negative.
It came one day, out of nowhere. That streak of negativity. I don't remember exactly when or where, but I remember the feeling the first time -- excitingly powerful, harsh like a blast of cold air, slicing through, leaving the smell of fresh blood. Not inward negativity, no -- outward criticism.
My entire life I've tried to be kind to strangers and those in need. It's a habit I got from my mother -- she insisted on it. And I've always been relatively frank with my family. It's the people in between that were different.
I've always been an internal person; that changed in college. Before, I remember my first real girlfriend telling me that she couldn't understand me, that I was too cold, distant. I remember feeling an inability to change it, so I'd always respond, "I'm an asshole." I thought that's what assholes were. Cold. Distant.
After college I tried opening up. It certainly felt like growing pains, but with two years under my belt, I was making progress. Since then, I've become talkative, vocal and opinionated. I've always had strong opinions; the difference this time is that I would voice them. (Eventually, strongly. With insistence. Often. But I'll get to that later.)
Since then, this social expansion has really helped me connect with people. That's the good in not keeping to yourself all the time. But I'm finding more and more that it's a semi-faux connection. Part of it's real, because there's a real me in there. But part of it is this social inclination I've developed in the last few years.
There's nothing wrong with being social, but there's an element of fakery at play: to connect with the broadest span of people, you sacrifice depth. It's simple mathematics: you can't have deep connections with everyone, all the time. Too bad -- I really like deep connections, but I don't like being alone in the world, either.
That talkative, loud, opinionated personality -- less street-borne effrontery, more know-it-all, empathetic self-savant -- has set the stage for a particular negative streak that I'm not fond of. The way I see it, it mars the kind-to-strangers guy I grew up knowing and being proud of being.
The criticism slices quickly, acutely, and with force. At first it was mesmerizing; I had the ability to be critical in a good way. I could identify problems, sort them, and offer solutions quickly. Efficiently. But it's since developed into an albatross of sorts, weighing me down across the shoulders, provoking headaches, stressing vision. Instead of pulling it out like a fine blade at a moment's notice to be used with precision, it sags in my belt and drags along the sidewalk. The critical sense has become a defense. It permeates everything. I identify problems everywhere, sort them regardless of whether it's necessary, and offer solutions regardless if they've been solicited. Quickly. Efficiently. Ruthlessly.
What I mean, of course, is that I feel critical of everything, including myself. Not in a bad way -- "I need to lose weight. I don't like my face. I wish I had a nicer car." Not like that. Instead, critical of what I read, critical of what I eat, critical of the people and things around me. I don't often recognize that I'm being critical at the moment but my mind has a sense of it. There's a duality there -- I'm aware of my own critical behavior, but I'm too tired by it to stop it. There's a happy person inside, but with all that armor on the happy person fails to see what's out there.
In the industry I work on, being critical is very much like currency. With a platform, it's easy to be; seen as a savant, it's expected. I love the industry I work in, but it's easy to slip into this pattern of behavior.
Complicating things is my natural inclination to take on too much work.
I recently read a series of articles -- one in New York, one in the New Yorker, one in the New York Times -- about neuroenhancers, distractions and the science of attention. They're captivating reads, and each has a different approach to the general theme. What I can't help thinking when I read them, of course, is how to simplify my life.
I mentioned that I have a natural inclination to take on too much work. I read an article in a business publication awhile back -- I don't remember which one -- about managing workers in the office. It focused on the different kinds of attitudes people have and how each employee approaches projects differently. For example, some workers like messy desks but get things done. Some like clean desks and get things done. Some are big picture people; some revel in transactional work and some are best without restrictions.
Reading this article, I fit the bill for the guy who gets everything done, on time, early, even. I don't remember what name the article gave to this personality type, but I remember it saying something about a worker who will pull long hours to get things done because they needed to get done. No bragging, no drama -- just gets the job done.
That's me. The caveat in dealing with a person like this is that it's easy to overstress them and difficult to tell that they're overstressed, because they just take it in stride (that's the "internal" me at work). So it's easy to unintentionally overassign work to this efficiency machine because it will get done either way.
