What is your number one priority as a social worker? If self-care is not the answer, we need to have a chat.
Most Master of Social Work (MSW) programs will emphasize the importance of self-care upfront. It doesn’t take long, however, for this call-to-arms to butt up against reality.
We as social workers must navigate many competing and conflicting priorities daily. This begins as early as school.
With so much to do during our relatively brief degree, our days are often dominated by assignments and course readings.
Setting aside an extra hour for “you” time can come to resemble an unnecessary luxury. You may find yourself asking, “How can I afford to stop and relax when I have so much work left to do?”
It’s a question I promise will continue to challenge you over the course of your career. For this reason, self-care is a habit you would be best served by building right now.
Here are some ways you can get started.
1. Make a commitment to self-care
If you can exercise enough discipline to study for multiple hours every day, you can certainly commit a minimum of one hour to self-care.
In strict cost-benefit analysis terms, your brain may try to argue with you about the necessity of relaxing. It may feel good to have dedicated downtime. But time away from your desk may also put you behind in our work and feed your anxiety.
This can become a vicious circle: time anxiety persuades there is never enough, and while this might certainly feel like it’s the case, it’s not true.
The issue is not whether you have enough time to take care of your personal wellbeing. Rather, it’s your willingness to re-prioritize it.
Let’s suppose you do. If you have time anxiety, this may worsen. But rest assured that over time, its death-grip on your psyche will weaken.
2. Block out downtime
Personally, I’ve found there are usually three windows each day in which most people can block out self-care time:
First thing, straight after waking up
Midway during the day, such as during a lunch break
Before bed, when one typically unwinds
The morning window works best for me (that is, supposing I get to bed early).
This period seems to afford me enough time to do a self-care activity such as meditation before my brain jumps aboard the “work ‘til you drop” train.
Another option is to dedicate a single day of the week such as Sunday to “you” time.
3. Permit yourself a personal life
Work is a hungry beast, and if we continue to encourage it, it will inevitably consume our personal lives.
We may suspend social outings and quality time activities with our loved ones. Or we may sacrifice a hobby that previously enriched our lives.
Diligence and dedication in professional settings are admirable traits. But when taken to excess, they can lead to workaholism.
Having healthy boundaries quite simply means saying “yes” to all that is conducive to our welfare, and “no” to things that aren’t. And workaholism is definitely something that qualifies as the latter.
Don’t neglect your personal relationships for the sake of your calling. Refuse to become a martyr for your chosen social work cause.
Instead, strive for a work-life balance. Schedule at least one social meetup a week. Revive that cherished hobby.
Rather than constantly drawing from your well, take time out to replenish it.
4. Don’t go at it alone
Further to the last point, healthy relationships are like armored vans that can carry us through a warzone of difficult times.
These relationships are thus crucial to our mental health and serve as an invaluable buffer during difficult times.
But they are only as helpful as we allow them to be. In times of need, don’t hesitate to reach out to coworkers, supervisors, partners, friends, and family members.
5. Self-care through the support of a therapist
None of us come to the social work field a clean slate. Each of us has a history, and the work we do can cause parts of it to resurface, both good and bad.
A therapist can help us with processing our experiences, as well as professional challenges like countertransference.
The insights of another professional can go a long way to supporting us in becoming better practitioners.
6. Start meditating
Mindfulness-based strategies are an effective way to support mental resilience and ward off overwhelm and anxiety.
If there was one word to describe my aunty, it was irreverent.
On the few occasions when Mehrey Sanam babysat for my parents, she would pull up at the lights, fix you with an intent look, and extend a hand across the transmission.
“Pull my finger,” went the command.
“No, aunty,” you would protest.
“Pull my finger,” she insisted.
Mehrey’s ability to fart on cue, and to belch with complete disregard for propriety, made her—at least to my child self—something of a wildcard.
It was an impression doubtless shared by others, and one Mehrey Sanam was happy to play up to.
“Look at all these geriatrics,” she complaint during a family cruise trip, as if her 60-year-old self couldn’t have been more different to these silver-haired strangers enjoying their golden years.
“Mehrey T-sanam-i, they call me,” she cackled another time, referring to her fellow colleagues at the hospital where she worked.
It was, Mehrey went on to explain, not a reference to her destructiveness, but her reputation as a human dynamo.
A long-time operating theater nurse, Mehrey moved with the vigor of a woman half her age, sporting a devil-may-care smirk and a kind of gallows humor infused with mischief.
My aunty’s personal charms didn’t stop there. Mehrey regularly treated her colleagues to traditional Iranian hospitality with an assortment of homecooked meals.
While my aunty had a reputation for being generous to others, she was also never one to shy from the occasional self-indulgence either.
“$30,000?!” I cried, after learning the price of her new veneers.
“When I die they can take everything from me, but they won’t be able to take my teeth,” went Mehrey’s reply. She punctuated the joke with laughter, her lips curling back to expose the new pearly whites.
This kind of wry playfulness infused other aspects of aunty’s life. She named her first black-and-white cat Sylvester after the Looney Tunes character. When ever I asked where her pussycat was, she would break out in spontaneous song.
“What’s up pussycat? Whoa, whoa, whoa.” A line from a Tom Jones song, it turned out.
Sanam as it turned out was not Mehrey’s real last name, but a term of endearment used by one of her first boyfriends. A reference, my mother later told me, to one of Mehrey’s favorite Bollywood stars.
And while Mehrey herself had no interest being under the spotlight, she nevertheless had something of a movie star’s aura.
Perhaps it was Mehrey’s vanity; the habitualness with which she would open her compact and touch up the mandatory coating of eyeliner, mascara, and bright red lipstick.
It was an appearance my aunty refused to shed, even during trips to a local river. Her hair suspended above a visor cap, Mehrey would enter the shallows, careful breaststroke keeping her face suspended a few inches above the waterline.
My siblings and I took delight in undermining our diminutive relative, splashing her with water or trying to dunk her when her back was turned.
Mehrey’s carefully made-up look did not change over the years. It cast her in my imagination as some bygone ‘50s star, fame forgotten, a personage whose name I could never remember. Lucille Ball, maybe.
Once, when my teenage sister and I snickered over Mehrey’s decision to not wear a bra (“Baggy soobs!” we said in our not-so-secret reverse language), Mehrey’s mouth tightened into a line.
“I do NOT have saggy boobs,” she retorted. “The women at work tell me I have the body of a TWENTY-YEAR-OLD!”
Mehrey’s aura may have also had its roots in her unapologetic stubbornness. It was a quirk that evoked admiration, but also generated a cool distance that not even her wit or laughter could completely bridge.
Still, as a child, I knew Mehrey was a dependable gifter, certain always to bring my siblings and me each a Kinder Surprise upon her visit. It conferred upon Mehrey the status of an ally, a patron saint of toys, treats, and cash; an opponent of parental authority.
Who else after all brought the sampler box of chocolates, oozing strawberry and peppermint cream? Who refuted our parent’s stern disciplinarianism and allowed us to play video games all day long?
Who did such unorthodox things as asking us to crack her spine by walking on her back? Who dared to break the anti-gambling rule of our religion by buying $2 scratch tickets?
Mehrey was a rebel, existing as a raised middle finger to anyone who might try to tell her what to do. Goodnatured defiance sat poised behind her heavily lashed stare; a stare almost feline in its assessment.
Not even nature was immune. When stung by a horsefly, Mehrey would stun it with a deft slap, catch the bug, and rip off first one wing, then the other.
“That’ll teach it,” she said, with a hint of mean satisfaction.
Another time, Mehrey rolled down our car window and performed a racist imitation of an Asian driver who had cut my father off.
The course of Mehrey’s life served as further proof of this role. She had left everything she had loved and known to emigrate to Australia in pursuit of a better life.
Mehrey had married and eventually separated from her husband, taking it upon herself to raise their three boys on her own, often working two jobs to keep the family afloat.
