21: Joy versus control
Why is self acceptance so hard?
I’ve been reading, and listening to, a lot of stories and interviews recently by autistic people, and people in recovery from alcoholism. I’m surprised by how many parallels come up in these narratives; autistic people and people in recovery share some things in common. One thing that I notice most frequently is the sense of being different, of not being like other people, along with the conclusion that the difference is bad. This takes the form of “something is wrong with me” or “I am the problem.” I notice in alcoholic narratives the idea that “most people” can be “normal drinkers” (enjoy one or two drinks without wanting more), but that alcoholics are not capable of this kind of drinking, and that is the root of the problem for many. With autistics I frequently hear the idea that everyone else in the world seems to have been given an instruction book for how to be “normal”, but the autistic person is missing this vital and basic information, which leads to all kinds of challenges, from having trouble communicating with others, to being seen as “weird”, to being ostracized from different groups.
I’m comparing autistic and alcoholic narratives because as I take them in, I find an unexpected connection. I don’t know if there are a lot of undiagnosed autistic people who are alcoholics (though I wouldn’t be surprised if that is the case), or if it’s more a function of how our society treats people who are different that creates common experiences. One thing I feel is at the root of a lot of these stories is the search for joy opposed by the desire for control. In the world of Alcoholics Anonymous, they say that the unattainable goal of the alcoholic is to both enjoy and control their drinking1. The problem is that these things, for the alcoholic, are mutually exclusive. In the autistic world, my observation is that autistics are often punished or criticized for experiencing joy, because the way an autistic person experiences joy is different from the way others do, and it often appears to others as if the autistic person lacks self control, is overly selfish, or is strange in some way. And so the dilemma is set up: you can either experience joy or you can exercise control, but you can’t do both. The alcoholic in recovery recognizes that experiencing joy through drinking is not productive or healthy. They find join by removing alcohol from the equation entirely, by stopping trying to control it or enjoy it, and instead replacing it with fellowship and faith. But for the autistic person, the sources of joy that are rejected by society are not usually destructive to the person or to others (they might just seem odd). Some autistic people can learn how to control the things that bring them joy, and some can not. For those that can, exerting the control takes a lot of energy and focus, causes pain in many ways, and is hard to unlearn (a process that late diagnosed autistic people are faced with).
Connected to this dilemma is the paradox of self acceptance. How can I accept myself if the things that bring me joy are considered problematic by others? Or if the things that bring me joy actually are destructive? The second question has led me to stop drinking alcohol. The first question is one I continue to wrestle with.
I’ve read inspiring stories of people who are able to reach a level of self acceptance that provides them a kind of tranquility with life that seems elusive to me. The lesson of these stories is that In order to find peace, joy, and love with the world, with the community, or even with family, I first need to learn how to love (or just accept) myself. To give grace to others, I need to give grace to myself. I see other people practice this and it looks quite nice. I hear people say, “I’m giving myself grace today” or “Please give me some grace if you can” followed by a description of why they are invoking grace. Not only does it seem to provide a sense of comfort and relief to the individual, but it also appears to make them more receptive to the needs of others - more caring, more thoughtful, more connected. When I observe people declare grace for themselves or ask for grace, I see others immediately empathize with them and appreciate the evocation of grace. It seems so simple. I’m giving myself grace from exercising today because I have a bruised tailbone and I need to rest for my body to heal. Or, I’m giving myself grace from work today because yesterday I accomplished more than I had planned and today it feels like I need a break to recharge.
These examples, which are the first ones that come to mind as I write this, are about things that only involve me. They reflect the struggle I have to give myself grace in the eyes of myself. That is a formidable challenge, but the struggle is just with me. An even greater challenge is giving myself grace in the eyes of others. The things that I do to give myself grace probably feel exclusionary to those close to me. I’m going to give myself grace today and stay home while my family goes on an outing. While having the quiet time alone could be a vital tool in helping me find self acceptance, I imagine it would feel to my family like I didn’t want to be around the people closest to me. This of course is not true; I love my family and they bring me joy and fulfillment, and I also need a lot of time alone.
Another way to think about finding joy is that it is a journey, involving one step at a time. This is how I think about exercise. When I do my daily run, I usually run about seven miles, but that’s not my goal. My goal is to run one mile and see how I feel, and then run another mile and see how I feel, and so on. If giving myself grace is a step toward finding self acceptance, which is a step toward finding joy, perhaps I should start with something small, see how that goes, then try it with something else, and see how that goes, and so on.