That leads to stress, not outwardly expressed explicitly, but outwardly expressed nonetheless. Everybody needs to blow off steam.
Lately, I'm finding that I've got so much on my plate that the negativity and critical mouth are running the show. I don't realize I've got too much to do; usually someone must point it out. But hindsight's 20/20, and I can certainly say I've been working my tail off lately, at the expense of my attitude.
Everybody knows overworked people get cranky. But "overworked" is a state of mind -- sometimes people feel overworked and cranky without having much to do. What I'm finding is that I'm not snapping at people or depressed, but I'm watching my quality of life get sapped away.
I live a pretty good life, and I'm proud of it. It is the growing example of every bit of my efforts to get some stability so that I can do what I want to do in life without restriction. But as my plate gets fuller, and the critical streak of negativity pulses, I begin to approach every aspect of my life ruthlessly, like a laundry list of tasks.
The aformentioned New York article mentioned a brain phenomenon in which certain parts of life are treated as "task-oriented" by one part of the brain and others treated as "memories" by another part. In other words, you'll approach everything in life as either a task or a "remember this" moment. You'll remember the creative latter, and you won't remember the efficient former. The article argues that as distractions pile up, the brain increasingly shifts the load to the "task-oriented" part of the brain. Bye bye, memories -- but you've become ruthlessly efficient at divvying up tasks and dealing with an onslaught of information.
I've always had a spotty memory -- I remember most things vaguely and only certain things in vivid detail. Reading this article, it strikes me that I've been approaching my life too methodically -- yes, I'm getting my work done, but I'm not really enjoying life (or biologically documenting it). I stayed up late and got all my work done, but at the expense of fun.
So as each day passes and actual work piles up, I approach my life more and more as a task-based to-do list. Wash the dishes. Vacuum the floor. Get the mail. Make dinner. Check the weather. Watch TV for two hours. It's all a set of tasks to be checked off, and I'm gaining little enjoyment from doing them -- even though I'm vaguely aware of it. I know I'm supposed to be having fun, but I'm sacrificing the moment for the small satisfaction of having checked something else off the list. I ruthlessly approach things in my life, make cold judgment on it, move on. Fly-by-wire criticism.
Check. Check. Check.
But the brain's a funny thing, and as much as I'm in the moment of stressing and tasking and ruthlessly living, I recognize what I'm doing. Vaguely. Distantly. Coldly. I see myself running around, but I'm powerless to force myself to drop it all and live life. The phrase "stop and smell the roses" is cliche, but it's certainly true: 30 minutes prior, I walked by the roses, sized them up, remarked how healthy they looked, thought about what weather would allow such blooming and noted the kind of neighborhood that could permit such beauty to remain without someone defacing it.
Check, check, check.
Lately I've been walking home from work, all 55 blocks. As I approach a budgeted, requested portion of time off from work -- vacation -- the happy, creative, boundless me has been kicking at the critical, ruthless, task-oriented me to let go. (As with all "time off," it's always extra work leading into a vacation.) Compounding the problem is that I'm balancing work for three major, prominent websites -- I'm spread extremely thin anyway. Vacation couldn't come sooner, but I hope I'll be able to decompress enough to enjoy it.
My fear, of course, is being able to keep the negativity at bay. Keep the criticism to myself unless requested; keep my mouth shut and shrug off things. I clearly have a natural tendency to commit mental energy and space to things, even if I move on from them in practice; I'm praying that it's not something I must do, but rather something I must let go. Just let it go. Who cares. It's inconsequential.
In some ways I think I'm growing older too fast. I criticize too easily, I harbor the idealism of someone my age with the critical edge of someone much more experienced. The danger is that I don't really have that experience -- it's verbal slight-of-hand. It's aggressive and I don't like it. I don't want to kvetch anymore.
Half a year ago I went home and my mother noted how stressed I was; how tightly wound, how negative. A general pox on the family. Nothing to look forward to. I've been home since, with mixed results -- sometimes I've let it all go and I'm happy and natural and hang out and game for whatever; sometime's I'm task-oriented and ruthless and cold.
I'm looking to embrace happy and natural and hang out and game for whatever. My work is taking over my life, pushing me to be ruthless and quick and acute when there's no need for anything.