My aunty’s decision to take the name Sanam was not so much a f*** you to her husband or the institution of marriage, but a capstone upon the walls she’d built around her life. Stone by stone, Mehrey had assembled the image of herself as an independent, self-made woman.
It was an image not born of bitterness, but resilience. And it was—in many respects—well-earned.
Over the course of Mehrey’s life, she owned several businesses, including a fabric store and ice cream counter. When these businesses failed, she turned her hand instead to leasing a lychee plantation and recruiting her three sons to pick fruit.
Mehrey proved a woman of many secret talents. She oversaw the design of her new home and planted gardens teeming with spiny custard apples, swollen melons, and speckled papaya.
My aunty host lavish gatherings at her home for members of the local Baha’i community. During devotionals, Mehrey would chant prayers in a voice that was melodic, heavy with the suggestion of some tragic loss.
My aunty sang like a bereft lover, yet the woman we knew surely had never loved any man with such intensity as this.
Mehrey’s performances would inevitably draw praise and requests. And this seemed to embarrass her in the same inexplicable way my mother’s birth name “Tahirih” (meaning “the pure”) did.
Suffice to say, Mehrey’s secret talents served a function. It was a kind of overcompensation, sometimes for challenging life circumstances, other times for the things Mehrey lacked and could not offer.
My aunty was for example never much one for physical affection, and yet she didn’t hesitate to force vitamin supplements upon all of her family members. This was, I knew at the time, her way of demonstrating that she cared.
Mehrey’s entrepreneurial nature eventually led her to invest in a new side hustle: backyard botox. My mother disdained this new interest, warning her sister that practicing without a license would land her in hot water.
Mehrey of course waved away these doubts the same way she had always done. What use did they serve anyhow? Doubt had never done much to ensure my aunty’s and her family’s survival.
And Mehrey was a practicing surgical nurse with decades of experience working with complex cases, from car accidents to open-heart surgery. What more training did she really need?
To me, Mehrey’s new hustle was about as outrageous as the person herself. It was a logical conclusion for someone who so prided herself in appearance and bucking trends.
Unlike the $2 scratch tickets Mehrey so adored, however, the botox business did not pay off. When one patient had an adverse reaction to an injection, Mehrey was reported to medical authorities.
My aunty soon found herself embroiled in a lawsuit, costing her both her nurse’s license and—at least in her own mind—her dignity.
The shame of these circumstances took the fight out of my aunty. This once unflappable powerhouse became instead a frail, broken woman, bowed beneath the weight of shame.
Mehrey stopped eating and began doctor shopping for opioid painkillers. Aware of her declining health, I reached out to my aunty, begging her to come and stay with me.
Offering to buy her an airline ticket, I reminded Mehrey of everything she had done for me, of how precious her life was to all of us
“Thank you, Ehsan,” she said. “You made me feel much better. You’re my favorite nephew.”
The relief in Mehrey’s voice I knew was temporary. Her fierce determination—a determination that had carried her this far, through many a difficulty—was now leading her towards a terrible destination.
Two weeks later, Mehrey was found comatose in her bed. Her brain functions were nil, the result of oxygen deprivation, linked to her growing reliance on opioids.
My family attended Mehrey’s hospital bedside, peering tearfully down at the shell of the woman we had once known.
The idea of touching her terrified me. I struggled to communicate my love to this bag of insensate flesh and bones that had betrayed Mehrey’s spirit by refusing to simply die, as I suspected she had wanted it to.
The decision was made to withdraw life support, and Mehrey passed not long after. A dread hush fell over our family, a hush that would last for many years to come.
It was as if speaking my aunty’s name alone could conjure the unspeakable and unspoken; a story that had ended abruptly, without explanation, and with none of the ceremony deserving of a person and life as rich and triumphant as hers had been.
In the years since I would walk back down the halls of memory to the days of monsoonal rainstorms. I would remember how Mehrey’s older sons—our cousins—would push us on boogie boards across the flooded field behind her home.
I’d think of aunty’s requests to turn off the fan on hot days, on the account of her being, in my father’s words, a “coldblooded lizard”. Of how she fought off the python that smothered her beloved cat just with a broom.
Of how my sister and I walked among the rafters of an incomplete roof of her home and left a crack in the ceiling, a crack that rankled Mehrey to no end, but for which she nevertheless forgave us.
I laugh when I recall Mehrey’s chagrin over the fact she’d allowed relatives in Iran to persuade her to get eyebrow tattoos, only for them to turn green within a matter of months.
And I shake my head at a tale that would later emerge of how a putupon mother had tied the leg of her eldest son to a tree and left him there, as punishment for some childhood misdeed.
Mehrey’s life served as a fierce testament to the strength of her personality, as a kind of rationale for the way she had chosen to live. But with my aunty now gone, who was there left to speak for her?
Who, I wonder, would keep a candle lit for this beacon of strength—a beacon once so vital, so seemingly unquenchable?
My aunty was a character of many conflicting qualities. A lover of black humor. Purehearted, occasionally prideful, and inflexible in a way that was, more often than not, strangely endearing.
Mehrey was an individualist who insisted on keeping her own counsel…and keeping at arms-length. A fighter who insisted on always having the last word.
I take strange comfort in the fact that, in the end, my aunty did. For beneath her headstone lies buried a pair of perfectly intact veneers, set in an eternal grin.
But this doesn’t have to be the case. Here are 11 tips I believe will go a long way to helping you not only survive, but flourish.
1. Prioritize with the 1-2-3-4 method
Your workload as a social work student is formidable. The only way you can ever hope to get (and stay) on top of it is through organizing your priorities.
To do this, rank all your tasks according to the following categories:
Next, complete each act accordingly. When another task is added to your list, assign it a number and an action (if applicable).
More information on the 1-2-3-4 method can be found in this detailed guide.
2. Learn the value of strategic “nos”
If you’re a perfectionist, completionist, and/or a workaholic, you may struggle with assigning items to the final category, “Don’t do.”
The problem is that refusing to say “no” can come at a considerable cost to your wellbeing, not only during your social work degree but your subsequent career as well.
Your social work school may for example bombard you with invitations to extracurricular events. But between attending class and field placement and writing essays, you’ll probably lack the mental bandwidth needed to fully participate.
My suggestion would be to say “yes” only a handful of events you are certain will advance your learning or professional goals. Everything else can be ignored.
Remember, even if you can’t attend, you can always ask the organizer in advance for access to a recording or slides.
If neither is available, a peer who is attending the event may be willing to take notes on your behalf.
With so many responsibilities to juggle, the only way you can stay on top of it all is by making liberal use of your smartphone’s inbuilt calendar.
When scheduling, only add items from categories 1 and 2. Consider using a free service like Google Calendar or Apple iCloud Calendar to help you keep all calendar items synced across all your devices.
This final point may seem obvious, but there’s no point adding things to your calendar if you don’t also set up some kind of reminder.
My suggestions are to use both instant notifications and email reminders to ensure you never miss an assignment deadline or another commitment.
When calendarizing assessment due dates, you may find it helpful to break the task into baby steps and set mini-deadlines for each.
Before you can write a paper, for example, you’ll need to complete some often lengthy “pre-work”. For example, conducting literature searches, doing necessary readings, and completing an outline.
Allocating time and due dates to each of these activities can help keep you on task while conveying a sense of progress and positively affirming your efforts.
This brings us to point four…
4. Reward yourself
All human endeavors are ultimately driven by the promise of reward. It makes sense therefore that when setting out to accomplish a task, we have first identified our expected payoff.
Rewards can be intrinsic: completing the task may be in itself an affirming experience. They can also be extrinsic, such as buying yourself a small gift upon completing a school semester.
This may sound like self-bribery, but everyone can benefit from a much-needed boost to our motivation levels from time to time.
Rewards don’t have to be anything huge. They can be something as simple as treating yourself to a coffee.
