I am a sucker for self-help books. I can literally spend hours in the Self-Help section in the bookstore, eating up guides that promise that I will never be angry again, never feel lonely again, or perhaps never need another self-help book again..
What drives this voracious appetite for self-improvement? Is it that everyone else seems to have it together? Is it the satisfaction from self-indulgent navel gazing? Perhaps it’s the relief that even off-key people, such as myself, have books that can help me realign.
I don’t know how I got to this point, but what started as a bit of self-improvement has quickly spiraled into an industry of band-aid book solutions and quick-fix weekend seminars. It’s become a sort of unhealthy behavior in itself. I’ve bought probably hundreds of dollars worth of self-help tools, and I’ve attended a few seminars. The problem is you never walk away truly satisfied. And I notice it’s the same people going to conferences over and over again.
I once attended a weekend-long seminar called “Life Academy.” I was dealing with some depression issues, and my aunt came ranting and raving about this program. For one weekend, she said, you learn about why your life has been so hard, and for $999, you can change all that around and start living the easy life. My mom pressured me to go. And my aunt offered to pay. I decided to give it a try.
At Life Academy, we learned that it’s normal to tell people you love them every couple minutes. That weekend, every time you addressed the group, you had to introduce yourself. It went like this:
“Hi my name is Jessica.”
“Jessica,” the group would echo back. “We love you.”
To be honest, I don’t remember much from that weekend. I mostly remember feeling trapped in a hotel conference room, listening to someone talk about changing yourself. (Really?) On the very last night, the Life Academy leaders set up a strip of burning red-hot coals. We each took our turn running barefoot across the coals as the rest of the group chanted, “Go! Go! Go!” and would scream and cheer once you you got to the other side.
I thought my aunt had joined a cult. A well-disguised cult. OK there was no giving up your bank account or disowning your family, but I can’t believe I fell for the weekend remedy. I grew up on three-day church camps. I looked forward to these every summer, and they seemed to make such a big difference at the time. Do I remember anything now? No.
What I do remember, and what has changed me have been the hard times–the times I’ve struggled, when I thought my life was hanging by a thread, with some joker holding a pair of scissors, ready to cut me loose at any second. What’s really helped me hasn’t been feel-good weekends. It’s actually been the weeks moping and mulling, having major anxiety, and feeling that I’m about to get eaten alive by some project, some person or by some impossible beast. Those times shape me in ways walking over a few hot coals never could.
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