The System is Rigged--Higher Education and My Discontents

Is it worth it to go to grad school? This is a question I have been grappling with for many years now. I knew from a young age that I was interested in people--what made them think and behave. I was committed to studying psychology and pursuing advanced degrees to be able to practice therapy. So I went to college, like most privileged white children--it wasn’t a question that I would head straight to college after high school. It was necessary--a no-brainer. In fact, people who did not go straight to college in my small town were looked down upon.

I wish I would have put more thought into the opportunistic time in life that was--being 18, without debt or any financial commitments. What a perfect time to travel, see the world, meet some interesting people, have your views challenged. But instead I trudged on the path laid out for me by my highly educated parents.

I worked hard in college, maintained a 4.0 GPA and graduated in 3 years. I chose to go to a school where I could get a scholarship, and ended up with minimal amounts of student loan debt--about $20,000. I wish someone would have explained to me better about the realities of debt--what that looks like on a daily basis after you start working. When I was making the choice to go to college, all the adults around me kept saying “Don’t worry about the money! Go to a good school and it will pay off! Everyone has student loan debt, it is an investment!”

And maybe all those adults were speaking on behalf of their experience attending undergrad in a time where that degree meant a lot more. An undergrad degree nowadays is practically equivalent to a high-school diploma. It doesn’t make you stand out, it just allows you to pass certain ‘qualification’ gates in the job-search.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy I went to college. I definitely learned so much, met some lifelong friends, and partied enough to have stories to recount for many years. And I am thankful my amount of debt is not so overwhelming, but it is still significant, considering the average pay in my field.

With a psychology bachelors, there aren’t many entry level fields with high-paying jobs to get into. I was drawn the social work, so my first job out of college was at a transitional housing facility where I essentially ‘worked the door’ and made sure clients got their meds, broke up fights--that kind of thing. My starting wage with my expensive degree? $12.75/hr. And it was only a 32/hr a week position.

Essentially, I was taking home around $1,300/mo from this job and living in a fastly growing city--Portland, OR--this was barely enough to squeak by on, without having to think about debt repayment. Because of my student loan payment of about $250/mo (which is affordable comparably) I had to get a second job at a coffee shop where I made $10/hr in base wages and around $6/hr in cash tips on top of that.

I was baffled at the easy money I made working as a barista--a job I definitely did not need to have a degree for, in fact I worked as a barista all through high-school and during college. I made between $16-$18/hr at this coffee shop--granted I did not get PTO or benefits, but it seemed so twisted that the ‘field-related’ job I worked so hard to actualize truly wasn’t enough to live off of.

I live in a city full of service-industry workers with colorful academic letters pinned to their names--M.S, M.A., M.B.A, PhD even. Why are they serving sushi or pouring your nightly IPA and not working 9-5 in their prospective fields of study? This is obviously rhetorical--because it does not pay to get a higher education in many fields.

But many of us feel stuck, unable to grow our career without those credentials. As a social worker or psychologist--it is necessary to get at least your masters to have a chance at promotion. And even those ‘higher-wage’ positions awarded to masters-level workers aren’t significantly better pay, maybe between $33,000-$40,000 as opposed to $24,000+ for us with bachelors.

How is my generational workforce expected to move through the conventional life-course without a livable, stable wage and adequate health benefits? None of us can afford to have children. No one would green-light us for a mortgage with that atrocious debt-to-income ratio. And yet we are seemingly unable to move-up in our careers without taking on the higher education debt commitments with a laughable ROI.

I read everywhere that you shouldn’t take on more student loans than your expected first-year of work salary. I’m sorry, but what kind of advice is this? Does anyone know where they can complete a grad-program for less than $50,000? Except for you PhD-research brainiacs who seem to get grad-school paid for because of your research grants. Getting a masters level education with a smart ROI is not possible for us in social service. The system has set us up for failure.

I have some friends in marketing who are making over $60,000 in their first few years out of undergrad. And I just can’t believe the disparity and how discouraging is it that people working to promote giant company interests make 150% more money than clinical social workers and mental health counselors doing therapy, case management, crisis relief, trauma-informed care--working for the betterment of society as a whole. Maybe I just chose the wrong field--of course I don’t mean that. I love my work and I feel just as passionate about psychology as ever, but I do feel as though I am in a precarious position.