Just finished a grueling paper on social work policy? Go out for a walk. Spent the morning poring over a stack of readings? Take the rest of the afternoon off to relax in the park. You’ve earned it.
5. Maintain boundaries
Boundary setting is crucial to remaining sane in the social work field. This applies as much to interpersonal relationships as it does to managing your time, especially where schoolwork or your field placement is concerned.
As you plan out each day, don’t forget to set limits on the amount of time you dedicate each day to work. Make sure to pencil in time for unwinding.
Set a window each day to reply to all non-urgent emails, calls, or text messages that relate to school and your placement. Once that window closes, don’t reopen it.
Treat “you” time as sacrosanct. The only thing you should be prioritizing during downtime is rest and rejuvenation.
Maintaining boundaries in this fashion can help protect you against burnout, both as a student and as a fledgling social work professional.
MSW teachers drill into us the importance of self-advocating. Social work school and your field placement present numerous opportunities in which you can hone this invaluable skill.
If there’s something you need to know or want to learn, speak to your lecturer or field supervisor.
Given you are paying for access to their expertise, either through school fees or your labor, you have a right to advocate for as many learning opportunities as you feel you need to become a competent social worker.
If you require an extension on an assessment due date, ask for it. Your lecturer will likely be more than willing to accommodate your request.
Should any of your requests go ignored, persist, but be sensitive to the reality that what you’ve asked for may not always be possible.
Exercise the fine art of picking your battles, and be prepared to switch gears should the situation call for it.
7. Manage up
Fieldwork supervisors are usually torn between many competing responsibilities. What can this mean for you? Inconsistent supervision.
Meetings may be rescheduled at the last minute, or supervision sessions interrupted and even canceled. For social work students, these situations can be frustrating and demoralizing.
In such instances, I recommend managing up. Keep reaching out, asking questions, and making requests. Send emails to your supervisor daily, outlining your priorities and any tasks or activities you plan to undertake.
Solicit your supervisor’s input, but should you not get it, be prepared to take initiative.
Keep your appointed field liaison apprised of the situation. Be accountable by keeping a log of all your activities, interactions, and communications as proof you held up your end of the field placement bargain.
8. Live and breathe win-win
Like any situation in life, we should approach the social work profession as an opportunity to champion both our interests as well as that of others.
Invite the input of all with whom you work. Collaborate to find solutions. Embrace differing viewpoints, and always disagree without being disagreeable.
Never leave anyone feeling like they’re “one-down”. This is a sure way to breed resentment and burn bridges.
We have all at some point encountered difficult people. We have all seen firsthand how their behavior hinders their success. We can learn from this by striving to model our personal best.
See it as your job to leave a positive impression with all whom you cross during your educational journey.
You never know if you will rub shoulders with these folk again later on—or if you might find yourself in the position of asking for their help.
9. Elevate your classmates
All social work students are united by a common struggle…to survive school!
Try to grow your social work community by performing acts of service for classmates.
Lend a hand when needed. Celebrate other’s wins, praise their achievements, and give without expecting to receive.
Again, there may come a time when you have to call in a favor. Now’s the time to start collecting brownie points.
10. Raise your voice
Whether it’s conducting a one-on-one therapy session, facilitating a group, or advocating for social justice, confidence is key to our success as social workers.
If you think confidence is something we are all born with, think again. Confidence is a trait that can be cultivated through practice. You can get the ball rolling while still in social work school by speaking up.
Sharing our thoughts and experiences in front of our peers is an act of courage. It requires that we be emotionally vulnerable and open ourselves to the possibility of being ignored, judged, or criticized.
Given many of our classmates are little more than acquaintances, we may have little cause to trust that what we say will be heard and respected.
Still, there’s no better forum in which to make mistakes than in school. Mistakes are, after all, how we best learn.
Consider the fact that you have a unique perspective that others may from hearing. Silencing yourself thus deprives others of the chance to grow and learn.
Speak your passion, and chances are you’ll energize others to do the same.
11. Be a proactive learner
We are all ultimately responsible for our own professional development. So any time you identify a gap in your knowledge or skill set, think of ways you can close that gap.
If you don’t understand course content, approach your lecturer after class and get them to clarify.
If you need to brush up on your clinical skills, ask your field supervisor for more in-depth training. Reach out to faculty members to see if they have additional resources that they can share.
Should your budget allow, purchase additional trainings from a reputable nonprofit organization like PESI and split the cost with your classmates.
Failing that, a quick Google search can yield an array of free manuals, demonstrations, and tutorials.
If you think you’d benefit from constructive feedback, don’t be afraid to request it from someone you trust and know has your best interests at heart.
Finally, consider finding a mentor to help guide you on your journey. You can start by identifying someone you admire within your social work school.
Cultivate a relationship with this staff member. Then seek out their insights and support.
Social work school is certainly a challenging experience. But engaging fully with that experience will pay dividends.
The degree to which you exercise curiosity, organization, dedication, and resourcefulness now can help determine your ability to overcome many of the obstacles you’ll encounter later in the field.
You should treat your MSW as a trial run; a chance to internalize and embody principles so often preached by this profession. You can do this by advocating for yourself, while striving to empower others.
By setting good habits and establishing best practices now, you’ll both ease your way and lay the groundwork for a happy—and healthy—career.
“If I get this, do this, be this, then I’ll be OK.” Wish-fulfillment keeps us walking the hedonic treadmill, riding an endless carousel of self-gratification.
Even supposing we achieve our goal, we may find the bar only continues to rise. So we clutch in vain for the brass ring of materialism, personal transformation, acceptance, recognition, and adoration.
Maybe all of this isn’t exactly news to you, and you have long since grown out of chasing elusive thrills. Or you may have simply upped the dosage and drowned out the hurt and disappointment.
The trauma of being gay
The first step on the way to surrendering the magical thinking that keeps us trapped in this cycle lies in identifying the causes.
As gay men, we can arrive at chronic suffering in a variety of ways. We may have also experienced misattunement with our caregivers, who may not have had the capacity to fully meet our emotional needs.
We may have experienced some form of childhood adversity. Some of us are even survivors of trauma.
Trauma includes abuse and neglect, but also any experience that places “an overwhelming demand placed upon the physiological human system”, to quote International Trauma Center President Dr. Robert D. Macy.
You may for example have been traumatized by individual acts of homophobia, or from the minority stress that results from its many systemic manifestations. Rejection, exclusion, marginalization, or physical harm for many can take a great toll.
If we are already lacking social support, such as the unconditional love and acceptance of family members or friends, the damage is only magnified.
In this sense, our first relationships are the most defining, setting the stage for how we adapt—or maladapt—to our future circumstances.
When we are deprived of these crucial supports, we can develop an insecure attachment style, and struggle to develop the resilience so necessary to weathering life’s many storms.
A final but crucial source of trauma emerges from the relationships we engage in as adults. For those of us with difficult histories, we may turn to our partners for comfort and healing, only to find ourselves re-enacting toxic attachment patterns.
We may even lash out, inflicting the abandonment, abuse, or betrayal we ourselves have suffered. This only serves to compound our existing pain, driving us with increasing desperation towards escape and reprieve.
Becoming ‘masters of survival’
When we feel threatened, the system charged with ensuring our survival—the autonomic nervous system (ANS)—kicks into gear.
This “personal surveillance system”, Polyvagal Theory practitioner Deb Dana moves us many times daily between states of social engagement and connection (safety) to mobilization (scared), and immobilization (shut down).
These state changes are adaptive survival responses, driven by special powers of danger perception Polyvagal Theory author Stephen Porges calls “neuroception”.
Trauma survivors or those with insecure attachment styles may find their neuroception runs in overdrive, leaving them wary and hypervigilant. As a result, they may spend long periods stuck on the lower “scared” and “shut down” rungs of the “autonomic ladder”.
Our autonomic responses eventually become patterned not around the need for connection, but self-protection.
An out-of-whack autonomic response thus makes a state of safety next to impossible. With the ANS no longer able to adequately self-regulate, we suffer ongoing stress, physical illness, relationship strain, and changes in our mental functions.
