"Life meaning is always a derivative phenomenon that materializes when we have transcended ourselves, when we have forgotten ourselves and become absorbed in someone (or something) outside ourselves."
                                                                            Irvin D. Yalom

Wednesday night's group went the way existential group therapy is designed to go. We all lived our roles as we do in the real world. We had the quiet artist one who smiles and listens. We had the seething store manager who is caught between a condescending boss, unteachable subordinates, and disrespectful patrons. There was the action-oriented businessperson whose hair-trigger anger has been honed by years of litigation. One member's anger-to-forgiveness ratio was relatively low. Another member was balance on the love's tightrope between betrayal and abandonment. Some felt imprisoned by their moods, others by their corporal bodies. Several members were physically missing but no less present. There was the socially anxious extrovert, the optimistic depressive, the agoraphobic team leader, and the recovering addict who trusted the prescribing physician to a fault. Finally, there was the wounded healer, the designated leader who would rather serve by following.

That was the cast of characters. All the world's a stage, of course, and our little slice of it, an almost too-cozy consult room, lined with chairs, love seats, and sofa, with lights dimmed and voices hushed, had no audience save for ourselves. Instead of a curtain rising, hoisted by unseen forces, I closed the heavy door, marking the opening scene of our 90-minute improvisation. Thus began a drama, a comedy, and a history, all rolled into one, a study in post-modern realism.

The action began with introductions, old members to new ones and vice versa. By describing the week we had each had we revealed our individual modus operandi, the way we function "out there." As always happens, the way we function "out there" is also the way we function "in here," on our own private stage. In some groups, cross-talk is discouraged, if not forbidden. In ours, an open discussion is a must. If you have a question or comment, you speak it. If a response to what you have said moves you to either explain, defend, push back, or appreciate, then you do that; openly and honestly. We all waited for the plot to thicken, and it did. We hear stories of conflict out in the world, but conflict in the room, in the here-and-now, is what we need to see for our play to have substance. The out there stuff has come and gone. “This is this,” as Robert DeNiro’s character, Michael, demands in “The Deer Hunter.”

A character’s arc takes three acts to observe. In real life, that arc can span many weeks or months—years oftentimes. In our microcosmic group therapy sessions, that arc can be compressed. We can guess at each character’s call to action, we can see how inter- or intrapersonal conflict is resolved, we can observe how change is mustered through courage and creativity, and how attitudes, beliefs, and values can begin to bend. And in our little room, all our arcs bend toward, away from, and through each other’s. They carom off the walls and fold back against themselves. We are actors and audience members experiencing a shared odyssey. Together, we can feel that change is afoot. And the change moves apace, as if it knows we have under two hours to tell tonight's story.

I had intended to talk about balance in this piece. How in group we had discussed the way a “healthy” person uses both brain hemispheres to makes sense out of this existence and to navigate between and through the obstacles we encounter. I was thinking about how clients endeavor to manufacture the ideal product of any therapy: wholeness. But in introducing this topic, I couldn't help but be distracted by the process—forgetting the product entirely. But why shouldn't I? Life is only a process, after all, isn't it? We never get there, wherever we think “there” might be. We bring to group--and to the other parts of our life--our despair, our curiosity, our compassion, our very selves, and we act out our roles--now a hero, now a villain, now a jester--the best we can, hoping to portray our message honestly (or at least fool the critics and get some good reviews). We come alone, in whatever costume seems to fit, but we leave together, wearing the experience.

Someone proposed in group the other Wednesday that all his emotional and social difficulties are self-imposed. I can't disagree with the impulse to acknowledge our own complicity in our psychological suffering, to take responsibility for how we make our way in the world, but several members were quick to point out that he did not choose to be in a family of neglect and abuse. He did not choose to be raised by emotionally unavailable parents. He did not choose to be folded into a family of virtual zombies--neither alive nor dead, staggered by their own early traumas, aimless and festered, full of unspeakable cravings. He did not self-impose his history.