I have been thinking for many years about going to graduate school. I’ve wanted to get my masters so I can work as a certified counselor and run a private practice. I’ve even researched the programs I’d like to attend and narrowed it down. Every year I think I will apply, because it just ‘feels like it’s time.’

I say this because there is a certain ‘ceiling’ you will hit in the social work field with just an undergrad degree. I love the organization I work for, I make a sustainable wage (for a privileged single woman) and have good benefits. But I know that I can’t keep making this amount of money and accomplish the things I’d like to in life--buy a house, have some children, work towards retirement.

A rock and a hard place. Most masters level counseling programs are going to put me in 6-figures of debt, and yet the median starting wage for certified counselors is around $45,000 (optimistically). It’s not sustainable. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life paying off my education when I could be investing that money elsewhere.

I am sure there are countless others who ride the ‘grad-school’ mental rollercoaster like I do. And after chewing through these laments day-in and day-out--I don’t have any good answers. A fellow social worker I was speaking with the other day told me, “You’ve gotta partner up with someone who makes money--that’s the only sustainable way to do this work.”

Now I won’t go into all the feminist issues I have with that statement, but what this person said does carry weight. Is that really the only option available to those of us called to social service? Partner-up or live in poverty?

Something’s gotta give.

Malleable Empathy

Being an aunt comes with many lessons. Babies have a way of reminding us of our foundations in life, our true necessities. They also come with a lot of responsibilities and ‘growing pains.’ Right now Taft is teething which, for anyone who hasn’t been around infants, is the worst. They won’t eat, sleep, or stop crying because their little gums are so sore.

I personally can’t remember what it feels like to have teeth ripping through my gums, but I imagine it is fairly painful. For those of us taking care, it is difficult to respect the infant’s valid experience when they are wailing and inconsolable. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, “Yep Taffy, teething hurts but life doesn’t get any easier— better saddle up.” And this diminution of experience isn’t helpful for anyone.

I remember my mom once sitting on the floor with me in our living room on a particularly dramatic night. I was very depressed and on the verge of suicide. She came downstairs and tried to talk to me.

“I was a teenager once too, you know,” she consoled me, “I remember what it’s like.”

And yet I felt so alone—like she could never understand what I was going through. I am coming to recognize how feeling with people is very different than relating to them—it’s a matter of empathy. As adults, we have a tendency to diminish woes of those in different ages and stages of psychosocial development with a ‘just you wait till blank’ response, rendering the person’s current issues in this time and space trivial. Even with ourselves, how often do we discount our feelings by drowning them in labels of how we 'should' be instead of how we are.

Sometimes when I stay at the Mirai, I go down to the workshop and watch Ryan wire trees. Hunched on a stool with house music soaring in the background, Ryan has conversations with his hands. He radically bends, bruises, grafts, chops, redirects the flow—all to create a foundation for exceptional growth. The trees respond. 

             “Have you ever broken a tree?” I asked him once as he was precariously bending a deadwood limb past what looked like its tipping point.

            “Absolutely,” He smiled without pausing his copper choreography, “but I have also made some pretty fuckin awesome trees.” He took a step back as the pine’s branches settled in their new contorted harmony. “If I don’t go all out, these trees would never be worthwhile. You’d be amazed at how far they can be pushed.”

I continually am in awe of the malleability of wood—such a rigid medium in my perception. Similarly with the development of the self, our current state often feels rigid--weighed down by conditions of our past or future. 

It is easy to forget that our personal wiring happens one day at a time. We can’t judge other people’s experiences or struggles as invalid, or even our own, because every moment we are in is very real. All of our growing pains contribute to the integration of a whole self-- all are valid and worthy of respect. Empathy is a tool for radical personal and communal transformation. We all agree that it takes heartbreaks, teething, new environments, grafting roots, better fuel, vitamin D, and uncomfortable, radical contortion to make ‘fuckin awesome’ humans--so we should be a little nicer to each other and ourselves on the way. 

Inherited Insecurity

             Holidays bombard the mind--the sweets and meat sweats, the nog-fueled family games and consequential brawls. It is without a doubt, the most haywire time of any year. Everything seems magnified—feasts, gifts, love, loneliness. For anyone teetering on insanity, this is the time to go ham. I’ve surfed this holiday season high like a pro. But, as Newton assured us, there is always a come down; it’s science. 
             I write this at our breakfast bar on another bluebird Colorado morning. The parental units have made their exit to the daily grind in an agro-rush, to-do lists abounding, while I take my time with the morning, make another cup of coffee and let that feeling sink in. You know, the feeling when everyone else in your life seems to have a plan, a purpose, even if it makes them miserable and you sit, twiddling thumbs, eerily content yet maddeningly concerned. I wonder if the Germans have a word for this (they have a word for everything); I shall simply call it ‘postcollegiateangst.’

