Our mental default that fuels chronic pain
My problems. My desires. My worries. My appearance. My feelings…
I. Me. Mine.
This is the way things tend to be inside our heads. Everything is framed around me, myself, and I.
It makes sense to some degree. Of course we’re the center of our own universes.
But the catch is that it happens intensely, and without us even noticing. With no awareness, we get completely caught up in our stories, operating with incessant me-centric inner chatter. It’s a default that’s frequently disruptive, if not a cause of pain.
I notice this in myself all the time. A recent example emerged in my efforts to be more honest and direct.
To avoid discomfort, I usually bite my tongue when something grinds my gears, and then complain to my husband, often with dramatic flair, later.
Needless to say, he doesn’t love this. (I admit, it’s not ideal.) But working on it has been rocky.
In some interactions, I can see that I lose people as I overexplain and justify. In others, I open the lid on my frustration too much and raw emotion spills out. Sure, I’m being more honest, but not more direct and barely effective.
In the end, I think this is all fair game in the trial and error of life. It’s a work in progress. Finding balance can be tricky. It’s not really a big deal.
But in my head – this is irritatingly major.
I’ve spent a nontrivial amount of time pondering how I must be coming across: What other people may be thinking; What this means about me; What remediation is necessary.
It’s the obsessive “me” narrative running wild.
It took me a minute to realize that I’d gone well past useful self-reflection in this department, but when I finally noticed my idle suffering, I remembered a simple and beautiful rule: The best response to suffering is to offer care. This clearly applies to others, but importantly to ourselves, as well.
So, I switched gears.
Caring, in its most basic form, involves paying attention.
I took a few deep breaths and an internal step back, where I was able to see and feel what I was doing. When I saw the “me” narrative erratically at play, I didn’t judge it or force myself to cut it out. I just stopped, saw it, and felt where it put me.
This helped.
Nonjudgmental attentiveness can often be enough to break us out of counterproductive storylines, returning us to a more even-keeled place.
This is just a small example, but our lives are full of mini “me” dramas. It’s the natural byproduct of our self-referential nature.
I invite you to see if this is at play next time you feel some kind of meh. Could you step back from your me-ness for a moment? Could you pause the story and feel where you’re at without the narrative?
I think it really helps.
But maybe it’s just me, me, me…
