Of these points the principal and most urgent is that which reaches the
passions; for passion is produced no otherwise than by a disappointment
of one's desires and an incurring of one's aversions. It is this which
introduces perturbations, tumults, misfortunes, and calamities; this is
the spring of sorrow, lamentation and envy; this renders us envious and
emulous, and incapable of hearing reason.
_Epictetus_.
Under this rather pretentious title an attempt is made to indicate certain
elements of worry. No claim is made that the treatment of the subject is
exhaustive.
The motto "Don't Worry" has inspired many homilies. But the mere resolve to
follow this guide to happiness will no more instantaneously free one from
the meshes of worry than the resolve to perform a difficult gymnastic feat
will insure its immediate accomplishment.
The evils of worry as well as of its frequent associate, anger, have been
dwelt upon by writers philosophical, religious, and medical. "Worry," says
one author, "is the root of all cowardly passions,--jealousy, fear, the
belittling of self, and all the introspective forms of depression are the
children of worry." The symptoms and the evil results seem to receive
more elaborate and detailed attention than the treatment. "Eliminate it,"
counsels this writer; "Don't worry," advises another. "Such advice is
superficial," says their critic, "it can only be subdued by our ascending
into a higher atmosphere, where we are able to look down and comprehend the
just proportions of life." "Cultivate a quiet and peaceful frame of mind,"
urges another; and still another advises us to "occupy the mind with better
things, and the best--is a habit of confidence and repose."
From such counsel the average individual succeeds in extracting nothing
tangible. The last writer of those I have quoted comes perhaps the nearest
to something definite in directing us to occupy the mind with better
things; in the suggestions I have to offer the important feature is the
effort to replace one thought by another, though not necessarily by a
better one. If we succeed in doing this, we are making a step toward
acquiring the habit of confidence and repose.
The simple admonition not to worry is like advising one not to walk
awkwardly who has never learned to walk otherwise. If we can find some of
the simpler elements out of which worry is constructed, and can learn to
direct our attack against these, the proposition "Don't worry" will begin
to assume a tangible form.
We can at least go back one step, and realize that it is by way of the
_unduly insistent thought_ that most of these faulty mental habits become
established. It might be claimed that fear deserves first mention, but the
insistent thought in a way includes fear, and in many cases is independent
of it.
The insistent thought magnifies by concentration of attention, and by
repetition, the origin of the worry. If my thoughts dwell on my desire for
an automobile this subject finally excludes all others, and the automobile
becomes, for the time being, the most important thing in the world, hence I
worry. Into this worry comes no suggestion of fear--this emotion would be
more appropriate, perhaps, if I acquired the automobile and attempted
to run it. If, now, I have trained myself to concentrate my attention
elsewhere before such thoughts become coercive, the automobile quickly
assumes its proper relation to other things, and there is no occasion for
worry. This habit of mind once acquired regarding the unessentials of life,
it is remarkable how quickly it adapts itself to really important matters.
Take a somewhat more serious question. I fear I may make a blunder. If I
harbor the thought, my mind is so filled with the disastrous consequences
of the possible blunder that I finally either abandon the undertaking or
approach it with a trepidation that invites failure. If, on the other hand,
I have learned to say that even if I make a blunder it will only add to
my experience, then apply myself whole-minded to the task, I have made a
direct attack on worry.
The qualification _unduly_ is not to be forgotten; a certain discrimination
must be exercised before entirely condemning the insistent thought. The
insistent thought that one's family must be fed is not a morbid sign. In
fact, he also errs who can eliminate this thought and enjoy the ball game.
It is not for the deviate of this type that I am writing. Nevertheless, the
over-solicitous victim of the "New England Conscience" can almost afford to
take a few lessons from the ne'er-do-weel.
The practical bearing of this attempt to analyze worry is obvious. If it is
through the insistent desire for an automobile that I worry, I must bring
my training to bear, not on the worry, which is elusive, but on the desire,
which is definite. I must fortify myself with what philosophy I can
acquire, and must console myself with such compensations as my situation
may offer; and above all, I must _get busy_, and occupy hands and brain
with something else. If, on my travels, I worry over the sluggish movement
of the train, it is because of the insistent thought that I must arrive
on time. In this event I should practice subduing the insistent thought,
rather than vaguely direct my efforts against the worry. In the majority of
cases I can bring myself to realize that the question of my arrival is not
vital. Even in case I am missing an important engagement I may modify the
dominance of the thought by reflecting that I cannot expect to be wholly
immune from the misfortunes of mankind; it is due me, at least once in a
lifetime, to miss an important engagement,--why fret because this happens
to be the appointed time? Why not occupy my thoughts more profitably than
in rehearsing the varied features of this unavoidable annoyance?
