

That was the drug cocktail I got in the ER this morning to stop the barfing and the cramping, which I swear was worse than labor. And a saline chaser for dehydration. It was delightful. Even though I got stuck with a paramedic trainee who took about twenty minutes to start my IV, the people who made me feel better were, once the drugs kicked in, my very favorite people in the world, which I told them repeatedly. This friggin' virus kicked my sorry ass. It's because of all the ants I've been killing, isn't it?

My tummy, she is sick.

This is pretty much how I looked all day today, except I was in more of a fetal position, and either in bed or on the bathroom floor. I don't know if it was the sushi platter a couple days ago or this stomach virus going around, but DEAR GOD I felt like crap (pun intended). I love my mother and Leslie for listening to me complain about my condition ALL DAY LONG and never letting on that they were bored. Grace didn't seem too concerned, but she did cover me with a blanket while I laid on the floor and watched her unload the contents of the bathroom cabinets. And I don't think she hit me once today.