The Happiness Trap (23 page)

This means that reasons are not a problem unless we fuse with them; that is, take them as the literal truth, or treat them as commands we must obey. Therefore, it’s important to realise that reasons are not facts.

Here’s an example of a reason: ‘I can’t go for a run because I’m too tired.’ But does being tired make you physically unable to run? Of course not. You can feel tired and still go for a run. (In fact, ask any athlete—they’ll tell you that sometimes they can feel tired or sluggish and end up having one of their best workouts.)

Here’s an example of a fact: ‘I can’t go for a run because a spinal injury has completely paralysed my legs.’ Does spinal paralysis of the legs make it physically impossible to run? Yes. So the above statement is a fact.

Reasons are basically just excuses; things we say to justify what we do (or don’t do). Can you feel as though you don’t have enough time and still exercise? Can you feel tired and still exercise? Can you feel as though you can’t be bothered and still exercise? Can you hate exercise and still exercise? Can you notice that it’s cold outside and still exercise?

Obviously, the answer to all these questions is yes. The reasons given are all just excuses for not doing exercise.

As soon as you have to face any sort of challenge, your mind will come up with a whole list of reasons not to do it: ‘I’m too tired’, ‘It’s too hard’, ‘I’ll only fail’, ‘It’s too expensive’, ‘It’ll take too long’, ‘I’m too depressed’ etc. And that’s okay, as long as we see these reasons for what they are: excuses.

Often we know full well when we’re making excuses—we just need to be honest with ourselves. But if you’ve set a valued goal and your mind gives you a reason not to attempt it, sometimes it’s not so clear that this is just an excuse. So if you’re genuinely unsure whether the thought is merely an excuse for inaction or a statement of fact about something that truly is impossible, just ask yourself this question: ‘If the person you care about more than anyone else in the world were kidnapped, and the kidnappers told you they will never release that person until you take a particular action toward your goals, would you then take action?’ If the answer is yes, then you know that any reason (for not taking that action) is merely an excuse.

‘Ah, yes,’ you may be saying, ‘but that’s just a silly hypothetical question. In the real world, the person I love has not been kidnapped.’

Right you are. But what’s at stake in the real world is something equally important: your life! Do you want to live a life in which you do the things that are really meaningful to you? Or do you want to live a life of drifting aimlessly, letting your demons run the ship?

‘Okay’, I hear you say. ‘I agree that I could attempt this goal, but it’s not that important to me.’

The question here is, are you being honest with yourself? Or are you just buying into another thought? If the goal you’re avoiding is
truly
unimportant to you, fine, don’t attempt it. But make sure you check in with your values. And if this goal really
is
something you value, then you are faced with a choice: either act in accordance with what you value or let yourself be pushed around by your own thoughts.

In particular, you need to watch out for this sneaky thought: ‘If this were really so important to me, I’d be doing it already!’ This thought is just another ‘reason’ in disguise. The reasoning goes something like this: ‘I haven’t taken action up to now, which means it can’t really be that important, which means it’s not a true value of mine, which means there’s no point in putting any effort into it.’

This reasoning is based on the false assumption that humans will
naturally
act in line with their values. But if this were true, there’d be no need for a book such as this or a therapy such as ACT. The fact is, many of us
don’t
act on our values for long periods of time: months, years or even decades. But those values are always there deep inside us, no matter how remote from them we are. A value is like your body: even if you’ve totally neglected it for years, it’s still there, it’s still an essential part of your life, and it’s never too late to connect with it.

You may say, ‘But it’s not that easy. These reasons seem so convincing.’

That’s right. They do seem convincing if you fuse with them. So you need to remember, they’re just thoughts. You can then defuse them in a number of different ways:

This is a key juncture in the book. You know your values, you’ve set some goals; now it’s time to take action. FEAR is usually the only thing that prevents you and now you know how to deal with it. Yet even so, you may still be resisting taking action. So in the next chapter we’re going to look at willingness, a powerful ally in overcoming resistance.

Suppose you’re climbing a mountain that has spectacular views from the top. You’re halfway up when you come to a really steep slope where the path is narrow and rocky. Right about now it starts pouring with rain. Now you’re cold and wet, you’re struggling up this steep, slippery track and your legs are getting tired and you’re gasping for air. And you start thinking, ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be this tough?’

At this point you have a choice: you can turn back or keep going. If you keep going, it’s not because you want to get colder and wetter and more exhausted—it’s because you want the satisfaction of reaching the summit and experiencing those magnificent vistas. You’re willing to endure the discomfort not because you
want
it or
enjoy
it, but because it gets between you and where you’re going.

I first got permission from Steven Hayes to write this book back in July 2004. But I didn’t start writing it until four months later. Why not? Because every time I thought about making a start, I would feel this huge surge of anxiety: a fist-size knot in my stomach, tightness in my chest and an urge to stay as far away as possible from my computer. Thoughts would flow through my head: ‘You’re wasting your time—you’ll never get published’, ‘You don’t even know how to write’, ‘It’ll just be a load of rubbish’, ‘It’s too tough; it’ll take too much time’, ‘You’re kidding, right?’ (One particularly troublesome thought was indeed a fact: I had already written five books, each of which had taken a huge amount of time and effort and none of which had ever seen print.) Unfortunately, I fused with all those thoughts and avoided all those feelings—and, as a result, I didn’t write a word.