If we fret about the weather it is because of an insistent desire that the
weather shall conform to our idea of its seasonableness. If we complain
of the chill of May it is not because the cold is really unbearable, but
because we wonder if spring will ever come. If we fume on a hot day in July
it is because the weather is altogether _too_ seasonable to suit us.
We spend far too much thought on the weather, a subject that really
deserves little attention except by those whose livelihood and safety
depend upon it. Suppose a runaway passes the window at which we are
sitting, with collar off, handkerchief to our heated brow, squirming to
escape our moist and clinging garments, and being generally miserable. We
rush out of doors to watch his course, and for the next few minutes we do
not know whether it is hot or cold, perspiring less during our exertions, I
strongly suspect, than we did while sitting in the chair. At all events, it
is obvious that our thoughts played quite as great a part in our discomfort
as did the heat of the day.
Suppose now, instead of devoting all our attention to the weather we should
reason somewhat as follows:
As long as I live on this particular planet, I shall be subject perhaps
three days out of four, to atmospheric conditions which do not suit me.
Is it worth my while to fret during those three days and to make it up by
being elated on the fourth? Why not occupy myself with something else and
leave the weather for those who have no other resource? Or, as someone has
said, why not "make friends with the weather?" If one will cultivate this
frame of mind he will be surprised to find that a certain physical relief
will follow. In the first place, he will lessen the excessive perspiration
which is the invariable accompaniment of fret, and which in its turn
produces more discomfort than the heat itself.
We have selected, so far, the comparatively unimportant sources of mental
discomfort, fret, and worry. The reader who can truthfully say that such
annoyances play no part in his mental tribulations may pass them and accept
congratulations. The reader who cannot be thus congratulated, but who is
impatient to attack the major sources of worry, must be reminded at this
point that he must practice on the little worries before he can accomplish
anything with the great. The method is the same. The philosophy that will
make us content with the weather will do something toward establishing the
mental poise which shall enable us to withstand with comparative equanimity
the most tragic of misfortunes that may fall to our lot.
To draw an example from the more serious disorders, let us consider the
hypochondriac, who harbors the insistent thought that he must be always
perfectly well, that each of his sensations must conform to his ideal, and
that each function must follow regulations imposed by himself. If he
can learn to ignore this thought by realizing that an acute illness is
preferable to life-long mental captivity; if he can learn to do what others
do, and to concentrate his energies on outside affairs which shall displace
the question of health; if he can learn to say "What I am _doing_ is more
important than how I am _feeling_;" he will have cured his hypochondria.
In the foundation of the structure we are studying is found _exaggerated
self-consciousness_. Whatever is said, done, or left undone, by others is
analyzed by the worrier with reference to its bearing on himself. If others
are indifferent it depresses him, if they appear interested they have an
ulterior motive, if they look serious he must have displeased them, if they
smile it is because he is ridiculous. That they are thinking of their own
affairs is the last thought to enter his mind.
I suppose it would be an affectation for any of us to deny that, as far as
we are concerned, we are the centre of the universe. This conceit does
us no harm so long as we remember that there are as many centres of the
universe as there are people, cats, mice and other thinking animals. When
we forget this our troubles begin. If I enter a strange shop and find they
desire security, need I take this as a reflection on _my_ credit? Need I
expect to be invited to every entertainment I should like to attend, and to
be excused from those that bore me, and shall I make no allowance for the
attitude of my host? Is it not rather egotistic for me to suppose that
others are vitally interested in the fact that I blush, tremble, or am
awkward? Why then should I allow my conduct to be influenced by such
trivial matters?
The order of training is, then, generally, to modify our self-consciousness
by externalizing our thoughts and broadening our interests; specifically,
to eliminate the unduly insistent habit of thought.
This analysis of worry and allied mental states may facilitate such
training, but the practical value of the suggestions does not depend upon
the acceptance of these theoretical considerations.