But, for some reason, whenever I think of giving myself grace, even for small things, it just feels impossible. I could try to take a break; to have one day without exercise; to allow myself to indulge in a special meal on a holiday; to let the house be dirty for a day; not to feel guilty because I wasn’t “productive” enough on the weekend. But somehow all of these things seem out of reach. If I attempt them, I feel the result will leave me feeling worse than before, that I’ll beat myself up for my laziness later, that the guilt of letting myself go will outweigh and outlast the momentary respite that the grace would provide. Perhaps I don’t yet have faith in grace - I don’t yet believe in it. Perhaps I don’t really understand what it is. And so I push, and push, and insist on doing the things that I feel I need to do, and yet somehow find that pushing and doing does not make me feel better, and does not help my relationships with others. But it does give me a sense of satisfaction, and somehow I’m convinced that it’s the right thing to do. Even being able to articulate this now, being conscious of the apparent futility of pushing and the benefits of giving myself grace, I am still resistant to it.
Is the goal of self acceptance to both give yourself grace and feel good about what you are doing? The two things feel mutually exclusive to me, just like controlling drinking and enjoying drinking feel mutually exclusive.
I can’t enjoy a long period of pleasurable reading, or anything that involves sitting still for a while, if I haven’t done my exercise that day or have a plan to do it later
I can’t acknowledge and celebrate what I’ve accomplished if there is work to be done on the next accomplishment
I can’t feel good about my appearance without worrying about how I’m going to maintain it beyond this moment
I can’t satisfy my hunger without worrying about over indulging and getting “too full”
I can’t enjoy a TV show or a movie without feeling like I’m wasting my time and should be doing something more “productive”
I struggle to enjoy time by myself because I feel guilty for not spending time with others
The list of “I can’t” items is endless and exhaustive - the voice in my head is always speaking up to explain why I can’t let myself enjoy the thing that I am doing because of what I’m not doing, or because of the implications, or consequences, of the pleasurable action. There is no source of joy that isn’t made wrong by the voice in my head. And this lack of self acceptance, I worry, leads to the lack of acceptance of others. Am I the voice in my daughter’s head, pointing out the risk or problem in the things she finds joy in?
Why do I seem insistent on preventing myself (and sometimes others) from experiencing joy? What could possibly motivate me to find the fault in every source of fun? There seem to be two reasons: guilt and worry. Guilt of having too much fun, or guilt of over indulging. I don’t know why I feel that joy is inherently bad or wrong. It seems to be some puritanical tendency, which is odd because in no way do I think of myself as puritanical. Yet, somehow, I have been conditioned to think that having too much fun is wrong, as if God is watching me and just waiting to send a lightning bolt my way if I start to seem too happy.
In addition to guilt, there is also anxiety about the consequences of joy. If you enjoy this too much, the voice says, something bad will happen. But, what’s the worst that could happen, really? I have a big list of potential things. From being destitute, or chronically injured, to becoming irrelevant (or otherwise judged) in the eyes of others, to being physically or emotionally attacked, to feeling sad. As irrational as my anxiety might seem, every day I feel bombarded by stories of horrible things happening to people. We live in a perilous society, in which many millions of us live on the edge of a manageable life, stretching our money, our time, our energy, and our health farther than we can manage. So many are one lost paycheck away from homelessness or hunger. So many are one false step from illness or accident, with no ability to find or pay for care. That being true, I am not one of those people. I am not living on the edge by any means. But that does not absolve the worry - it actually aggravates it. I’m not living on the edge because of how I live my life; if I start to relax and give myself grace I’ll be at risk like everyone else. This is the challenge of the endless spiral of anxiety. Anything I do to alleviate it reminds me of why I can’t let my guard down. The anxiety always wins.
As I think through this, I come to the realization that the urge to be in control makes it impossible to experience joy. The serenity prayer, which I always thought sounded nice but I never really thought much about, starts to make more sense to me. “Grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”2 The last part is the hardest for me - knowing the difference between the things I can change and those I cannot. Knowing when I should try to be in control and when I should not. I suspect my current understanding of what I am not in control of, my perception of the things I cannot change, is very narrow. I think I can control more than I can, and so I force myself to try to do so. Having the realization is at least a first step; we’ll see what comes next.
Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous, Fourth Edition (p. 17). Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.. Kindle Edition.
Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous, Fourth Edition (p. 189). Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.. Kindle Edition.