Will You Accept This Rose... and Maybe Some Self-Worth While We're At It?

The Bachelor. Has it really been on TV for eight years? At one point, I can remember actually being entertained by the show in an earnest way. Of course, I was a mere 23 years oldish. A train wreck of a girl. I identified with the same desperate obsession--to find the man of my dreams, marry, baby-make, and settle down into timeless bliss and related fantasies--it seemed many of the "Bachelorettes" competing on the show appeared to have.

Now being the ripe old age of 32, while setting up the DVR to tape The Bachelor Finale (On the Wings of Love edition, for you thankfully unaware folk out there), I felt a sense of melancholy. Is it because I'm almost a decade older? I found a new wrinkle yesterday. No, I realized that the entire concept of this seemingly innocent show, guised as a vehicle to help people "find" true love, is actually a contest to determine how worthy each woman (or man) is to be loved.

TRIVIAL DISCLAIMER: Since the first show premise was based on women (and honestly, the only seasons I've watched are the ones with the women competing...blame it on the same-sex schadenfreude I must revel in), I'll comment only on those seasons.

Now, back to that Finale. While watching Jake the Pilot "choose" the black sheep Vienna to be his soul-mate, over the much more audience-friendly Tenley, I became sick to my stomach. If I were in Tenley's position (at the age she was...early 20's), at the moment Jake the Pilot started vaguely referring to "not knowing" what was "missing" from their connection, I would have felt my entire sense of lovability quickly melting into nothingness. To reflect on all the previous seasons, that's pretty much what most of the rejected, deflated women who didn't get the rose, or more tragically, the ring, reported feeling.

And then there was the spectacle of beautiful, young, lithe women stacked up as if on bleachers in front of the Bachelor, just primed for the pickin'. The sacred opportunity to find your ultimate romantic love connection: trivialized into a process that chooses teams for volleyball. Except, instead of being picked for a team, these women are picked to be A LIFELONG MATE. The preposterousness is only hitting me now: at an age and life-point when I'm finally able to have a sense of myself that isn't precariously hinged on approval, being desired, or being liked.

The "chosen" women seemed to be on a perpetual Sally Field Oscar "you like me...you really like me" speech high after they received that damn rose. And for those unlucky enough to stand there empty-handed, after all the American Beauties have been doled out? Well, I guess you just didn't float his boat, toots. You didn't rock his world. You didn't cut the mustard. Maybe you should try a different means of looking for love, say...in reality? Maybe there you'll have a little more equality on the playing field, perhaps even get to have a say in whether a man is suitable for YOU (not just whether you're rose-worthy to him).

Now comes the part that's even more absurd. The scenarios this show sets up for the potential lovebirds are painstakingly false. Who "gets to know" the "real" you whilst hang-gliding in Tahiti? Or on a gondola ride in Florence? Or, in Jake the Pilot's case: realizing his passionate, undeniable connection with Vienna while almost pissing his pants on a bungee cord jump? Are you kidding me? These are the tests of relationship mettle that the Bachelor needs to have put in place to make sure he'll be set for life with The One? These people have been voluntarily thrown into a pressured, fabricated situation for a short period of time. When the hoopla, intensity and competition ends, what actual footing does the couple have to stand on? Though there are a handful of "lasting" Bachelor/Bachelorette couples (Trista being the only one who seems like she might be settled in for the long-haul), I'm interested to note that a huge majority of the relationships met their makers not too long after the cameras ceased rolling.

And then there's good ol' Jason and Molly. Aren't they so cute with their on-air nuptials? I'm sure the rain was a good omen. The fact that he ORIGINALLY ASKED THE OTHER WOMAN TO MARRY HIM really doesn't have any significance anymore, right? I mean, if only we all had that option: to propose marriage, or actually get married, and then suddenly have it dawn on us that someone we've rejected was actually The One. That, I believe, might be the essence of selfishness. Now, let's say Jason married Melissa, had children with her, and then left her for Molly. Yes, that would be way worse. But, let's say Jason, um, didn't ask her to marry him in the first place? That would have been awesome. Again, the pressure to get engaged during the finale is such bunk! Ratings are more important than listening to your gut, I suppose. Especially when it comes to things like making a lifelong commitment to someone else's trusting heart.