While the ANS is activated, we are unable to socially engage, causing us to miss out in turn on the benefits of co-regulation—what Dana calls the “reciprocal regulation of our autonomic states”.
This co-regulation occurs when we connect and attune to others in healthy, mutual relationships. It is a key requisite to shifting from a state of danger, back into a state of safety.
“Supported by co-regulating relationships, we become resilient,” Dana writes.
“In relationships awash in experiences of misattunement, we become masters of survival.”
Given the collective trauma within the gay community, however, finding such co-regulation within may prove difficult.
We survive through adaptation. When things go wrong early in life, however, we stand a great chance of maladapting instead.
Experiencing homophobia and resulting shame leads many of us into a life of emotional inauthenticity. Denied the ability to explore our own identities and to embark upon relationships during our formative years, we don a cloak of secrecy and self-deception as a matter of survival.
“Something about growing up gay forced us to learn how to hide ugly realities behind a finely crafted façade,” writes The Velvet Rage author Alan Downs.
Outwardly, we may proclaim self-acceptance. Inwardly, however, we are still carrying around unworthiness and internalized homophobia.
Its poisonous whisperings may lead us to reject other gay men arbitrarily, just as we ourselves were once rejected. Prejudices within the gay dating scene—be it racial, age or weight-based—are just a few expressions of this.
The deep, unexpressed pain we carry as trauma survivors, if left addressed, may eventually bubble back to the surface in the form of deep-seated anger.
That anger may be directed either at ourselves in the form of self-harming behaviors, or at the individuals or systems that we believe have failed, betrayed, and harmed us.
Without the knowledge or means to move forward, we ignore our wounds, numb the pain, and chase distraction.
We may find it in fantasies of personal transformation or romantic fulfillment. For those of us weaned on Disney—a company that built an empire on the power of dream—it’s all too easy to indulge in the idea of Cinderella-style transformations.
One day, we tell ourselves, we’ll shed our sooty smocks and don the glass slipper. Some dashing Prince Charming will appear and bestow upon us the fortunes of unconditional love and acceptance.
Our pursuit of such an embodiment of perfection of course is doomed from the outset. And yet we continue to plunge headlong into romantic liaison after liaison, without pausing to consider the whys and hows.
Denied co-regulation, we may also turn to self-medication in the form of process (behavioral) addictions, such as compulsively working out for hours on end so we can achieve some idealized physique.
Through the support of a therapeutic alliance, open wounds both past and present may eventually start to close. Through a therapist’s supporting presence, autonomic regulation may suddenly become possible.
In recognizing and addressing your autonomic needs, you are taking the first step towards a life of authenticity. To quote Brené Brown:
cultivating the courage to be emotionally honest, to set boundaries, and to allow ourselves to be vulnerable; exercising the compassion that comes from knowing that we are all made of strength and struggle and connected to each other through a loving and resilient human spirit; nurturing the connection and sense of belonging that can only happen when we let go of what we are supposed to be and embrace who we are. Authenticity demands wholehearted living and loving—even when it’s hard, even when we’re wrestling with shame and fear of not being good enough, and especially when the joy is so intense that we’re afraid to let ourselves feel it. Mindfully practicing authenticity during our most soul-searching struggles is how we invite grace, joy, and gratitude into our lives.
By choosing authenticity, we surrender the false solutions of magical thinking. By choosing authenticity, we give up temporary rewards and commit ourselves to some much-needed repair.
After 10 months of trying to evade COVID-19, the virus finally caught me.
No—I had not been flagrantly breaking coronavirus restrictions. While others attended social gatherings, held parties, and failed to honor COVID-19 safety guidelines, I scrupulously stayed in my bedroom.
When I did emerge, it was only to exercise, shop for food, and spend time with my partner. But wearing my face mask the minute I walked out the front door and keeping my distance was not, as it turns out, enough.
COVID-19 numbers in Los Angeles hit new highs last month, and as an extra precaution, I took to avoiding my roommates and wearing a face mask whenever I stepped foot in communal areas.
My immediate social circle shrank from two to one. Seeing just my partner seemed like a fair compromise to make, even if it flew in the face of rules not to mix with members of other households.
Two weeks later, my partner came down with COVID-19. By the time we received the positive diagnosis, it was too late: I too had been infected.
Until this point, I had steadily nursed anger towards those whose reckless actions were fueling case spike after case spike—the same people, undoubtedly, I saw walking the streets without a mask.
But catching COVID-19, I found myself suddenly wondering if I was no different to those I had so harshly judged.
Even as I succumbed to the tidal pull of illness, I was sliding down a spiral of another kind entirely: shame.
How ‘COVID fatigue’ is fueling a COVID boom
During the subsequent days spent in bed recovering, with only self-doubt for a companion, I began conducting a moral inventory of the (deeply questionable!) actions that had led me to this point (spending time with my partner).
But could I really be to blame for seeing a loved one, even when that decision was taken against the advice of health authorities?
As a Los Angeles resident, I had been living under a dark cloud of COVID-19 isolation, anxiety, and uncertainty for the better part of a year.
Infection transmission and financial security remained a constant concern and watching the cyclical surges in case numbers was enough to leave most people stricken with helplessness.
If the public and the authorities weren’t willing to take the necessary measures to stem the tide of infection, then what hope did we ever have of getting the pandemic under control?
In my imagination, I saw these individuals poking holes in a liferaft the rest of us were frantically trying to bail out.
Certainly, in refusing to get tested, communicate their status, social distance, and take all the other necessary precautions, these people were acting as saboteurs.
But after so long spent in lockdown amid a national and global climate of chronic risk and uncertainty, was it really fair to fault people for wanting to spend their holidays with family?
Seeking soothing in a time of disaster stress
“COVID fatigue” (not to be confused with the actual COVID symptom) refers to a feeling of exhaustion with “being cooped up…being careful…being scared”. According to a UC Davis Health psychologist, it’s just another name for long-term disaster stress.
Psychologist Deb Dana describes co-regulation as the “reciprocal regulation of our autonomic states” through social relationships.
It makes sense therefore that people burdened by disaster stress and long periods of isolation might want to seek the company of loved ones.
Video calls thus far have been the closest approximation for in-person companionship. Poor a substitute they may be, they are also a necessary evil when it comes to safeguarding loved ones against COVID-19 transmission.
Even so, why are people still taking risks?
How ‘optimism’ grants immunity to COVID-19 shaming
For the better part of a year, Los Angeles residents have been in a holding pattern, care of the ever-shifting restrictions and lockdown conditions.
Staying home and alone for such a long period is enough to exhaust anyone’s limited store of willpower. Given the high reward involved—reclaiming a former freedom—it’s no wonder some people might choose to stop adhering to COVID restrictions.
These people may be further motivated by optimism bias—that is, the belief that we individually are less likely than others to experience an adverse life event, like say, catching coronavirus.
There are also conflicting feelings around being told not to fulfill a personal right which, under any other circumstance, would be socially sanctioned. That is, spending time with family and friends.
Those who self-medicate with substances, compulsive sex, and other forms of self-gratification, are being abruptly forced off their hedonic treadmill, and this can be enough to trigger a state of collapse.
Survival in this sense is tied to the endless pursuit of distraction. For without distraction, there is introspection, and realization of buried trauma and identity shame.
When confronted by the condemnation of others from within our own community, we’ll feel only more compelled to seek distraction; to maintain our place atop the treadmill.
COVID-19 shaming in such instances is limited as a mechanism for change, and may in fact have the opposite effect.
Seeking peace through compassion
If this situation tells us anything, it’s that our anger over this kind of behavior is an attempt to regain some sense of control and fairness in a world that currently seems void of both.
The low-FODMAP diet involves restricting the intake of certain carbohydrates known by the acronym FODMAP (fermentable oligosaccharides, disaccharides, monosaccharides, and polyols).