But it is indeed the choices we make after we manage to leap out of the traumatic frying pans of our families of origin and into the fire of our own kindling. Sure enough, years of observing our caregiving models—and learning thereby what it means to be nurtured--will teach us to nurture ourselves in the same way. If we learned that perfection is the only success, or that blind obedience trumps creativity, or that love or respect or dignity are only granted when arbitrary and unilateral conditions are met, then that can be how we are inclined to treat ourselves. And we will expect no less from the others we encounter within the greater humanity. Small wonder that misanthropy begets misanthropes.

There may be periods when we can distract ourselves from the self-imposed torture. There may be months or even years outside the nest when we feel as though we have escaped the soul-crushing cages of our youth; when we allow ourselves to explore and think and feel, more or less unencumbered by the twisted values we were inculcated with. But there is often a fall from this lofty perch of twenty-something exploration. For distraction cannot be sustained indefinitely. Eventually, we have to look inward and see that those muddy parental footprints still mark our path.

Wayne Dyer, therapist, lecturer, and renowned author of Your Erroneous Zones and many other books about self-work, would surely say it all comes down to perspective, attitude, and will. Here are three Dyer quotes that relate to our discussion of self-imposed emotional conditions (be they positive or negative):

The second quote is a little judgmental. It almost assumes that you've judged people before. How presumptuous! Well, let's assume that you have judged others. Can we also assume you have judged yourself? And what did you get out of that judgment? Did it motivate you to become better? Or did it just fulfill the messed-up program that's been running in your head since toddlerhood? I will now respectfully ask you to stop judging others. Once you start to do that, the destructive self-judgment that manifests your punishing symptoms will also start to disappear.

The third quote sums up the whole perspective/attitude/will formula for psychic success. But this sentiment, this advice, was said in a slightly different way back around 1930 by French poet, Paul Éluard: “There is another world and it is this one.”

This week, can we see things differently? Can we see ourselves differently? Can we treat ourselves differently? Can we treat the world differently? Is there a difference between how we treat the world, and how we treat ourselves? Will better treatment impose better outcomes? You tell me.

How is 2015 going for you so far? Better than the way 2014 started? Worse? The same? If things are different, is it because you're doing things differently—or are you doing different things? Is it because you're thinking differently—or are you thinking about different things? Has your support system changed? Have you changed? Can you remember back that far? Does it seem like yesterday? Does it seem like a blur? Are glad '14 is over? Do you wish you had it back? Do you look back in wonder, or regret, or awe, or bewilderment?

Whether we answered “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know” to these annoying questions, this might be a good time for us to assess how we plan to live during the next year. “Plan? What plan? Aren't plans the things we make to amuse our higher power?” Be that as it may, we have a choice to either try and exercise some control over what we think, feel, and do in the coming months or to give up that control to someone else, something else, or to just give up period.

But you haven't given up. Otherwise, you wouldn't be reading this. You wouldn't be coming to group, or going to your individual therapy, or exercising, or meditating, or pushing out of your comfort zone. You wouldn't be attending to mind, body, and spirit (as best you can) day-to-day. You have hope, and that's a start.

Big changes (and hero's journeys) start with a single step. January, the month named after the Roman god of transitions, gates, doors, beginnings, and endings, is the month we at least think about rearranging the order in our lives. That ancient god with two faces, one looking back and one looking forward, stands starkly in the middle of the passage of our present. He challenges us to think big by beginning small.

The familiar fable, "For the Want of a Nail," has been handed down, translated, told, retold, and reinterpreted (and even set to music) many times in at least the last 800 years. You may remember Benjamin Franklin as the author, but keep in mind that he created America's first public library (in 1731). So much of the wisdom our first librarian is credited for was gleaned from the books printed long before he was born, based on sources from centuries past. And what a service he did for those of us engaged in personal change by passing on this cautionary tale! The message isn't subtle: Small things, left unattended, can cause catastrophes. But just as true is the obverse: Attention to little details, things attended to and done right, at the right time, can build on themselves and cause great and positive change.