            If there were such a place in which this psychosocial state would be less of a burden, my hometown should be up there. In fact, I will admit that Glenwood Springs, Colorado is quite exquisite—with landscapes worthy of Ansel Adams’ praise for days and colorful people to fill the space between takes. Living in this high mountain valley of Colorado is a dream, for anyone but those who grew up here.

            You know how it is, coming home. It is the kind of place where everyone knows your name, and that of your parents, and grandparents. And the whole time you’ve been gone, some grand tale has been squeezed down the gossip drain of work-out mom groups and hockey dads as to what you’ve been up to. University is an easy scapegoat; it’s like a coupon for four years out of their microscope of scrutiny. But man, once you dawn that cap, get ready for the firing squad of interrogators. I suppose this—what I like to call ‘small-town syndrome’—and a mélange of my sociocultural upbringing is the reason why every time I come home, no matter what time or space in life I occupy, I feel like a failure.

            I have made the habit of jittering my way through daily tasks with the kind of subtle anxiety that follows hyper-caffeination. A few nights ago, my Dad arrived home from work and I was a veritable mess—cooking, crying, laughing, making excel spreadsheets to map out my life.

            “Hey Kendall Nicole,” he beamed, “how was your day?”

            I shrugged my shoulders and broke down, “I feel worthless Pops.” He enveloped me in a bear hug. I shared with him my fears of this space in my life—where everything is uncertain and responsibilities are endless. I had recently made the decision to move to Portland, Oregon. All prodigious decisions ensue rippling doubt in their wake—did I make the right choice, how will I find work, I don’t have a network—etc.

            My father quelled my discontent with a dose of perspective, as he always does, “Kendall, I can’t imagine much else in the world should scare you considering where you have been and what you have accomplished.”

            This comment really got me thinking about the unsettling aura that has taken refuge in the folds of my prefrontal cortex. It is a societal script of inadequacy that women internalize. We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. There is a self-esteem epidemic among my fellow ladies of the West and I think it is insidiously impeding our progress as humans with incredible talent for change and success.

            How peculiar is that I am so much more comfortable being abroad? I am not afraid to make mistakes or a fool out of myself; I have faith that everything will work out because it has to. In harsh juxtaposition, my home environment makes me question everything—my future, my body, my life-choices. Granted, women are treated atrociously in India, but there is certainly something about our society that degenerates women’s/human’s confidence.

            Perhaps it is a matter of context and this space carries age-old triggers specific to my conditioning, while being in a foreign land allows one to form a new self-concept irrespective of place, people, and past. When you are participating in another society you can always distance yourself from the cultural problems you witness; you can throw up your hands in surrender and think, “this place is crazy.” But when observing social issues at home, it is not something so easily ignored because it is in our mother cultures that we see a reflection of ourselves.

            One aspect of our culture that I find pressures young adults into settling for a safe,  ‘correct’ life (by societal standards), as opposed to pursuing their unique passions, is the premium placed on absolutes. Whether or not we are willing to admit it, we are dualists who thrive on certainty. I blame the religion of science for this mode of thinking—and consumerism. We categorically organize our world because that is what our culture values—a box and complementary explanation for everything. This mental technique, although extremely efficient, doesn’t allow a space for revering the unknown. If us ladies don’t fit into the ‘box’ of perfection as laid out by advertising companies and pop-culture, we render ourselves worthless as individuals.

            Perhaps us Westerners have become accustomed to playing God, but one of many things I learned in India is that we have little control over our lives in terms of macro-level planning. We must submit to the moment and trust that this is exactly where we need to be. Isn’t it true that most genuinely good things in life come to fruition at the whim of what some may call fate? The trick here is learning to have faith in said fate.

            I believe that we only have control insofar as our attitudes, emotions, and thought patterns. Opportunities will only present themselves when the mind is receptive. Thoughts are not innocuous; they have immense energy, carving neural pathways in their wake. These patterns have the ability to create Grand Canyons of mental dysfunction, from whose valley belly we can no longer see the sun. It is truly an amazing magic trick—telling yourself something enough times that you become convinced of its validity—regardless of its basis in rationale. Only if we learn to bolster self-love and dam destructive alleys can we lessen the grip of toxic cultural bombardment. That said, the ability to control mental erosion is a talent of Buddhaesque proportions, although certainly a skill worth cultivating.

            No matter how ‘zen’ the mind, women can’t help but internalize the patriarchal scaffolding of our society. With increased spelunking into the folds of my prefrontal cortex, I have called forth the unsettling aura of self-doubt, interrogating to reveal its nascence. The cultural dogma that assigns greater value to masculinity and objectifies femininity quietly traumatizes female psyches across the world. It is a dialogue of inadequacy that women internalize upon comparing themselves to ‘what women should be.’ We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. The end result is a chronic self-depreciating epidemic, fostered in a soil of shame, that is insidiously impeding women’s progress to be recognized (within and without) as humans who hold up ‘half the sky’.  

            Dr.Gershan Kaufman writes about the psychology of shame and its roots in three American cultural scripts of success, independence, and conformity. The success script values those who ‘pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. As Kaufman writes, “competing for success and achieving by external standards of performance are the clarion calls of culture,” and eventually, “achievement becomes the measure of self-esteem, of one’s intrinsic worth or adequacy.” Dr. Kaufman continues to elaborate on the idea that if individuals don’t achieve the American-dream level of success, they are immediately viewed as failures; “simply being average must seem a curse.” The independence script values the ‘lone-rangers’ who don’t burden others with issues or accept help. The ‘go-it-alone’ attitude hinders the expression of our very essence as social beings. The conformity script is simple enough to understand; our culture doesn’t accept people who are different, in the minority, or outside our high expectations of mental/physical/professional/emotional/familial perfection.

            If you noticed, the aforementioned scripts generating our shame-culture involve the praise of hyper-masculinity and condemnation of care, vulnerability, patience, trust, community, and empathy—all feminine attributes that psychologists believe are rudimentary to combating shame.

            Dr.Brene Brown, a social worker from Texas—a fantastic lady whose work I have been a fan of for a while now—is a shame reseracher. Brown defines shame as,

“an intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection.”

            We all know shame very well; that gut-feeling of “I’m not worthy” that can ruin your whole day. It limits opportunities of exposing yourself or taking chances at greatness due to a festering fear of failure or rejection.  Dr. Brown calls for women especially to start practicing authenticity in their lives—and the path to authentic living is through the forest of vulnerability where shame needs to be recognized, shared, and combated with genuine love for the self, as-is. She recognizes that,

“To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”

            Dr. Brown’s call for humanity to live ‘whole-heartedly’ is liberating. I fully recommend reading any of her books, but my personal favorite is The Gifts of Imperfection.

            In the words of Ross Rosenburg , it all comes down to the question, “are you a human doing or a human being?” When we measure our self-worth by what we ‘do’ rather than who we ‘are,’ shame is bound to rule our lives because the proverbial carrots of our society are simply unattainable. We, as humans, must learn to embrace this culturally inherited insecurity as a condition of living a genuine life. Fear will always continue to lurk in the corners of our mind, and shame will burrow its way into our consciousness, but recognizing these emotions and thought patterns as part of the dark that attracts the light allows us to live genuine lives. As Dr. Brown so eloquently states: 

“The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It's our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows… To become fully human means learning to turn my gratitude for being alive into some concrete common good. It means growing gentler toward human weakness. It means practicing forgiveness of my and everyone else's hourly failures to live up to divine standards. It means learning to forget myself on a regular basis in order to attend to the other selves in my vicinity. It means living so that "I'm only human" does not become an excuse for anything. It means receiving the human condition as blessing and not curse, in all its achingly frail and redemptive reality.”

Illusory Cheddar

Flying over the Missoula valley, its golden belly punctured by the frosted Bitterroot mountains, a hum of familiarity rose up within me. After over 30 hours of jumping from airport to airport, paroosing the same magazine stalls and munching the same bland breakfast burritos—from Mumbai to Newark to Denver to Montucky— I was officially home.

            Upon exiting the plane, I was enveloped with that ever-familiar brisk mountain air. It filled my lungs harshly, as if the atmosphere could foreshadow the social adjustment to come. I waiting at baggage claim, in Chacos with mehndied toes and a tribal throw from the Nilgiris bundled across my shoulders, praying that my backpack caught all of its legs from the journey. Pack and mangled goat-leather carry-on in hand, I slowly exited the airport, half-expecting my girlfriends to run up to me, shrieking and giddy, champagne in hand. Instead I watched a young family greet their father, a rogue college student hail a cab, and an elderly couple cart suitcases towards their Subaru. I shivered and passed back through the automatic doors, finding a seat inside next to a Big Horn Sheep, fresh from taxidermy. 

            I will admit, it was an anti-climactic arrival home. I patiently waited, observing my surroundings with foreign eyes, overwhelmed with the recurring thought, “this is it. I am home. India is over.” It didn’t stick; it felt like a dream. I am sure most people can attest to this— the feeling of emptiness after you pour yourself into a grand plan, quiet and mounting as falling snow. For months prior to my journey, all that was on my mind was graduation and India. Quite frankly, given the tasks at hand that accompany graduating college a year early, and traveling around to a developing country for 6 months, if I did plan beyond that, I wouldn’t have made it. Self-imposed myopia was my saving grace.

I have been conditioned my whole life to plan, plan, plan. Because whatever cultural script running in our young brains tells us that to have a plan is to have success. We should always be yearning for that higher branch, the better bite, the most impressive lens. Like ropes these expectations constrict themselves around our psyche— from the moment we understand the concept of the self, we are already envisioning how we can morph it to fit into societal ideas of ‘the good.’

As kids, we devour any and every cultural message we can get our hands on, internalizing Manichean representations of the world: good and evil, fat and skinny, liberal and conservative, smart and dumb, right and wrong. In turn, we start to categorize ourselves in relation to this ‘Hollywood’ milieu; the sad thing is that our culture grossly promotes unachievable ideals, which children and young adults will never be able to live up to. And so an entire generation checks themselves into the box that says, ‘I will never be enough.’

            And so we make plans, we set goals, we bite, bite, bite for that illusory cheddar, programming ourselves out of today in search of a glamorous tomorrow. Perhaps we don’t bite our nails; we run five miles at 6am every day; we don’t have that 4^th gin and tonic and have sloppy sex with a stranger; we drive an Audi and decline cheese products with ease. Whatever your platter of insecurities, in this vision of tomorrow you are a better, more desirable person—a worthy person.

            I believe this doctrine of insufficiency to be the nascence of quotidian neurosis in my country. In India, I had to lie to rest this optimal version of ‘Kendall’ and rewire my brain to be content with and also appreciate my present. In surrendering, it was as if two decades of pressure released from my mental shoulders. I became more loving and patient with myself and with others. I recognized the blessing and opportunity in every encounter, however frustrating and menial. Most of all, I learned to listen to myself—to conjure the silence in my soul and open the space for self-exploration and growth.

            “Kenny Strauts!” Katie yelled from her dilapidated red sedan, dubbed ‘Diane.’ Jess jumped out of the passenger seat with pastel balloons as I hobbled with baggage across the street to meet them. We embraced with the ease of friends who’ve abandoned disclaimers in the wake of college drinking antics and went straight to shooting the shit.   

            “So, Jesus Christ girl,” Katie remarked as she manually rolled down her window and lit a cigarette, “you’re back.”

            “I know,” I smirked and nodded, “it’s fuckin nuts.”

            And that is the feeling I had all evening as we shared stories over box-chardonnay and bowls, lamenting over how much we missed each other. I retraced my steps, my belongings—where I left my life 6 months ago, neatly packed in soccer bags and hat boxes. I ceremoniously donned a familiar pair of tights with a statement necklace and hopped on the bus downtown. It was as if I had never left.

            We strolled into our usual watering hole, sat down at our usual table, and ordered our usual drinks. I made a toast to reuniting with my two favorite ladies; they repeatedly welcomed me back. I was truly grateful to be in their presence again. It is funny, how you long for something while you are alone and abroad. At times, there was nothing I wanted more than to just spit-silly-profane-nonsense with these girls over whiskey drinks in a crowded bar—where we pretend the door to the smoking lounge is a veritable catwalk fit for judging other ladies’ attire and/or possible men to bone.

They bear witness to my 20s-hot-mess state and ask no questions. This support network, however flawed and filled with too many substances, is what I craved when I was at my depths in India. Because it is the ultimate comfort— to be out with your friends who will have your back no matter what ill-thought-out rabbit hole you choose to plunge down. So this is was the solidarity I envisioned coming home to.

            “Kendall, you’ve really gotta stop fucking around,” Katie interrupted my welling nostalgia as she clicked a selfie whilst sipping a cucumber marg, “and get snap-chat already.”

            I rolled my eyes in the stench of déjà vu and irony. We had done this merry-go-round many times— her enthusiasm always met with my adamancy to never join another social media cult. My relationship to the twittersphere is the usual love-hate-mesmerized-obsession as my 20-something contemporaries.

I feel like it is an essential part of operating in society in this day and age, while at the same time I lament its alluring velvet vortex—where responding to an email can turn into ‘gypsy-blog-envy’ spirals or morally condemning every female which shows up on your ex’s ‘new friend’ FB scroll. Before I left for India, I had a (in the words of my father) ‘come to Jesus’ moment in which I concluded that Facebook is nothing but a source of negative energy and therefore, vehemently deleted it (Malbec in hand).

            It literally felt like mental shackles had been lifted from my brain; I had unplugged from the matrix. Creating that space made me realize what a toxic crutch facebook is for me—that I have to ‘upkeep’ this Internet version of myself. And in doing so, either radically boost my self-esteem via ‘likes’ or condemn my being due to a wrongly filtered photo without a ‘skinny arm’ pose. I am recognizing ever more how social media fragments my existence and my understanding of myself in the world.  

Back at the ever-lively Tamarac Brewing Company, I was glowing, thankful to be in a setting where I could merely blend in, the music, the language, the clothing, the whole vibe—I was certainly no longer an outsider. But in the strangest sense, I felt like a new anthropologist on assignment. I was observing my surroundings with keen eyes, highlighting cultural nuances with my Indian programmed psyche. Overwhelmed with the social dynamics of a place where most individuals present were born with every luxury, it was hard to reconcile the fact that two, so completely different social biomes could exist on the same planet. And I checked my watch, imagining what my dear friends Devi, or Rishi, or Selma were doing at this very moment and how they would react to this alien realm of privilege and facade.

It was at that moment, in my spliced cultural state, that I realized how tuned out my companions were. After the initial cheers and ‘OMG, I miiiisssed you!’s, everyone unlocked their iphones and plugged into the matrix with feverish intensity, as if every second they were missing an opportunity to document a faux pas of extraordinary proportion.

No one was present at the table; they were plugged in. My mind wandered to bonding with my Indian girlfriends, whom were all ears and eyes and handholding when we were together. When I sat silently at a train stop waiting for the ‘Loco to Chennai Central,’ I did just that—sat silently and waiting. I didn’t fill the space with music, or photo streams, or digital scrabble.

That night at the Tamarac felt anything but genuine compared to my interactions with friends in a (developing, mind you) country unpolluted by selfies and statuses and check-ins’s— Oh My! I can’t help but wonder what this constant buzz, this unremitting influx of advertising, relationship critiquing, and societal messaging is doing for our psyche. What kind of illusory connectivity are these ‘networks’ building? Was I witnessing the truth of Western solidarity in friendships—expressed through snapchats, and FB likes, and tags instead of face-to-face investment?

After a month or so in India, I reactivated my Facebook, obviously to spy on my friends and family whom I missed so much. But there, it wasn’t so much of a problem because there were a limited number of times when I had access to internet or Wi-Fi. When I could, I scrolled, typed, liked, tweeted, grammed to my heart’s desires, but then I would leave the internet café and be done with it. My realm of real-life and social media were kept separate, with the virtual world encompassing a miniscule part of my day-to-day thought patterns and interactions. This was manageable for me, and I enjoyed it.

The difference of being back here is the extent of connectivity. Literally everywhere you go, you can be plugged in. With Wi-Fi practically being a rudiment to any thriving public (and private) space, why wouldn’t you want the latest updates? It seems the line between real and simulated social interaction is blurred immensely; many of my generation are so consumed with their online avatars that they literally end up viewing their lives through the filters on their instagrams instead of experiencing some truly awesome memories in their raw, coherent state.

It is clear that a new age has dawned with a whole generation growing up on iphones and macbooks. I am extremely curious as to how psychological research is responding to such societal changes. Whether you call it a smartphone addiction, social media angst, FOMO (fear of missing out), mobophobia, the like thereof—we have to admit there is something seriously going on. Allow me to spit off some stats.

According to Psychology Today, on average Americans check their smartphones for messages 150 times a day—that’s about once every six and a half minutes. Based on Digital Insights data, Facebook has 1.15 billion registered users— mind you that is over 1/7^th the population on the entire planet— with 23% of that 1.15 billion who check their account at least 5 times per day.

Daniel Sarewitz, in an op-ed from The Oregonian, gives some riveting opinions,

“So what if your attention span has been fragmented into nanoseconds, if you measure your social life by Facebook friends, your professional worth by Google hits, and the worst words you can imagine are “airplane mode”? We are all one-marshmallow OCD narcissists, granted by our devices the magic of comprehensive instant gratification, of self-reinforcing worldviews, of control over the daily minutia of our fates and fortunes. To not be irrevocably addicted to our smartphones would be senseless.”

Okay so we admit it, we are all logged in all the time. Why—because we can! But how does this affect us psychologically? A 2012 study published in the journal Cyberpsychology, Behavior, and Social Networking, for example, found that the longer people spent on Facebook each week, the more they agreed that everyone else was happier and had better lives. Clinical Psychologist Craig Malkin described similar observations in an interview with NPR, commenting that the incessant consumption of projected and idealized images from social media results in rampant envy, social distress, hinders self-understanding and forecloses real-life intimacy.

It is well known that social media provides us with is a false sense of community. Even Abraham Maslow included ‘belongingness’ in his (ever-holy) hierarchy of needs, among the instinct for food, shelter, and self-actualization. Pre-google-circles, we satisfied this need through kin-networks—close friends and family in our immediate existence whom we would get personal acceptance feedback from in everyday life. The Internet has expanded this realm of feedback to infinite bounds, such that our brain feels the need to retain acceptance in the same style of Hollywood stars and highschool classmates who you never liked but ‘made it big.’ If you don’t have their sprawl of following and attention splattered across your feed, the message is, once again, ‘you are worthless.’

Theodore Roosevelt once said: “comparison is the thief of joy.” I couldn’t agree more that what is most damaging about social media is in fact its very purpose: to peek in on others’ lives. While the intention may be ‘staying in touch,’ one can’t help but internalize those images of perfection or perhaps a lack of ‘following’, even if underneath we know that no one is unblemished and airwave fanbases are superficial. 

Elliot Panek, of the Universit of Michigan, says of Facebook, "It's about curating your own image, how you are seen, and also checking on how others respond to this image. Middle-aged adults usually have already formed their social selves,” while the y-generation looks to this media for answers about ‘who we’re supposed to be.’ Perhaps my generation is more vulnerable to the dark side of social media, seeing as we are not fully formed humans.

Carl Rogers is one of my favorite psychologists—a humanist who believed that a fully functioning being had to have a coherent sense of self. He believed that all suffering and neurosis was a result of the gap between our actual selves, flaws and all, and the ‘self’ we wish we were, our perceived self. The key to content and fulfillment in life, according to Rogers, is addressing the whole landscape— thorns and all— and showering what you encounter with radical self-acceptance.

Personally, I have found this technique of, what I call, ‘loving your uglies,’ to be extremely transformative. But the catch here, is that you need the gift of age and hindsight to fully explore the dimensions of these multiple self-concepts we brew up. I fear that social media engenders the creation of selves beyond Mr. Roger’s dichotomy, which is tough enough to navigate alone.

Back to Panek’s comments: "social networking in general allows the user a great deal of control over how he or she is presented to and perceived by peers and other users,” ever-widening the gap between the real and perceived self. Malkin also argued that young individuals who get into the habit of always ‘touching-up’ their image, hiding their flaws, may develop a reticence towards intimate relationships with others and themselves. If we are constantly refraining from acknowledging our vulnerabilities, our humanness, how can we ever grow into a flourishing, whole human?

I was very quiet the first few weeks home. My internal dialogue-cogs were incessantly grinding as I observed those around me— the way they approached life, problems, desires, needs. I have been wrestling with multiple selves for a long time. During my self-exploration in India, there were delicate layers of my Americanness that I shed, which I wasn’t made aware of until I came home and had the urge to put those covers on again. So with each day I confront engrained neurosis, at times feeling like a conditioned rat pulling the lever in response to the pressures of society. And so it is my task to unburden each reflex through that every-god-damn-day self-awareness I always talk about. Starting with monitoring (and stopping) my interaction with the social media realm.

As of now, the jury is still out on whether or not my reunion with my beloved Mac is a blessing or a curse for my spiritual wellbeing. The most I can do is acknowledge this presence and, as with everything, it will be enmeshed in my lifelong sojourn to find that alluring notion of balance.

One of my favorite quotes from Mr. Emerson goes something like this: ne te quaesiveris extra—translation— do not seek yourself outside yourself. When I look to others for approval, or for comparison on how I should be living, I will only recreate an inauthentic vision of what my life ‘should’ be instead of simply glorifying what it ‘is.’ 

Photo-cred--Dust lookbook

                      

Insane Fantasy

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Maybe we never truly grow out of our fantasies. Imaginations morph into projections and introjections within relationships. I’ll say it here and now, introjection and projection are the source of all suffering in relationships. Just like my parents did with me, I project fantasies or ideals upon people, myself included. Instead of being in reality I live in a fantasy world where I selectively choose to see or feel things that confirm my ideals. 

 From time to time, I make an ‘us’ up in my head-- this great thing. Then I write about a ‘lost potential’, but where does this potential come from but my own fantasies about what could be? There is a pandemic of women playing make-believe in their relationships. I see this with every woman I know. We make excuses, ignore red-flags, capitalize on amiable qualities and so-on to keep the ‘play script’ accurate in our heads. Do we all want to believe in love so bad that we refuse to acknowledge reality? Because if you objectively replay all those ‘magical memories’, moments defining your passionate affinity and compatibility, you will observe the times he changed the subject whenever you tried to talk about your sister who went to rehab or the fact that you quit ballet or when your close friend died or when you were doing drugs to keep the great sadness at bay.

My therapist asked me a question today, a seemingly simple one she has asked me many times before, “Did he ever ask about YOU? Inquire into your wellbeing or feelings or past or future or anything to do with you?” Ahhhh, I smell an insight, “Kendall, the men you choose suck you dry--you pour yourself into them until you have nothing left to give.” I twiddle my thumbs. “But it makes sense, because you feel uncomfortable when you are the center of attention—that has never been your role.”

At this point I began to ramble about how this guy was different, how he savored something of reciprocity, “Kendall, these type of men can always be present in the moment, they can be caring and affectionate and shower you with compliments—since they have shut themselves off from the idea of anything deeper they are capable of being truly present. This is exactly what they want, to selfishly bask in your light while you drain yourself dry.” 

Freud called it repetition compulsion, Einstein called it insanity: doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results. So how to we break the pattern? Awareness is the easy part; reflection comes so naturally. What is it about me that I am attracted to these men who are never truly interested in me and what I bring to the table?

Enstrom Was a Psychologist

I guess the answer to that is you have to find someone willing to explore the existential roots of why almond Enstroms is a crumbly shitshow. Maybe we should all stop looking for toffee and direct our intention towards an energy that will sustain us, not excite our pleasure pathways for twenty minutes, if that.

It is like in that fresh phase with a new roommate you found off craigslist— all cordialities packaged neatly like Enstroms toffee. After that first taste of benign class, like hey maybe this won’t end up on my thighs in two weeks, overpriced decadences always go crumbly as we question the sifting tides of life-decisions. And of course we forget the source of the erosion or why we have a jiggly ass and we buy that god-damn toffee again—except this time its not toffee its shortbread, quaintly package to belie the fact that this treat will treat you the same as the last morsel and others before.

We choose to recognize flounders as externally determined and our fierceness as obvious. Where does this urge to place blame on the object of our interest instead of our decision to pursue sed object come from? Can we not recognize the role we play in the demise of our relationships? We instigate, subconsciously, certain traits in others—via projection, introjection—we morph into different versions of ourselves due to the social desirability bias.

The social desirability bias completely dominates dysfunctional romantic relationships; we behave as we perceive society, people or our new beau would like us to behave. Is our reality truly a social construct? Is there such a thing as true individuality? Can we ever be autonomous as social beings? If we are nothing but a compilation of cognitive schemas, biases and psychological phenomena, how can we ever expect to peel back the layers to share an experience of ‘raw being’ with someone? And if we feel a crack in the pristine connection, could we be brave enough to confront it?