FODMAPs are present in anything from bananas to yogurt, to tea and garlic. Consuming more than the recommended amount can cause unpleasant symptoms, including diarrhea, constipation, cramps, gas, and bloating.
Some of the more well-known FODMAPS such as fructose and lactose are even known to trigger reactions among those without IBS.
Three meals maximum within this period I have found to be usually sufficient at keeping my appetite sated. I try to evenly space the meals out, with one meal at the beginning of the eating window, one in the middle, and one at the end.
If you’re eating foods with moderate amounts of FODMAPs, be warned that eating overly large portions or snacking in between can slow the transit of food through your system, resulting in FODMAP build-up and symptoms.
A low-FODMAP tea is helpful with managing your appetite during “off” hours. White, green, peppermint, mint, rooibos, honeybush, and licorice are all listed as safe.
Consider also adding a sweetener such as stevia if required. It’s zero-calorie and won’t break your fast.
Resistant starch: Resistant starch (RS) is a naturally occurring fiber. Some IBS sufferers report finding it can help with symptoms.
RS can be found in some milled grains, legumes, underripe bananas, cooked and cooled bread, potatoes, rice, and pasta, to name a few.
RS ferments slowly in the large bowel, compared to the rapid fermentation that results from eating FODMAPS, leading to the usual symptoms.
There are multiple forms of RS and your tolerance to each kind can vary. RS has been known to produce symptoms in some IBS sufferers.
RS as it turns out is my personal nemesis; nevertheless, I have found I can mitigate some RS-related symptoms with the help of the herbal remedies listed below.
Spicy foods: Spicy foods are a well-known IBS trigger. Chile is completely out for me, though I’ve found I can tolerate pepper and mustard.
Acidic foods: Vinegar is a big culprit here, to the extent that I’ve had to stop eating salad dressing.
Peppermint oil: This product is available in capsule format and can treat IBS-related symptoms. On the rare occasion I dine out, I’ll take two pills to minimize the impact of eating high-FODMAP ingredients.
When consuming foods high in resistant starch I usually take half a teaspoon of a similar three-seed combination: ajwain, dill, and anise.
As Shirazi thyme is not widely available online, I decided to sub it with anise seed, another carminative.
Note that the exact FODMAP content of these seeds has not yet been measured. It is possible that consuming them could cause you to exceed your FODMAP limits.
Activated charcoal: There is some evidence that activated charcoal can help with the absorption of gas in the bowel. I take 3x 780mg charcoal pills, twice daily, along with the three-seed combo described above.
Digestive enzymes: Broad-spectrum enzymes may support digestion among some IBS sufferers, but again more studies are required.
The good news is that there are commercially available enzymes targeting select FODMAPS: xylose isomerase (for fructose), alpha-galactosidase (for galactooligosaccharides, or GOS), and lactase (for lactose).
If you’re drowning in information right now, my suggestion would be to start small.
Trial run one or two of my suggestions. If, after a period of careful monitoring, your symptoms don’t improve, I would invite you to test another.
Pick and choose what works best for you, but always remember to seek professional insight into any new treatment protocol. The National Center for Biotechnology Information website is a good place to explore studies regarding current, emerging, and possible future IBS treatments.
Finally, know that experimenting brings with it the possible reoccurrence of symptoms.
Demoralizing as this can be, take heart in the knowledge that every risk faced on the path towards healing, within reason, may ultimately prove a risk well taken.
Yes—coronavirus has cost many their livelihoods and lives. But in the West, as countries were locked down and stay-at-home orders were issued, the wheels of a “Quiet revolution”—to use the term coined byauthor Susan Cain—were turning.
While countless extroverts bemoaned the lockdowns and the loss of freedom, some introverts viewed social isolation not as deprivation, but rather an opportunity for quality time activities and peaceful reflection.
An introvert living in an extrovert world
In her celebrated book on introversion, Quiet, Cain notes that Western cultures tend to favor the Extrovert Ideal:
“the omnipresent belief that the ideal self is gregarious, alpha, and comfortable in the spotlight. The archetypal extrovert prefers action to contemplation, risk-taking to heed-taking, certainty to doubt. He favors quick decisions, even at the risk of being wrong. She works well in teams and socializes in groups.”
Consequently, when we introverts are measured against the Extrovert Ideal, we are often found to be lacking:
“Introversion—along with its cousins sensitivity, seriousness, and shyness—is now a second-class personality trait, somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology. Introverts living under the Extrovert Ideal are like women in a man’s world, discounted because of a trait that goes to the core of who they are. Extroversion is an enormously appealing personality style, but we’ve turned it into an oppressive standard to which most of us feel we must conform.” (Cain, 2012)
Growing up in societies that celebrate the Extrovert Ideal and mislabel anyone who doesn’t subscribe to that Ideal as “antisocial” has left many of us with feelings of inferiority.
The rise in remote working has put a pause on the much-loathed commute. Where before we introverts may have felt forced to spend a lot of our downtime recuperating from these various stresses, we can now apply ourselves to our activities and interests with renewed energy.
Meanwhile, social lives that might have once entailed exposure to overstimulating circumstances have also been placed on hiatus.
Introverts can now pick how and when they engage, measuring out social interactions in thimble-sized doses, over the phone, instant messages, or at a socially distanced hangout.
Extroverts living in an introvert’s world
Separated from the social contexts in which they have long excelled, many extroverts have understandably floundered.
Those who previously maintained their sense of self—and in turn their personal wellbeing—through social interactions have been forced to adopt a more solitary lifestyle.
This phenomenon I believe is less an act of social performance than proof of the extrovert’s continued existence. It speaks as much to an existing sense of isolation that predated coronavirus (and which was accelerated by the rise of social media) as it does the degree to which that isolation has since grown.
But extroverts alone are not suffering from the side effects of our new lockdown culture.
As a teenager, I was anxious, isolated, and afflicted with insomnia.
Most days I spent indoors, indulging in geek interest escapism. Sometimes I would craft elaborate fantasy and science fiction stories. Other times I would voraciously consume books, movies, and video games.
Refuge could also be found, of all places, in hammering out essays at the computer. (That such projects could bring order to my otherwise unpredictable school and home life probably speaks to the systematizing nature of my autistic brain.)
The downside of my constant computer use was that relaxing became difficult. A day spent glued to my screen would inevitably leave my mind restless, my sleep broken.
Without friends, family, and a community to ground me, my self-worth became proportional to my productivity. There was always more to do, one more task needing completion.
Trapped in a vicious circle of feeling isolated, I sought reprieve in workaholism, which in turn only exacerbated my loneliness.
Living with constant internal pressure was motivating and could even be affirming. Just look at how productive I was being! So what if my peers at school bullied me – just look at these shiny achievements, these notches in my academic belt!
But rather than slowing down, I ramped up my commitments. At the height of my workaholism, I found myself juggling a full-time job, a feature documentary, a web series, a novel, and organizing two research trips abroad.
Getting to, and staying, asleep by this point had become an elaborate, multi-staged ritual, beginning with a double dose of Benadryl, followed by an hourlong walk around the neighborhood while I waited for it to take effect.
Sometimes I would end up at a 24-hour gym, working the elliptical until the fatigue hit me…unaware that all this activity was probably only making my objective all the more difficult.
When I got home, I’d pull my blackout curtains, slip on an eye mask, put in my earplugs, fit a pair of headphones, cue a soothing audio track, and lie down on a makeshift bed on the floor.
This, of all places, was the only place I was guaranteed to nod off, for reasons I still don’t understand. After many a tossing, turning and blanket adjustment, I’d doze off, only to wake a short while later.
Climbing into my real bed, I’d return to sleep, to rise the following morning, still tired but wired, ready to chip away at my ever-growing workload.
Some nights, however, I would doze off, only to be woken by a hypnic jerk, a kind of whole-body twitch typically preceded by the sensation of falling.