Sometimes I just need to stop and smell the roses. Or at least notice they're there -- so I can remember.
Check.
My entire life I've tried to be kind to strangers and those in need. It's a habit I got from my mother -- she insisted on it. And I've always been relatively frank with my family. It's the people in between that were different.
I've always been an internal person; that changed in college. Before, I remember my first real girlfriend telling me that she couldn't understand me, that I was too cold, distant. I remember feeling an inability to change it, so I'd always respond, "I'm an asshole." I thought that's what assholes were. Cold. Distant.
After college I tried opening up. It certainly felt like growing pains, but with two years under my belt, I was making progress. Since then, I've become talkative, vocal and opinionated. I've always had strong opinions; the difference this time is that I would voice them. (Eventually, strongly. With insistence. Often. But I'll get to that later.)
Since then, this social expansion has really helped me connect with people. That's the good in not keeping to yourself all the time. But I'm finding more and more that it's a semi-faux connection. Part of it's real, because there's a real me in there. But part of it is this social inclination I've developed in the last few years.
There's nothing wrong with being social, but there's an element of fakery at play: to connect with the broadest span of people, you sacrifice depth. It's simple mathematics: you can't have deep connections with everyone, all the time. Too bad -- I really like deep connections, but I don't like being alone in the world, either.
That talkative, loud, opinionated personality -- less street-borne effrontery, more know-it-all, empathetic self-savant -- has set the stage for a particular negative streak that I'm not fond of. The way I see it, it mars the kind-to-strangers guy I grew up knowing and being proud of being.
The criticism slices quickly, acutely, and with force. At first it was mesmerizing; I had the ability to be critical in a good way. I could identify problems, sort them, and offer solutions quickly. Efficiently. But it's since developed into an albatross of sorts, weighing me down across the shoulders, provoking headaches, stressing vision. Instead of pulling it out like a fine blade at a moment's notice to be used with precision, it sags in my belt and drags along the sidewalk. The critical sense has become a defense. It permeates everything. I identify problems everywhere, sort them regardless of whether it's necessary, and offer solutions regardless if they've been solicited. Quickly. Efficiently. Ruthlessly.
What I mean, of course, is that I feel critical of everything, including myself. Not in a bad way -- "I need to lose weight. I don't like my face. I wish I had a nicer car." Not like that. Instead, critical of what I read, critical of what I eat, critical of the people and things around me. I don't often recognize that I'm being critical at the moment but my mind has a sense of it. There's a duality there -- I'm aware of my own critical behavior, but I'm too tired by it to stop it. There's a happy person inside, but with all that armor on the happy person fails to see what's out there.
In the industry I work on, being critical is very much like currency. With a platform, it's easy to be; seen as a savant, it's expected. I love the industry I work in, but it's easy to slip into this pattern of behavior.
Complicating things is my natural inclination to take on too much work.
I recently read a series of articles -- one in New York, one in the New Yorker, one in the New York Times -- about neuroenhancers, distractions and the science of attention. They're captivating reads, and each has a different approach to the general theme. What I can't help thinking when I read them, of course, is how to simplify my life.
I mentioned that I have a natural inclination to take on too much work. I read an article in a business publication awhile back -- I don't remember which one -- about managing workers in the office. It focused on the different kinds of attitudes people have and how each employee approaches projects differently. For example, some workers like messy desks but get things done. Some like clean desks and get things done. Some are big picture people; some revel in transactional work and some are best without restrictions.
Reading this article, I fit the bill for the guy who gets everything done, on time, early, even. I don't remember what name the article gave to this personality type, but I remember it saying something about a worker who will pull long hours to get things done because they needed to get done. No bragging, no drama -- just gets the job done.
That's me. The caveat in dealing with a person like this is that it's easy to overstress them and difficult to tell that they're overstressed, because they just take it in stride (that's the "internal" me at work). So it's easy to unintentionally overassign work to this efficiency machine because it will get done either way.
That leads to stress, not outwardly expressed explicitly, but outwardly expressed nonetheless. Everybody needs to blow off steam.