And yet, here I am. Watching these shows over the past eight years. Something in the makeup of this show reels me in. Is it the game-show thrill factor? Is it the voyeuristic factor? Maybe. But, I think the biggest reason---and the reason I continue to watch other shows like this---is because there is something enthralling about watching someone getting their sense of worth denied. It resonates with the terror most humans have of being rejected, of not being approved of.

Being rejected instinctually resonates with humans as not surviving; If we're rejected by our parents as babies, we're pretty much screwed. If we're rejected as adults, who will love us when we grow old? These people aren't getting their hearts broken, they're getting their sense of self smashed. And who among us doesn't know and/or fear that feeling? Watching it happen to someone else is strangely cathartic...and also strangely comforting. "Ah, ok. It's not just me who has tried to gain love, approval, acceptance...and had their ego demolished into smithereens." Even if the person who did the demolishing is no more than a random dude you're on a TV show with, the damage stays in your psyche, and that feeling of core-rejection doesn't just disappear. YOU were rejected. Not your talent, not your clothing. You.

Sitting on the couch, watching someone else grapple with that face-flushing, rock-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach, uncontrollable-tears-welling-up rejection makes everything (maybe just for that moment) seem fair in the world among us survival-seeking humans.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Do the unthinkable, and purposely do things you anticipate will be rejected. I like to call these things "self experiments." Getting used to being rejected not only takes the sting out a little with every rebuff, but it also helps prove false a gnawing fear that we need others to prove our worth. We're not helpless infants anymore, dependent on our parents for survival; our worth is inherent. And it's definitely nowhere to be found in the (often transient) opinions of others.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Save Me" (AIMEE MANN)

Life is Just a Bowl of Cherry Flavored Anti-Depressants!

Never in my skeptical Julie brain did I ever think I would be called "Pollyanna." And yet, I was. Twice just this past weekend.

I grew up with two incredibly worried and catastrophizing folks. As in "Chicken Little, the sky is not only falling, it's going to be comprised of razor sharp teeth when it falls and will chew you into shreds of human carnitas for the gods to make mortal burritos out of." Indeed, their paranoia and fear had a macabre and often, um, crazy feeling to it. My mom even showed me their wills when I was seven. She explained that ANYTHING HORRIBLE could happen to either of them AT ANY MOMENT, and I needed to BE PREPARED to fend for myself. The fact that they're still alive and kicking seems a cruel joke, considering the defense mechanisms I had to create in order to try and steel myself for their deaths. I was convinced that the pain I was in store for would be unsurmountable, when they would surely die prematurely at some point in the late-1980's.

The defense in question was OCD. Not pop-psychology "OCD," as in when someone likes to be super-organized or really punctual, and suddenly everyone in the office refers to them as "OCD Dave" or whatever. I had OCD because I would do things like count objects or patterns in strange ways; I would have to knock on things thirty-seven times fearing someone important (or everyone important) to me would die if I didn't. Then, I bought these worry dolls when I was eight; I would place them under my pillow every night. But, not until after I had performed a monologue that went something like this, "Dear whomever is in charge of things: Please let no one in my family or any of my friends die, get any diseases, get hurt, get kidnapped, get tortured, or suddenly go blind or deaf (I had to cover all bases)." Then I would have to say ALL of their names, for fear that if I wasn't specific enough, they wouldn't be covered by my magical thinking life-insurance dolls.

It didn't help that my parents allowed me to read Stephen King every night before bed, and watch endless horror and action movies to my latency-age heart's content. Sleeping with one eye open, convinced a monster who looks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist was secretly living in my closet--waiting to slowly devour me with her shiny, chiseled teeth after spider-walking towards me in the dark--was no way to live.

Along with my fears of death and associated horrors, my parents discussed "the world" in frightening terms. They referred to other people in society with "us and them" values, and convinced me that anyone trying to befriend or --gasp-- date me would absolutely be "using me," and privately wringing their hands in Mua-ha-ha! glee.

Yep, this is just the tip of my neurotic iceberg when it comes to being skeptical, negative, pessimistic, a worrywart...whatever word describes it best. I couldn't enjoy a party without thinking, in the back of my mind, "everyone at this party is going to die one day." Yeah, I had some pretty sweet twisted thoughts invading my brain. Like the Maria Bamford joke goes,
"My friends say I should get out and go to a movie with them. I tell them I'm filthy, and they're like 'Why don't you just take a shower,' and I say, NO, IT'S ON THE INSIDE!" Intrusive thoughts. That's what they're called. Anyone who's had them knows how they work. They're always self-destructive and get in the way of everyday life. Not necessarily to the point where you can't function, but in a way that prevents you from ever feeling "all right." They're a symptom of OCD and they fully bite.