Naturally, the more I put off writing, the more dissatisfied I felt. I distracted myself in all kinds of ways: reading, going to movies, eating chocolate. I also tried telling myself, ‘There’s no hurry. I’ve got the whole rest of my life to write it.’ But my dissatisfaction continued to grow. I was all too aware that my demons were in charge of the boat and I felt like a total hypocrite.

Finally, after four months of growing frustration, I thought to myself, ‘You’ve got all these terrific tools and techniques. You use them with your clients every day and get great results. How about putting into practice what you preach?’ So I sat down and wrote, ‘What is my goal?’ And I answered, ‘To write a self-help book based on ACT.’ Next, I wrote, ‘What are the values underlying my goal?’ And I answered, ‘The underlying values are: challenging myself; personal growth through facing my fears; helping people (after all, this book could help a lot more people than I ever could through one-on-one therapy); supporting my family (because if this book makes money, my family prospers); modelling for others the principles that I advocate (i.e. practising what I preach); developing my career; and the creativity of the writing process itself.’

Writing all this down made a huge difference. It clarified for me that not only would this book benefit others, it would also benefit me. And even if it never got published, I would learn and grow simply through the act of writing it.

Next I wrote, ‘What thoughts, feelings, sensations and urges am I willing to have in order to complete this goal?’ This is a very important question, which we need to ask ourselves repeatedly when facing life’s challenges. And although we’ve already discussed it earlier in the book, it’s important to really clarify the word ‘willingness’. Willingness doesn’t mean you like, want, enjoy, desire or approve of something. Willingness means you’ll allow it, make room for it or let it be,
in order to do something that you value.

If I said, ‘How’d you like a course of injections that will make you feel weak and tired for several months, make all your hair fall out and make you vomit repeatedly?’ I’m sure you’d say, ‘No way!’ But if you had cancer and I offered you a course of chemotherapy that could totally cure it, you’d take it willingly and side effects be damned. Why would you put yourself through all that? Not because you like it, want it or approve of it, but in order to keep on doing something that you value:
living.

Willingness means we make room for the negative side effects, such as unpleasant thoughts and feelings, in order to create a meaningful life. (And this, in turn, gives us plenty of positive side effects.)

But willingness doesn’t mean merely tolerating, gritting our teeth or being able to stand it. It means actively embracing our experience, even though we don’t like it.

Suppose you’re in a loving, committed relationship and your partner wants to invite his or her father over for dinner. And suppose you
intensely dislike
your partner’s father. You dislike his dress sense; you dislike his aftershave; you dislike his opinions and his boastfulness and his arrogance. Yet inviting this man for dinner would mean the world to your partner. If it’s really important for you to support your partner, then you could invite this man over for dinner, greet him warmly at the door, welcome him into your house and make him feel completely at home, even though you intensely dislike him.

That’s willingness.

Willingness is something we practise in small ways every day of our lives. For example, when you go to the movies you’re willing to pay for the ticket. It’s not that you actively want to pay for it. If someone said, ‘Here’s a free ticket’, you wouldn’t say, ‘No, thanks. I really prefer to pay my hard-earned money for that ticket.’ So it’s not that you
like
paying for that ticket. It’s more that you consent to pay for it in the interest of seeing the movie.

Similarly, if you’re going on vacation, you probably don’t
enjoy
packing your suitcases. You don’t
desire
it, but you go ahead and do it in the interest of having a good trip.

And if you’ve ever taken a driving test, you probably didn’t want all that stress, but you consented to it in the interest of getting your licence.

Willingness is essential because it’s the only effective way to deal with life’s obstacles.

Whenever an obstacle presents itself, you can either say yes or no. If you say no, your life gets smaller. If you say yes, your life gets bigger.

If you keep saying yes, there’s no guarantee life will get easier because the next obstacle may be just as difficult or even tougher! But saying yes becomes more of a habit, and the experience you gain from saying yes gives you a reservoir of strength.

Even if you don’t
want
to say yes, you can still
choose
to. And each time you make that choice, you grow as a person.

At the same time, the more you practise expansion, defusion and connection, the less discomfort you actually have to deal with. If you see the thought, ‘You’ll fail’ as only words, it’s a lot easier to accept it. And when you turn OFF that struggle switch, your feelings are a lot easier to live with, because they don’t get amplified.

When the struggle switch is ON, you do whatever you can to avoid, fight with, suppress, change or get rid of uncomfortable feelings. And when it’s OFF, you simply allow them to be. So we could also refer to this switch—with its poles reversed—as ‘the willingness switch’. When the willingness switch is ON, you give your feelings permission to be as they are; and when the switch is OFF, you fight or avoid them.

Willingness is an all-or-nothing experience, like being pregnant or being alive. Either you’re willing or you’re not. The switch is either ON or OFF—there’s no in-between. (Those ‘in-between’ positions are variously called tolerance, resignation or giving up.) This all-or-nothing property of willingness is expressed in the ancient eastern saying: ‘You can’t leap a chasm in two jumps.’

To pursue her goal of finding a partner, Soula joined a commercial dating agency. She was willing to make room for feelings of vulnerability, insecurity, anxiety, and for thoughts like ‘I’m wasting my money’, ‘I’ll meet only weirdos and losers’ and ‘If I do meet anyone nice, they won’t like me.’ Her willingness enabled her to go on some dates and meet some nice guys.

To spend more quality time with her children, Michelle was willing to have the anxiety of repeatedly saying no to her boss’s extra-work demands.

To reclaim her life and put her alcoholism behind her, Donna was willing to grieve for her husband and child—to let her sadness be there—without trying to drink it away.

Kirk was a commercial lawyer who realised, once he had connected with his values, that his work was not meaningful. He had become a lawyer primarily for status and money, and also to win the approval of his parents (who were both lawyers). What he really wanted to do, though, was to help and care for people; especially to help them grow, learn, and develop. Ultimately, he decided to retrain as a psychologist. In order to do this, he was willing to make room for a lot of discomfort: loss in income, many years of extra study, parental disapproval, anxiety over whether he was doing the right thing, thoughts of all the years he had wasted, and so on. The last time I saw Kirk, he’d graduated as a psychologist, and loved the profession. But he’d never have gotten there without willingness to have all that discomfort.

So now let’s return to how I wrote this book. As mentioned above, my next step in overcoming my inertia was to write down all the thoughts, feelings, sensations and urges that I would be willing to have, in order to achieve my goal. My thoughts included, ‘It’s too hard’, ‘I can’t write’, ‘I’m wasting my time’, and ‘I’ll never get published.’ My feelings included anxiety, boredom, and frustration. My sensations included a tightness in my jaw, churning in the stomach, sweaty palms and a racing heart. And last but not least, I had strong urges to run away, play with the dog, go to sleep, get something to eat or drink, read a book, look up words in the dictionary, surf the Internet, watch television, or do anything else except write!

Writing this down was enormously useful because it helped me take a realistic look at the situation: to prepare for the demons I’d be facing on my voyage. That way, no surprises.

Next I wrote, ‘Is there any one of these thoughts and feelings (and sensations and urges) that I can’t handle, provided I practise expansion, defusion and connection?’ And the answer I wrote was: ‘No. Provided I defuse these thoughts, make room for these feelings and connect with the action I am taking, then I can handle every one of them.’

The next question was, ‘What would be useful to remind myself?’ In answer to this, I pulled out a blank card and wrote down four inspiring quotes:

Obviously, these quotes apply to any meaningful enterprise, not just writing. I find them both reassuring and inspiring. And ever since that day, I’ve kept that card beside my computer and I frequently re-read it.

Following that, I wrote, ‘How can I break this goal down into smaller steps?’ My answer was: ‘I only need to write one chapter at a time. Actually, I only need to write one paragraph at a time. Come to think of it, I only need to write one sentence at a time.’ Once I realised that I only needed to write one sentence at a time, my anxiety lessened considerably. To write a book, that’s overwhelming. But to write a sentence, that’s a lot easier.

Next I wrote, ‘What’s the smallest, easiest step I can begin with?’ And I answered: ‘Write one sentence.’ Finally I asked, ‘When will I take that first step?’ And I answered: ‘Right now!’

So there and then, I forced myself to start writing. The knot in my stomach was huge. So I studied it as if I were a scientist. It felt like a lump that started just above my waist and reached up underneath my rib cage. There was movement within that lump: a sort of squelching. And also a slight sense of nausea. I observed it for a minute, breathed into it and made room for it. I reminded myself, ‘This is nothing more than an unpleasant sensation, coupled with an urge to run away.’ And I asked myself, ‘Am I willing to have this in order to pursue my goal?’ The answer came back loud and clear: ‘Yes!’

Then I turned my attention to the thoughts swirling around in my head:
Radio Doom and Gloom
playing at full volume. I pictured those thoughts as words on a television screen; I looked at them and saw them for what they were: words and pictures. Then I let them come and go while I focused on my writing.

That was November 2004. Now, as I am writing this sentence, it is eighteen months later and the book is nearly finished. It has taken me many hundreds of hours to write and I’ve had many unpleasant thoughts and feelings during that time. I’ve also had enormous satisfaction from acting in accordance with my values. And I’ve also had plenty of extremely pleasant thoughts and feelings: every time I’ve completed a paragraph, every time I’ve completed a chapter, every time I’ve sat down and written even though I didn’t feel like it.

Of course, I still have no idea whether this book will ever be successful, but no matter what happens, I’ve gained enormously in writing it. I’ve developed my writing skills, learned how to simplify concepts in order to teach them more effectively, developed new ideas to enhance my work, proved to myself that ACT really works (when I apply it, anyway) and had the satisfaction of living by my values. It’s been vastly more fulfilling than the four months I spent avoiding writing.

Now imagine how different it would have been if my only purpose in writing this book was to become rich and famous: there would be no satisfaction or fulfilment until that goal was achieved. And because that particular outcome is so unlikely, if that were my only motivation I probably would have given up long ago.