Lately, I'm finding that I've got so much on my plate that the negativity and critical mouth are running the show. I don't realize I've got too much to do; usually someone must point it out. But hindsight's 20/20, and I can certainly say I've been working my tail off lately, at the expense of my attitude.
Everybody knows overworked people get cranky. But "overworked" is a state of mind -- sometimes people feel overworked and cranky without having much to do. What I'm finding is that I'm not snapping at people or depressed, but I'm watching my quality of life get sapped away.
I live a pretty good life, and I'm proud of it. It is the growing example of every bit of my efforts to get some stability so that I can do what I want to do in life without restriction. But as my plate gets fuller, and the critical streak of negativity pulses, I begin to approach every aspect of my life ruthlessly, like a laundry list of tasks.
The aformentioned New York article mentioned a brain phenomenon in which certain parts of life are treated as "task-oriented" by one part of the brain and others treated as "memories" by another part. In other words, you'll approach everything in life as either a task or a "remember this" moment. You'll remember the creative latter, and you won't remember the efficient former. The article argues that as distractions pile up, the brain increasingly shifts the load to the "task-oriented" part of the brain. Bye bye, memories -- but you've become ruthlessly efficient at divvying up tasks and dealing with an onslaught of information.
I've always had a spotty memory -- I remember most things vaguely and only certain things in vivid detail. Reading this article, it strikes me that I've been approaching my life too methodically -- yes, I'm getting my work done, but I'm not really enjoying life (or biologically documenting it). I stayed up late and got all my work done, but at the expense of fun.
So as each day passes and actual work piles up, I approach my life more and more as a task-based to-do list. Wash the dishes. Vacuum the floor. Get the mail. Make dinner. Check the weather. Watch TV for two hours. It's all a set of tasks to be checked off, and I'm gaining little enjoyment from doing them -- even though I'm vaguely aware of it. I know I'm supposed to be having fun, but I'm sacrificing the moment for the small satisfaction of having checked something else off the list. I ruthlessly approach things in my life, make cold judgment on it, move on. Fly-by-wire criticism.
Check. Check. Check.
But the brain's a funny thing, and as much as I'm in the moment of stressing and tasking and ruthlessly living, I recognize what I'm doing. Vaguely. Distantly. Coldly. I see myself running around, but I'm powerless to force myself to drop it all and live life. The phrase "stop and smell the roses" is cliche, but it's certainly true: 30 minutes prior, I walked by the roses, sized them up, remarked how healthy they looked, thought about what weather would allow such blooming and noted the kind of neighborhood that could permit such beauty to remain without someone defacing it.
Check, check, check.
Lately I've been walking home from work, all 55 blocks. As I approach a budgeted, requested portion of time off from work -- vacation -- the happy, creative, boundless me has been kicking at the critical, ruthless, task-oriented me to let go. (As with all "time off," it's always extra work leading into a vacation.) Compounding the problem is that I'm balancing work for three major, prominent websites -- I'm spread extremely thin anyway. Vacation couldn't come sooner, but I hope I'll be able to decompress enough to enjoy it.
My fear, of course, is being able to keep the negativity at bay. Keep the criticism to myself unless requested; keep my mouth shut and shrug off things. I clearly have a natural tendency to commit mental energy and space to things, even if I move on from them in practice; I'm praying that it's not something I must do, but rather something I must let go. Just let it go. Who cares. It's inconsequential.
In some ways I think I'm growing older too fast. I criticize too easily, I harbor the idealism of someone my age with the critical edge of someone much more experienced. The danger is that I don't really have that experience -- it's verbal slight-of-hand. It's aggressive and I don't like it. I don't want to kvetch anymore.
Half a year ago I went home and my mother noted how stressed I was; how tightly wound, how negative. A general pox on the family. Nothing to look forward to. I've been home since, with mixed results -- sometimes I've let it all go and I'm happy and natural and hang out and game for whatever; sometime's I'm task-oriented and ruthless and cold.
I'm looking to embrace happy and natural and hang out and game for whatever. My work is taking over my life, pushing me to be ruthless and quick and acute when there's no need for anything.
Sometimes I just need to stop and smell the roses. Or at least notice they're there -- so I can remember.
Check.