Somewhere along the line of several years of therapy and training in psychology, along with some big life experiences and a few traumas, I've managed to nearly free myself from OCD's Debbie Downer clutches. I actually see the drain that thinking negatively causes. Even if it takes extra effort to be positive, I know that it will pay off. Taking the additional minutes, usually seconds, to see my part in a crisis (usually of small-turned-hysterical proportions), and my part in exacerbating the crisis works to nip those stirrings of pissing and moaning in the proverbial buds.

The famous therapist and psychologist Albert Ellis coined "Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy," and I highly recommend it for you fellow negaholics out there. I was a life-long pessismist, and I can say I approach situations with a much more open mind, with more patience, hope, and less attachment to outcomes. Yes, things in life can still suck ferociously...but assuming the worst really does make it much worse. Self-fulfilling prophecies, if you will.

Yes, I'm still cautious. I don't throw my arms open and thrust myself into the world with reckless abandon...I'm not one of those people, and I don't think I'll ever be. But, I'd rather be called foolishly optimistic than smartly skeptical in most areas of life. I've wasted far too many years of my short life worrying about what I'll say, what I'll do, what others will say or do, and what a fool I'll look like if I'm not prepared for catastrophe to strike. So I look naive if I have a positive attitude towards life and other people. Through a combination of Buddhism, therapy, and being married to a perpetually positive person, I've found my constant cynicism and concern does little other than bring others in to my funk, keep me jittery, and never allow me to just "be" in the moment.

Yeah. I might look like a dork being positive; especially since I grew up with skepticism and snarkiness being way cooler than Stuart Smalley-ness. But hey, I am good enough and smart enough, whether people like me or not.




TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Here's a relatively quick and painless exercise you can do for stopping your negative and irrationally crappy moods and reactions. For more info, Google "ALBERT ELLIS and REBT". Here's an example of "The ABC's of REBT," using my issue of jealousy for this demo:

HOW I CREATE MY OWN DISTURBANCE

A. ACTIVATING EVENT
My husband was flirting (being charming) with the attractive female cashier at the grocery store today. Although it was a very brief moment, it immediately made me rageful (obviously stemming from leftover issues in the past I've been holding on to), jealous and angry at him.

BR. RATIONAL BELIEF
1) I don't like it when my husband is even remotely flirtatious with other women!
2) It's too bad that I often perceive him as flirting when he is actually just being friendly and charming.
3) I wish he wasn't so charming with certain women who threaten my confidence.

BI. IRRATIONAL BELIEF
1) He shouldn't ever be attracted to or flirt with other women!
2) It's awful that he would ever flirt with another woman!
3) I can't stand it when women give him attention in a flirtatious way in front of me!
4) He's a disrespectful jerk for flirting with her for even an instant; he should pretend to wear blinders around other women!

C. CONSEQUENCES
Feeling ? MAD/SAD/SCARED (threatened/jealous/rejected) Behavior ? I became passive aggressive, and stopped talking to him for about ten minutes until he asked what was wrong several times. When I finally told him what was wrong, I was still bitchy, and I exaggerated when recounting actions with the cashier so as to make him seem disrespectful of me. (I couldn't take responsibility for how I was projecting my insecurities on the situation.)

D. DISPUTING
1) It's disappointing that, because he is a generally charming and very friendly person to everyone, he might inadvertently flirt with other women.
2) I can stand to see him being charming and friendly with other people, even if it means other attractive women sometimes.

E. EFFECT
Feeling? Annoyance; Understanding of his personality; Acceptance of my insecurities
Behavior? Focus on my being social and friendly instead of on who he is talking with/him being flirtatious; Be able to separate innocent from disrespectful flirting (which he has never done); Focus on being confident instead of creating drama stemming from insecurities.



Oh, and I'll be adding a new feature onto this blog! I'll be prescribing a song to go along with the homework. By the end of each month, there should be a pretty good mix formed...

TODAY FROM ROXY SHOCKS' RX RADIO: "Powder Your Face With Sunshine" - Dean Martin