Again and again, I would doze off, only to be jerked wide awake. The steady background hum of anxiety would be cranked up into a shrill roar, putting sleep still further out of reach.
The journey towards recovery
Self-generated projects until this point had been the main source of meaning in my life, and yet they were as much a palliative as they were problematic.
The comparative ease with which others were able to accomplish sleeping – a basic bodily function – told me that something in my case had gone awry. Believing there was no recourse, however, I kept up my unwieldy sleep routine for years.
My mother’s staunch opposition to any form of dependency made prescription medication seem like a false option. Sure, I was already relying on Benadryl, but then again antihistamines weren’t habit-forming drugs.
And even supposing I could scrape together enough money to get a proper diagnosis, I would have to contend first with the fear that the professional I saw might dismiss my problem outright.
The situation reached a tipping point one night while I was doing my regular insomnia shuffle around the neighborhood, I became caught in a rainstorm.
Any sensible person would have run home, or at the very least ducked under the cover of a tree. But to return home before the Benadryl took effect would mean yet another sleepless night. So I pushed on.
The wind picked up, turning the rain horizontal. Next thing, it was inverting my umbrella, leaving me exposed to the elements.
After about half an hour of this, I surrendered and trudged home, sloughing off my dripping clothes and climbing into bed.
When sleep did not come, I grew increasingly anxious. The anxiety snowballed into hypnicjerks, which in turn fueled the anxiety.
The night stretched on, each hour punctuated by an anxious glance at my phone screen to check the time. Heavy with the dread of facing a new day unrested, I lay there, waiting for my morning alarm.
Come the following night, I still couldn’t sleep, and my insomnia ballooned into a record 50-hour spell that only ended with a no-refill script for Valium.
The doctor I saw granted me this small mercy on the condition I see a sleep specialist. The specialist in turn requested I visit a sleep clinic.
Two weeks later, I packed my bags like someone preparing for a red-eye flight and drove through the dead of the night to the evening ghost town of a local business district.
Strolling through a deserted highrise lobby I was overtaken by the peculiar feeling I was participating in some secretive, perhaps even illicit activity.
The elevator opened to the clinic’s front desk, where I was greeted by a man in scrubs who directed me to a sleeping cubicle.
After having changed into my pajamas, I stretched out on the bed as countless electrodes were attached to my head and chest until I resembled some primitive robot trailing electrical cables and hydraulic tubes.
Just how exactly did these people expect me to get to sleep?
The thought of it alone caused my anxiety to surface. Palming a pill, I settled into bed and waited for the heavy embrace of drug-induced sleep.
Seven hours later, I woke to the nurse removing electrodes. Hollow-eyed, I dressed then shuffled like a zombie from the room.
“So far as I can see,” the sleep specialist said, poring over my results, “you have a perfectly normal sleep cycle.”
I frowned my disagreement.
“So why am I struggling to fall asleep?” I pressed.
Alas, the specialist had no answer for me. Instead, he suggested an alternate treatment for my anxiety, something known as biofeedback.
A round of treatment would cost something in the range of five thousand dollars – an expense my insurance company was unwilling to subsidize.
With my wallet still smarting from the cost of other, unrelated illnesses, I turned to my final recourse: pharmacological treatment.
Explaining my long-standing problem to my psychiatrist, I caught myself making excuses.
“I don’t want to rely on drugs,” I said, “but this problem has gotten way out of control.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve tried everything else,” my psychiatrist replied. “Don’t you think you deserve some relief?”
“Maybe,” I thought, feeling nevertheless that I had, in some unexplainable way, compromised my integrity.
With there being no one-size-fits-all medication for anxiety, I would now have to navigate a gauntlet of medications.
The most popular option was selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). Think Lexapro, Prozac, and Zoloft.
Mainstream SSRIs however come with certain unpleasant side effects. After a couple of doses, my libido took a total nosedive.
The next recommendation was an antipsychotic medication that left me foggy-brained. One morning, while still under its spell, I pulled out into traffic, miscalculated my timing, and was almost hit by another car.
Fearing I might not be so lucky next time, I switched to a combination of antidepressants and antianxiety drugs. Thirty minutes after taking my first dose, I fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke eight hours later, it was to the discovery that the insomnia problem I had been battling for more than 15 years was, more or less, gone.
No more frazzled nerves, poor concentration, and feeling dead on my feet. As for the constant companion that was my anxiety? His hands had now been prized from the steering well and his butt relegated to the backseat.
Before, sitting down for 15 minutes to meditate had been an exercise in self-torture, my thoughts flinging themselves in every which way in a bid to escape any semblance of control.
With the current chemical cocktail, however, I was suddenly able to achieve some degree of focus.
Insomnia is a modern epidemic
Sure, these pulls could put a cap on my anxiety and insomnia – but they couldn’t completely suppress it.
In moments of stress and overcommitment, my mood disorder would flare up again, offering proof that if I wanted to truly get better, I would need to take a more holistic tack.
This in short would involve psychotherapy, undertaking a regular meditation practice, and making daily relaxation time a priority.
It also meant addressing ongoing insomnia triggers, such as an overreliance on digital devices, and workaholism as a coping mechanism for social isolation.
Even when faced with the physical and psychological manifestations of our stress, we often try to ignore them – much to our detriment.
Finding a solution that works for you
If there’s anything my journey to overcome insomnia has taught me, it’s that we can’t ignore our problems or rely on Band-Aid fixes.
Those of us who are looking to kick our sleep woes to the curb can find some relief by adopting one or more of the following changes:
Restricting device usage: Use the wellness feature on your Apple or Android devices (sometimes referred to as “night light”). This reduces the amount of blue light emitted around set times. This light can have the effect of keeping your brain in “awake” mode. It’s also worth turning on your phone’s do-not-disturb mode and enforcing a no-device usage rule around bedtime.
Practice good sleep hygiene: Create ideal conditions for sleeping. Go to bed and get up at a regular time. Ensure your bedroom is quiet, dark, relaxing, and comfortable. As an addendum to the first point, try to remove electronic devices from your sleeping space. Employ blue-light-free bulbs. Avoid large meals, caffeine, and alcohol before rest. Use your bedroom exclusively for sleeping. More tips here.
Consider psychotherapy: Therapy can provide a safe outlet for pent-up emotional tension, which can in turn affect your ability to sleep. Therapy can also support your efforts to develop coping strategies.
Make relaxation a priority: You can’t be productive if you’re feeling depleted. Replenish your inner reserves every day with fun and enriching activities. Catch up on your favorite TV show, take your dog to the park, or try a new recipe. Consider doing meditation, breathing exercises, or yoga to help you unwind. Adopt what Jon Kabat-Zinn calls a “non-striving” attitude.
Consider natural remedies: While Benadryl can assist with occasional insomnia, natural treatments like melatonin, valerian root, magnesium supplements, lavender, and passionflower extract may prove equally effective.
Explore additional help: Attend a sleep clinic. Explore alternate therapy options. Seek the guidance of a psychiatrist. Investigate prescription medication.
As the coronavirus pandemic wears on, stories have emerged of survivors who continue to suffer chronic illness weeks and even months after recovering.
As anyone living with ongoing symptoms can attest, the challenge is never strictly physical. Being sick often carries a psychological toll, fueling stress, anxiety, and isolation.
Having myself suffered a gut disorder since my early teens, I know firsthand the restrictive – if not crippling – effect ongoing health problems can have.
What these experiences ultimately taught me however is that even when overcoming illness might seem impossible, fighting your own definition of “betterness” certainly isn’t.
An ailment unknown
From the age of 12, my stomach became permanently bloated and tender, my digestion troubled.
After a family dinner, I’d usually wind up locked inside the bathroom as my gut purged itself. Sometimes the voices of my siblings would drift out of the kitchen, and I’d hear their complaints that I was deliberately shirking post-meal cleanup. How little they knew.
Stabbing pains came and went often at random. One moment I’d be sitting at my computer, and the next I’d be stricken, doubled over, or collapsed on the floor.
These spells of agony sometimes lasted for days. During a family cruise vacation, I was afflicted by fluctuating blood sugar levels, and caught myself returning to the buffet repeatedly, wolfing down one dish after another.
Then, halfway into the trip, my digestive tract gave out. For three days I lay in the fetus position in our windowless cabin in a cocoon of darkness split by red lightning-strikes of agony.
“It’s just the stomach flu,” my mother said when I asked to be taken to the onboard doctor.
“Mum, something’s really wrong,” I insisted. “My body isn’t digesting anything.”
“They’re going to charge me $100 and all they’ll do is give you an aspirin,” she complained. “Just rest. It’ll pass.”
But 72 hours later, the symptoms had failed to ease. The constant pain and nausea had robbed me of my appetite, and after three days of fasting, my mother’s seeming indifference turned to concern.
She thrust plates of salad in my face, insisted on feeding me forkfuls despite my protests.
Days later, back on solid ground and mostly recovered, I looked back on the hellish episode as a freak incident. But chronic illness persisted.
Sticking with self-diagnosis
For the next decade, the same symptoms came and went with the suddenness and ferocity of summer thunderstorms. Their cause, at first a mystery, was eventually identified as wheat.
The symptoms after all were on par with those of Coeliac disease. And when I indeed subtracted wheat products from my diet, the symptoms eased to the point of being manageable.
My doctor suggested I get an endoscopy so I could be formally diagnosed. She explained that in order to avoid a false negative, I would need to start eating wheat again.
Having already tasted freedom, I had no intention of going back into dietary bondage. Besides, what would the test prove, other than what I already knew for a fact?
My resistance to getting tested was in part due to my parents once dismissing my symptoms as psychosomatic.
My antique distrust of authority figures, and the fact I alone had championed my own health, left me somewhat resistant to the doctor’s suggestion.
It was I, after, all who had determinedly spent three hours Googling symptoms; I who had found the name for my chronic illness.
It followed, therefore, that only I could determine what was best for my own health.
“You have no way of knowing for certain,” the doctor said when I declined the offer of an endoscopy. “It could be Coeliac disease. Or it could be something else entirely.”
“I’m good,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s your health,” she replied with a shake of the head.
“It is,” I snapped back. Just who did this woman think she was to question myjudgment like this? A qualified medical professional?
No one and nothing was going to dissuade me. Defiant, I marched out of the doctor’s office, clutching my self-diagnosis to me with the kind of protectiveness reserved for a newborn.
The struggles of identifying chronic illness
Still, I never achieved complete symptom clearance. All it took was a handful of nuts or a glass of milk to kick off a round of wind and intestinal purging, while beans had the opposite effect, bringing digestion crashing to a halt.
A dietician suggested that maybe I was eating too much fiber. She proposed I try cutting back on certain trigger short-chain carbohydrates like lactose and fructose, known by the acronym “FODMAPs”.
But by the following week, I was embarking on a month’s long trip overseas, and soon forgot the dietician’s proposal.
Later, believing I must be suffering some kind of allergy, I attended a leading clinic. If I was hoping to come away with a diagnosis, I was instead left only with a patch of irritation on my left forearm, something akin to a mosquito bite.
The allergen prick test revealed I was reactive to American dust mites, but not wheat and diary.
The clinic recommended nevertheless I switch to a diet low in certain naturally occurring food chemicals called salicylates, amines, and glutamates.
These chemicals are present in anything from chocolate, to coffee to cheeses. Eliminating them completely naturally proved quite the chore, and even once I did, my condition scarcely improved.
After a few months of attempting to be vegan, things only worsened, my belly swelling as tight as a drum.
When a rash surfaced on my back like an inflamed continent, I conceded that maybe my self-diagnosis was wrong.
Previous adversities had left me reluctant to ask for help, to trust that others really had my best interest in mind. Yet this same reluctance meant I had inadvertently prolonging my chronic illness.
A somewhat lengthy and expensive battery of tests confirmed that I indeed had been wrong about having Coeliac disease. What I was actually suffering from was Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS).
While both conditions share common symptoms, what my body seemed to have been reacting to was not the wheat protein gluten, which typically causes the immune reaction in Coeliacs sufferers.
My triggers were in fact FODMAPs, the carbohydrates previously identified by my dietician. This explained why my body responded adversely to high-FODMAP foods such as wheat, milk, nuts, and beans.
Had I listened to the dietician and trialed the low FODMAP diet, I would have been spared not only my usual raft of symptoms but the development of a new, secondary condition: small intestinal bacterial overgrowth (SIBO).
If IBS could be at times unbearable, SIBO had the effect of only exacerbating the symptoms.
Treating the SIBO with antibiotics decimated my gut microbiota. It also triggered a secondary infection of a parasite known as blastocystis hominis, suspected of stowing away on my body during my trip abroad.
The blasto infection sent me running to the toilet every hour, and could only be bested with still more antibiotics.
Suffice to say, it was months before I returned to any semblance of digestive normality.
When I expressed my desire to “get better” to my gastroenterologist, he laughed. IBS was a “functional” condition, quite unlike more serious conditions like Crohn’s disease. Expecting complete recovery simply wasn’t reasonable.
Certainly, chronic health conditions are often complex, and the problems they throw up insoluble. But if my gastroenterologist wasn’t interested in helping me explore the possibility at least of improved health, then it fell once more to me to try.
To this end, I explored all manner of remedies: antidepressants, antidiarrheals, antianxiety medications, fiber supplements, peppermint capsules, digestive enzymes, natural supplements, antispasmodics, probiotics, exercise, hot pads, meditation, acupressure, and hynotherapy.
By isolating potential trigger foods, I discovered that the recommended fiber supplements were actually making things worse.
Another contributing factor was a substance known as resistant starch, which can be found in many IBS-friendly staples. As it turned out, something as seemingly innocuous as reheated rice or potatoes often was more than enough to ruin my digestion.
The modifications I eventually settled upon involved quitting coffee and curtailing fiber, fat, oil, sugar, and resistant starch. Intermittent fasting, which involved restricting my eating to an eight-hour daily window, proved infinitely helpful.
Meals were kept to three in total and limited to reasonable portion sizes, taking the pressure off my admittedly delicate digestive tract. Adding peppermint supplements, enzymes, and anti-diarrhetics further supported my digestion.
Lifestyle changes were also in order. There was to be no more round-the-clock workaholism. Time would need to be made now for a regular exercise routine, daily meditation, and relaxation.
As it turned out, the gastroenterologist had indeed been wrong for laughing off my complaints. A better state of health was indeed possible.
While some health conditions may be in part or completely out of our control, management or easing of symptoms is always possible. Quality of life is never an unrealistic goal.
Identifying a key need and a strategy
“What do I need most?”, “Is it realistic?”, and “How do I achieve it?”
For those of us suffering from chronic illness, these three questions can be the determining factor for both our physical and psychological wellbeing.
In my case, my foremost need was being able to eat nourishing, delicious food without getting sick.
The dietary limitations imposed by IBS meant eating out was a fraught affair, so avoiding tummy upset going forward would require I make all my meals from scratch, going forward.
Even after I threw out all my current go-to recipes, many of the IBS-friendly alternatives I found online contained other foods that were triggers for me, such as oil.
The only way I was going to fulfill my tasty food cravings therefore was by getting creative. So for the next year, I recipe tested like heck, substituting problem ingredients with symptom-free alternatives.
Most meals I produced during this period were, for the most part, healthy, if a little bland. But by the second year, my culinary game was on the up, and I had at least four passable meals under my belt. Then suddenly they weren’t just passable – they were delicious.
As cooking IBS-friendly meals from scratch could be an expensive and time-consuming process, I began bulk-buying and batch-cooking.
This strategy ensured I spent less time in the kitchen carefully measuring ingredients. Instead of or shuffling through the supermarket, poring over the price tags of often more expensive low-FODMAP alternatives, I was now able to spend more of my time savoring the fruit of my labors.