Another take on the old "Big Changes from Small Actions" idea is the butterfly effect. Theoretically, if a butterfly flaps its wings in Mexico City it's conceivable that a hurricane could eventually be generated in Maui. At least, metaphorically...right?

So here's to new, seemingly small beginnings. Just as a year starts with a second of time, so too do new lives for those of us willing and ready to look at this moment (this very moment right here) and then choose to think, feel, or act just a little bit differently. Good, or better, or even wonderful times can indeed be ahead for us. All because of a little decision to change everything.

QUESTION: When is rejection a good thing?

ANSWER: When it's intentional.

One of the best-known and most effective treatments for a phobia is exposure therapy. If you have a fear of riding on elevators, then it's not uncommon to be prescribed a course of riding on lots and lots of elevators. Of course, touching the elevator button might be the first step, then looking inside the car, then reaching for the door, and so on. All of this can take awhile, but that's okay. Treatments of longstanding conditions need to go at their own pace. But you can quicken the pace just by taking action. We've all experienced the magic of just doing something, rather than trying to do it. Phobias are little more than stories we get stuck inside. The reason some people are phobic and some aren't is because we all have different stories we tell ourselves (and different stories that tell us).

When it comes to dealing with the symptoms associated with social anxiety--a story many of my clients would like to get unstuck from--exposure therapy can also be very effective.  After all, what is social anxiety other than its own special phobia? Dealing with people, whether they are loved ones, coworkers, classmates, or strangers, is hard for the socially anxious folks I know. While intellectually, we know that the opinions others might hold of us don't matter, it feels like they do--even if we rationalize that they aren't thinking of us in the first place!

The fact is that people are too busy and too self-absorbed to care about us one way or another. It's true that some do waste time making uncomplimentary judgments of others to distract themselves from their own self-doubt. (If you fall into this camp, you might consider stopping this.) Of course, some people actually like us, or approve of us, or think we're amazing. Many of us have been told by the people we feel anxious around that we are great at our jobs, articulate, even exceptionally personable! But those are thoughts, and as we've seen, feelings have a way of not matching our cognitions.

A group member issued a challenge to himself as well as to the group on Wednesday. It didn't come out that way. It was raised more as an interesting idea, almost a therapeutic curiosity. He commented that he'd read that a good way to get past a fear of rejection is to experience lots of rejection. The article he cited suggested that one should ask strangers for things that would certainly not be granted: money, favors, or other "big asks." The idea is to ask lots of people for lots of things with the goal of being turned down. If the intent is to be rejected, then the turn-down, as a desired effect, is a success in the interchange, not a defeat. So two things are accomplished. First, the desired result is achieved, providing a sense of agency for the initiator of the contact; and second, through the process known as habituation (the effect of a stimulus becoming weaker with repetition), exposure to rejection becomes automatically less painful and therefore less impactful on the psyche.

We batted this idea around and it made perfect sense to us. As a theoretical concept. Some of us had experienced similar activities in which a friend challenges us to do something embarrassing in the form of a challenge and we do it to prove we are not a coward. Inevitably, dares are significantly more palatable than truths. One member pointed out a fact that several of us could relate to: When there is a witness--especially if there is video recording involved--and the intent is to entertain the witness and ourselves with some act of weirdness, it's much easier than when we are acting alone. I myself, when on a spring break road trip with close friends, both proposed and performed such embarrassing challenges. We called them tasks. They ranged from simply yelling, "Yreka!" as we drove through the California town of the same name (my friend Paul refused to do this or any other task), to trying to order a pitcher of gin and tonics at a diner, to asking a ranger at Redwood National Park, "Hey, is that a giant sequoia or is God just happy to see me?" (Jaclynn had no problem with this one.)

POSTSCRIPT
Speaking of synchronicity, five days after posting this, I heard a radio story on this very topic. A guy in Canada calls it Rejection Therapy! Click the Logo to hear it: