IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT

A few nights ago, I watched “Good Will Hunting” again. If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s about a tough kid from South Boston (Will Hunting, played by Matt Damon) who also happens to be a math genius. Will splits his nights between drunken brawling and working as a janitor at MIT – where he amuses himself solving complex math equations on the blackboards … anonymously. As it happens, Will is busted for both of his hobbies simultaneously. As a result, he's faced with a choice of doing six months in jail or seeing a therapist under the supervision of a math professor who’s dazzled by his potential.

The therapist (Sean McGuire, played by Robin Williams) is something of a misfit himself. After a rocky start, he slowly succeeds in establishing rapport. Finally, a turning point is reached in which the therapist discloses that he, like Will, has been a victim of childhood abuse. The scene goes this way:

          SEAN
I don't know a lot, Will. But let me
tell you one thing. All this history,
this shit...
     (indicates file)
Look here, son.

Will, who had been looking away, looks at Sean.

          SEAN
This is not your fault.


          WILL
     (nonchalant)
Oh, I know.


          SEAN
It's not your fault.

          WILL
     (smiles)
I know.


          SEAN
It's not your fault.


          WILL
I know.

          SEAN
It's not your fault.


          WILL
     (dead serious)
I know.

          SEAN
It's not your fault.


          WILL
Don't fuck with me.


          SEAN
     (comes around desk, sits in front of
     Will)
It's not your fault.


          WILL
     (tears start)
I know.



          SEAN
It's not...



          WILL
     (crying hard)
I know, I know...

Sean takes Will in his arms and holds him like a child. Will sobs like a baby. After a moment, he wraps his arms around Sean and holds him, even tighter. We pull back from this image. Two lonely souls being father and son together.


From “Good Will Hunting” © 1997. Matt Damon & Ben Affleck.

On the one hand, this scene is something of a cliché. Breakthroughs in therapy are rarely so dramatic. Therapists like to retain objectivity and tend not to take patients in their arms. On the other hand, for those who have experienced childhood abuse, the scene has tremendous power, because it captures a fundamental psychological truth: self-blame is a well-neigh universal concomitant of childhood abuse.

The connection between childhood abuse and self-blame may be well known, but it is not by any means well understood. Nor, in my opinion, is the reason why overcoming self-blame is such an essential part of the healing process.

WHY DO VICTIMS BLAME THEMSELVES?

Considered within the Judeo-Christian moral construct, the self-blame victims impose on themselves defies logic. We may not like watching a lion kill a lamb, but we don't blame the lion for it.  Why?  Because blame requires a moral choice.  If there is no ability to choose, blame is inappropriate.  According to Judeo-Christian belief, the child is a moral tabula rasa.   Why would victims raised within this system blame themselves for having been abused?  The victims didn't choose their parents or teachers or priests.  Why would they be responsible for abuse suffered at their hands?


The common response of modern psychology is to assume the child engages in self-blame because the abusive adult suggests to the child that he or she is at fault – as a way of justifying abusive adult behavior. In the case of child sexual abuse, psychologists also postulate self-blame is based on confusion arising from the fact that, while the experience was unwanted, it may also have been, in some measure, pleasurable. Based on this analysis, psychologists (and screenwriters) tend to think that once victims of abuse fully understand and thereby dissolve the self-blame, they are able to begin the healing process.


While it is true that confronting self-blame can be cathartic, it is also true that such catharsis is not a lasting state. Even if self-blame is consciously relinquished, if that blame is redirected to the abusive adult, to the Church, or to society as a whole, depression and anger tend to remain. The victim often clings stubbornly to feelings of worthlessness and guilt, regardless of the apparent illogic.

Why is this?

VICTIMS AND THE LAW OF KARMA

Once one accepts that the law of cause and effect operates in the psychological realm, just as it operates in the physical, the principles of psychological healing become more comprehensible. If we accept that everything happens as a result of our own past actions, we must admit that if we have suffered abuse in this life, it is because we have been guilty of abuse in some other. To be sure, most of us are not – mercifully – aware of our past life errors. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t responsible for them, or that we don’t carry with us the feelings, traits and tendencies they have engendered. These are, sorry to say, very much with us, taking the form of moods and reactions that are so much a part of us that we take them for granted, even if we don’t understand them.

Since we’re ignorant of our past life errors, we’re also ignorant of our need for forgiveness. What’s more, we’re ignorant of our past life situation – of the reasons we made the mistakes we made. So, even if we suspect that we may deserve the things that have come to us, we may not suspect that we are deserving of understanding and forgiveness.

This is why so many victims of childhood abuse are stuck in a stubborn sense of guilt and worthlessness. Merely being told that we were children and, therefore, not responsible, doesn’t necessarily help us. And displacing blame to the adult, or to the church, or to society, doesn’t help us, either. Why?


Because it does not awaken within us the understanding that the abuser is, himself, a victim. It does not help us to realize that the abuser is, himself, worthy of forgiveness. On the other hand, if we are able to forgive our present life abusers, then we are able to believe that we, ourselves, are worthy of forgiveness.


From a spiritual perspective, we are all victims of abuse. If we are victims, we are also abusers. And if we are abusers, we are all in need of healing and forgiveness. There is, in this sense, no distinction between normal and abnormal psychology.


We are all God’s children. We are taught God doesn’t judge us. We are taught He loves us unconditionally. But in all honesty, how many of us can say we really believe it?


Perhaps if we invest a little less time in judging and condemning and a little more time in understanding and forgiving, we will draw the grace of the One who created this colossal motion picture show to begin with.


“Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”


Matt Damon and Ben Affleck didn’t say that but, who knows, maybe they’ll do a sequel.



WHAT A MESS!

My fellow Americans --

Okay, let’s get something straight. The law of cause and effect operates as perfectly, as justly, and as inexorably in the realm of human affairs as it does everywhere else. People get what they deserve – no more and no less. Nothing happens by chance, right?

So, if American legislators are impatient, intractable and infantile  –  which they definitely are  –  what do we suppose is the reason for it?  

Do you think –  just maybe –  we need to look at ourselves?

Here's my scorecard:

• We Americans are arrogant. We hypnotize ourselves with the myth of “American Exceptionalism” but, in reality, the most exceptional thing I can see is how quickly we’ve seen our empire fall.  I think historians would be hard pressed to find another that declined further in half a century.

• We’re ignorant – of our history, of our politics, of our economics, and of ourselves. We refuse to accept responsibility for our circumstances, and are quick to blame others for problems we have caused ourselves. We blame the politicians for bad government, Hollywood for bad movies and teachers for bad schools – even thoughit is we who elect the politicians, we who go to the movies and we who raise the kids who act out and fail to learn in the schools.

• We’re impatient. When we want something, we want it now.  If we don’t have the money to pay for it, we whip out a credit card and run up a bill.

• We lack self discipline. If we have indigestion, we don’t stop eating the greasy, spicy, devitalized food that caused it . We take a pill.

• We’re selfish. We want bridges and parks and pensions and highways, but we don’t want to tax ourselves to pay the cost.

• We’re soft and self-indulgent. We think we’re entitled to go through life unchallenged, unflustered and unharmed. We say we hate the lawyers, but if anything happens, we immediately want to sue.

• We’re lazy –  physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually. Whatever it is, we want it now, and we want it free.

So, my fellow Americans, here’s a suggestion. When tempted to complain about the “mess in Washington”, let’s first resolve to do something about the mess within ourselves.

IT'S COMPLICATED ....

 The world is a complicated place.
When I was growing up, there was Pepsi and Coke. Now, it’s hard to even keep track of the different kinds of Coke.  New Coke, Coke Classic, Decaf Coke, Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Vanilla Coke, Cherry Coke, Coke with Lemon, Coke with Lime, Black Cherry Vanilla Coke. Versions appear and disappear like sub-atomic particles in a bubble chamber. On its website, the Coca Cola Company boasts a “portfolio” of no less than 3500 beverage brands. And that’s just Coca Cola!






The Cereal Aisle

 When I was a kid, the choice for breakfast was Wheaties, Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies or Cheerios –  wheat, corn, rice or oats. Now, entire aisles are devoted to cereal.  (An article in Wikipedia lists no less than 452 different kinds of the stuff!)

There used to be three TV channels – NBC, ABC, and CBS.  Now there are hundreds. And you know what?  They all suck.

The hardware store has become the Home Depot; the grocery store has become the megamarket; and the department store has become the mall.

But what have the people become?

Savings accounts and checking accounts weren't enough. We needed credit cards, debit cards, online trading accounts, electronic statements and automatic billpay with overdraft protection. We can discover our exact financial status and credit score at any hour of the day or night.


But are we in any way enriched by this?

Technology was supposed to simplify our lives. That's what the futurists said. Technology would relieve mankind from the drudgery of tedious and repetitive tasks, freeing him to concentrate on the finer things in life. 

Do you think they were referring to the Fruit Ninja, or Angry Birds?

News Flash! The evidence is in, and technology has NOT improved the quality of our life. While the available media for delivering entertainment and information have multiplied exponentially, the quality of the content they deliver has remained the same, or maybe even moved down a notch. 

Far from fostering a sense of well being or connection, mobile devices have fueled an insatiable demand for ever-increasing sensory stimulation, turning us into a bunch of fidgeting, twittering, text messaging … jerks. The average American today has an attention span equal to the length of the average shot in an action film, and his thoughts are about as deep as the flat panel TV he bought to watch it on.

How could the futurists have been so far off – assuming technology would bring a utopia where the fruits of creativity were actually put to productive use?  They really must have been dreamers!  If they'd given it a little thought, they would have realized that technology is nothing but a tool.  People will use it for whatever their fears and desires drive them to use it for.  So the question, isn’t, “Why hasn't technology improved the quality of life," but “Why have people chosen it use it the way they have?”

I don't know why God made the world complicated (which he did), but I do know why mankind makes it more complicated. 

We do it because we aren't satisfied with life the way it is.  We think it's too hard, too hard, too dangerous, too boring.  We don't like the fact that we get tired, or that we get sick, or that we get old. We don't like that our hair turns gray, or that our breasts sag, or that we lose our virility.  We don't like the fact that sex causes babies; or that drugs cause hangovers; or that spicy food gives us stomach aches. We don't like work. We don't like the fact that life is repetitive; or that it requires patience, and endurance.  And beyond all that, we are incapable of admitting – even though it's as plain as the nose on our face –  that the only real faults in the world are the ones within ourselves.  We would change the whole world rather than change even the slightest flaw within own character. 

We are confused.  We think that because we have the ability to alter our environment, we can also alter the consequences of our own actions.  If we would look around us, we would realize that our power with respect to consequences is limited.  All we can do is deflect them, alter their trajectory, and maybe put them off for awhile.  We can never eliminate them.

But we don't want to confront these facts, so we distract ourselves.  That's exactly what we're doing –  our entire society.  We're distracting ourselves with complexity because there is something – call it the invisible 800 pound gorilla in the room – that all of us are desperately trying to ignore.  And what is that?

Sorry to say, it's our potential –  the sum total of all we can be if we have the courage to confront the boring, annoying and scary things life presents to us from moment to moment –  which are nothing but the consequences of our past actions, which we are trying assiduously to avoid. 

In other words, we're distracting ourselves from our responsibility to suck it up and act like adults.

So, I propose an experiment.  Let's take a day, one day, in which we watch ourselves, unremittingly, from moment to moment, without reaction, mental comment or judgment.   And for that 24 hours,  let's pay special attention when we reach for a cell phone, a gaming console, or TV remote.  And let's see if we can identify the thought or feeling we had right before we had the impulse to distract ourselves.  My suggestion is, that if we will do this, we'll begin to reconnect with our selves, our lives, and who we really are.







  

CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT AND THE SECRET DECODER

On a mountaintop, high above a large city, stands the headquarters of a man devoted to the cause of freedom and justice... a war hero who has never stopped fighting against his country's enemies... a private citizen who is dedicating his life to the struggle against evil men everywhere... CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT!

Thus ran the overheated lead-in to one of my favorite TV shows when I was growing up as a kid in suburban Philadelphia. (The show's appeal no doubt had something to do with the fact that there were no mountaintops high above suburban Philadelphia.  Nor were there any private citizens dedicating their lives to the struggle against evil men everywhere -- at least not as far as I knew.)

The premise of the show was that a guy named Jim Albright – a crack ex-fighter pilot – headed up something called the Secret Squadron under the code name, Captain Midnight.  The Secret Squadron was a private cabal of freelance crime-fighters who took on assorted bad guys in the interest of truth, justice, and the American Way. The principal Squadron members, in addition to the Captain, were his comedy sidekick, Icabod (“Ikky”) Mudd, and his resident scientist, Aristotle (“Tutt”) Jones, who consulted on technical matters. While Captain Midnight took on a variety of villains in his brief TV lifespan of 39 episodes – a clear majority of them had ties to Communist espionage of one kind or another. This was, after all, the 1950s.

In those days, every show had a single, definable sponsor, and in the case of Captain Midnight, it was delicious, chocolaty flavored Ovaltine, a milk additive shamelessly hawked by the Captain in long-winded, face-on commercials of the kind common in the days when lax regulation and cheap ad rates went hand in hand.

“A single mug of hot, chocolaty Ovaltine builds muscles 12 ways; increases IQ; provides 100 percent of the minimum daily requirement of 27 essential vitamins and minerals.”

It didn’t matter what the Captain said about the product. What mattered was that he endorsed it. That was enough. I wanted Ovaltine. I believed in the essential indispensibility of Ovaltine.

And that was before the Captain announced that each and every one of us could become members of the Secret Squadron by obtaining our very own Secret Decoder Pin.  How?  Simple. Just write your name and address on a piece of paper, put it in a stamped envelope – along with the inside wax paper seal from the top of a jar of Ovaltine –  and send it to:

Captain Midnight

Box P

Chicago 77, Illinois

Needless to say, if there had ever been any doubt about the necessity of getting a jar of delicious, chocolaty Ovaltine, this erased it completely.

The way it worked, each week, in a special segment of the show, Captain Midnight gave the Secret Squadron members out there in television land a secret code, consisting of a series of numbers. Those fortunate enough to possess a Secret Decoder Pin could then, by spinning a dial on the Decoder, translate the numbers into letters, thereby deciphering the secret message. To a Captain Midnight fan like myself, this made Ovaltine a no-brainer.

Except for one small problem. Ovaltine – a mixture of sugar, malt, cocoa and whey – was just the sort of non-essential luxury food item my final markdown Mom would never dream of buying, or even allowing in the house – unless there was a coupon entitling her to obtain at least double her money back from the manufacturer.  Not only that, but my Mom was a precocious skeptic when it came to nutritional claims.

“The vitamins and minerals are in the milk,” she would say, “The flavoring adds nothing but sugar and fat and, from what I've read, those don't have minimum daily requirements.”

So, faced with these realities, how on earth was I going to get a seal from the top off a jar of Ovaltine?

I could nag, of course.  But nagging in our family was tricky.  Too little and you didn't get what you wanted, but but too much, and you ran the risk of  "upsetting your mother", which brought down the sure and awesome wrath of our father.

Being "a good boy" was a theoretical possibility, of course.  But while being good might bring occasional praise, it never seemed to accomplish much of a material nature.  Finagling from a friend at school was also possible, but experience had demonstrated that it would ultimately prove demeaning. I considered trading for it.  But trade what?  I never collected baseball cards. Toys were scarce at my house. Cap guns were forbidden; fireworks were illegal.  Realistically, there was only one course of action open to me.

So, the next time I went to the supermarket with my Mom, I took a penknife acquired during a short stint in the Cub Scouts. When she wasn’t looking, I cadged a jar of Ovaltine from the shelf and hid it in the cart. Then, the next time she wasn’t looking, I managed to unscrew the cap, cut the circular seal from the top, screw the cap back on the jar, and put the seal in my pocket.

When we got to the checkout counter, my Mom picked up the Ovaltine. “What’s this?”

“Delicious, chocolaty Ovaltine,” I answered. “It gives you a hundred per cent of your minimum daily requirements of vitamins and minerals.”

She glanced at the ingredients, then at me. “So does a balanced diet.”

I sighed.  "Put it back?"

She nodded. "Put it back."

The announcer said to allow six to eight weeks for delivery, but frankly, I couldn’t see why it should take that long. After all, Chicago wasn't all that far from Pennsylvania. So, two days after I mailed away for the Secret Decoder Pin, I began checking the mail.

Five days passed, six days, a week. Eight days, nine days.  Time passed by at an agonizing pace. It seemed there was nothing in my life but the daily wait for the mailman.

I began to think maybe I had forgotten to put a stamp on my envelope to Chicago 77, Illinois.  I wondered if I had written my own address correctly on the slip of paper I enclosed. When three weeks had passed, I began to consider the possibility that I was jinxing things through the very act of expectation.  Maybe if I were more detached, more nonchalant, I would open the door for the Secret Decoder Pin to come to me. Sadly, detachment was not yet for me. The more I tried not to think about the Secret Decoder Pin, the more I thought about the Secret Decoder Pin.  As the days and weeks went by, rather than getting easier, the daily wait for the mailman grew more and more intolerable.

After a month, my impatience turned to anger. Anger at Captain Midnight, anger at the Secret Squadron, anger at the Secret Decoder Pin itself, and anger at the makers of Ovaltine. I began to turn off the show when the Captain got ready to announce the secret code.  I told myself I didn’t want the Secret Decoder; and I didn’t care about the secret code.

After six weeks, I had convinced myself that the promotion was a hoax, a cynical swindle perpetrated by the makers of Ovaltine to sell more of their wretched product to unsuspecting idiots like myself.  I told myself I didn't care whether the lousy Decoder Pin came or not; that I had been a fool ever to get involved with it; and that never, ever in my life again would I allow myself to be hoodwinked like this. 

Of course, in a way, I hadn't actually been hoodwinked, because I hadn't actually purchased the product. At first this made me feel better – because, at least the makers of delicious, chocolaty Ovaltine hadn't gotten their hands in my pockets.  But then, it dawned on me that maybe they had gotten their hands in something worse.  I remembered my heart racing as I unscrewed the Ovaltine; cutting out the waxed paper seal.  I remembered my little act,  pretending to be a good boy, reluctantly returning the Ovaltine to the shelf.  And the more I thought about it – stealing a little round piece of wax paper, scamming my Mom –  the more I felt, well ... pathetic.  

Then, on a Monday, just about eight weeks after I sent away for it, the Decoder Pin appeared in the mail in a plain, Kraft paper envelope. It was small, maybe an inch and a half in diameter, made of tin, with a jet plane on one side and, on the other side, a dial with letters printed on it, and around the dial, a circle of numbers, which were embossed.  For a moment, I looked at the pin, feeling a momentary sickness at how cheaply my integrity had been bought. Then, I dropped the pin in the pocket of my flannel shirt and quickly forgot.

I’m told the secret messages Captain Midnight delivered to the Secret Squadron each week generally had to do with drinking delicious, chocolaty Ovaltine, or sometimes getting your Mom to buy more. I don’t know that for a fact, though. Because a few days after the Decoder came in the mail, my Mom washed my flannel shirt with the Decoder in it, and all the letters came off.

I suppose it was time to move on.

*               *               *