Seeking support with chronic illness
Being forced to carefully monitor everything I eat, while managing occasional flare-ups can at times be stressful.
Sometimes I’ll catch myself trying to “silver lining” the situation, reassuring myself of the benefits of having IBS. The forced dietary changes for example have rendered me permanently lean.
Some fitness fanatics might consider this an ideal result, but practically speaking, not having “rainy day” body fat can be a problem during periods of illness when I’m most prone to rapidly dropping pounds.
Chronic illness has brought many periods of frustration and despair. Key to our endurance in such instances is having someone we can talk to about our difficulties. As the old adage goes, “A problem shared is a problem halved”.
While loved ones can ever truly know what it’s like to walk a day in your moccasins, they can certainly empathize. But if you find no respite in venting to friends and family members, a sympathetic-ear-for-hire may be another option.
Therapy for some isn’t financially tenable, while others may not be comfortable opening up to a stranger. In such instances, it’s worth exploring other avenues, such as online communities or support groups for people with your condition.
Failing that, a daily “mood” diary is always a great fallback. In moments of stress or high emotion, consider jotting down in detail what you’re feeling, why, and the circumstances or situations surrounding these feelings.
Diary writing when suffering chronic illness can be cathartic for the sheer reason that it allows us to divest ourselves of burdensome thoughts and feelings. Without an outlet, they may otherwise continue to rattle around inside our brains, draining our strength and impeding our wellbeing.
Diary writing in this sense is preventative, acting as a pressure valve. It allows us to release what we are carrying in a safe and constructive way, offering us valuable perspective on our difficulties.
Much of the small talk that happens on gay dating apps is, in my experience, a preface to a request.
“What you up to?” someone may ask, and behind this seemingly polite question, invisible gears are turning.
Maybe this stranger will hear my response and respond authentically, or maybe they will continue with the subterfuge of trying to gauge whether I’m willing and able to sustain a fantasy – or fulfill a desire.
These boxes reinforce desired behavior by dispensing a reward such as food, or punishment in the form of a shock from an electrified floor grid.
Skinner boxes are a perfect analogy for gay dating apps. The difference here is that messages, or more specifically, the attention they represent serves as the reward, while being ignored is a form of punishment, or negative reinforcement.
As app users, we maximize reward and minimize punishment using strategic and even deceptive self-presentation and engagement. We tailor profiles and our behavior in ways that will gain and sustain attention, even if they aren’t necessarily authentic.
We may boast about our preferences or prowess, while using erotic photos as bait for our chat partners.
Some of us may go so far as to create fake profiles, or message someone exclusively with the aim of receiving a response.
Messaging purely for attention, however, may be the first signs we’re developing a process addiction. Here’s why.
Why gay dating apps are addictive
At one point during his studies, the inventor of the Skinner box – American scientist B.F. Skinner – modified his boxes to dispense food pellets according to a random number of lever presses.
His pigeon test subjects, rather than being deterred by the unpredictability of the exercise, quickly learned to press the lever at random, even when no pellet was immediately forthcoming.
What Skinner realized was that this very same unpredictability had created a tension of expectations, which was released the moment the pigeon received their reward.
Consider the unpredictable nature of “rewards” on Grindr, Scruff or Tinder: users log on and off at random, and the rate of replies can vary completely, sometimes even within the span of a single conversation.
Meeting someone off the app may begin as a tantalizing fantasy, but it’s one that ultimately can’t compete with the dopamine seeking reward-loop offered by the back-and-forth of instant messaging.
The result is an experience that could be broadly described as ineffective, at least where it comes to generating face-to-face interactions.
Of course, if you were to canvas a group of gay men at random, I’m not sure a consensus would ever be reached on what constitutes an “effective” dating app chat session.
After all, everyone’s definition of a reward will vary from interaction to interaction, day to day, sometimes minute to minute. Yes, humans are a fickle bunch.
How addiction creates dating app sociopaths
Dating apps don’t help, in that they all seem designed to facilitate any variety of interactions. Some may use the app with the intent to meet, while others are simply looking for distraction, or the thrill of erotic chat or photo exchanges.
Suppose we come to the apps with a specific goal in mind. Gamification in many cases will nudge us towards abandoning specificity, towards being open to any and all interactions, if only for the momentary gratification they promise.
Our sole purpose thus becomes the maintenance of the tension-reward loop.
Sustained use will lead many users towards a nebulous middle ground, simultaneously craving all of the above, yet never finding true satisfaction. And yet we keep coming back. Why?
Notably, Skinner found that pigeons in his experiments continued to peck a lever even once their appetite had been sated. His conclusion: the action of cranking a lever had in and of itself become “fun”.
You can see the same behavior among users. Like edgy, risk-averse stockbrokers bidding in an incredibly volatile market, we hedge our bets, messaging indiscriminately just to see who will bite.
After firing off scores of messages to multiple chat partners, we wait for the replies to trickle in.
Too much tension and frustration – not enough replies, significant delays, or “inferior” rewards – and our sense of enjoyment will diminish.
Our only recourse then is to either adjust our expectations or spread our net more widely in order to maintain the loop.
Profile grids and swipe stacks will come to resemble an ever-shifting buffet in what feels like a perpetual famine.
In the 10+ years in which I’ve used gay dating sites and apps, I’ve often caught myself logging in just to see who had messaged, less interested in the content of the communication than the sheer fact of its existence.
It became clear to me that so long as I was caught up in tension-reward loop – in the split-second objectification, relational multitasking, devaluation, and dismissal that seems baked into digital modes of interaction – I could hardly expect to form healthy relationships with other gay men.
How, when I was treating chat partners as mere levers to be pulled for personal gratification?
The single-mindedness with which we perform this action, according to researcher Simon Baron-Cohen, is the antithesis of empathy:
“Single-minded” attention means we are thinking only about our own mind, our current thoughts or perceptions. “Double-minded” attention means we are keeping in mind someone else’s mind at the very same time… When empathy is switched off, we think only about our own interests. When empathy is switched on, we focus on other people’s interests too.
It is in the absence of such empathy that we adopt sociopathic behavior. And just like the sociopath, many of us – consumed by our process addiction – will go to extreme lengths in the pursuit of satisfaction.
complete inability to form lasting intimate relationships
failure to learn from punishment
absence of emotion
lack of insight into the impact of our behavior
failure to plan ahead
For those of you who have or continue to use gay dating apps, I ask you this: have you not experienced or dabbled yourself in superficial charm and unpredictability?
Or worse still: deceit, manipulation, and outright nastiness?
The system is hopelessly broken
Chances are you’re alone. Tragically, the addictive qualities of gay dating apps have created an environment where sociopathic behavior is now the status quo.
Strangers will issue demands and unsolicited erotic photos, interrogating our sexual preferences before blocking us at random.
While these tendencies are not specific to gay men, app-based reward loops positively reinforce these behaviors while failing to offer real accountability.
The result is an endless chain of victimization in which bad behavior is normalized and internalized and we all unwittingly find ourselves either in the company of, or becoming, gay dating app sociopaths.
It’s no secret that gay dating apps aren’t designed to foster genuine, heartfelt connection, or for that matter to enforce personal accountability.
Their goal, rather, is to gamify interactions with the goal of sustaining use, indefinitely. But in so doing, they train us to associate self-worth with constant affirmation.
In our pursuit of that affirmation, we will find ourselves pulling out all stops to feed it, even if it means completely disregarding and discarding others along the way.
The system may be broken, but it remains profitable for app makers, so there is little motivation for change. But as individual users, we can and must hold ourselves to a higher standard of personal conduct.
We can do this by:
Exercising self-awareness: curbing usage motivated only by the desire to get a “fix”.
Empathizing, rather thanobjectifying: treating people with kindness, consideration and courtesy. Being honest and upfront with our intentions and not stringing people along when we aren’t interested in them.