In response to Friend’s post describing a driver’s prolonged tyranical rant at him after honking at her for cutting him off at an intersection, marveling at the disproportionality and vehemence of it, incredulous at its intensity and utterly violent resonance:
“It’s been getting worse for years now, and escalating exponentially in the past year, in my observation. It’s the toxic milieu of the world, I’m afraid. Everybody is on their last nerve and lashing out impulsively whenever and wherever it has the least/fewest perceived consequences—at strangers. 😞 So the best thing each/all of us can do is self-regulate—meet aggression with peace and kindness, defuse rather than escalate. Easier said than done. Sometimes we will inevitably be the aggressor; in those situations we can hope that our target can respond with equanimity rather than hostility. This is how things will get better. One de-escalated encounter at a time.” 🙏🏼🫤❤️🩹
Mine was neck pain for the longest time. I could usually relieve it with a brief massage until starting a very stressful job, where I quickly developed daily pain, stinging and tight. Then nothing helped, neither massage nor ibuprofen, only vacation, for 5 years until I left. During pandemic lockdown, low back pain emerged as a new physical manifestation of mental stress.
For the past month I have had varying degrees of lumbar pain, but it did not occur to me that it was stress related. I must be doing my dead lifts wrong, I thought. I must need to stretch. But nothing seemed to help after a while, and it got worse after Thanksgiving. That weekend, I found out in no uncertain terms how I had hurt someone very close to me. I always had an inkling, but the full impact of my actions became clear in one starkly honest conversation. In the emotional overwhelm, I could only process a little at a time, mentally (hence the I Wish I Was Better For You post–I was actually thinking of a different relationship, but the idea for that post brought up multiple relational regrets all at once). The rest landed squarely and heavily on my back. It was sore during the days, and woke me up from sleep at night with severe pain and stiffness. I was not limited during my Ethos workouts, though–in fact, I felt better during exercise. After a relatively easy session last Sunday morning, I sat the rest of the day writing, and that night felt like I was both 100 years old and got hit by a truck. It was slowly dawning on me, the origin of my physical pain: The full depth and persistence of my relational fuck-ups was unfolding into conscious awareness, and it was painful, quite literally. Looking back, I was also much more tearful than usual in the past month–like leaks of extreme emotion springing forth, portending.
As is often the case, conscious awareness brought alleviation of pain. No NSAIDs, no physical therapy, no yoga, just an emerging understanding and acceptance. And insights: I realized this week that when I get sad, I get sedentary. I lean heavily toward stillness, with a strong urge to write for release, instead of moving, which is how I relieve anxiety and anger. This past month my workouts diminshed and verbal output escalated significantly. Writing helped untangle and clarify thoughts (I knew I was projecting self-loathing, I just didn’t know why), but I think the lack of movment may have perpetuated repression of feelings, thus diverting them into spiraling physical pain. Now I know, Opposite Action helps: Under stress, doing the opposite of my wallowing tendency can keep me healthy. Hopefully the next time I experience profound sadness (or guilt, or shame), I will resist the pull of the comforting though potentially counterproductive chairs and instead get on the elliptical.
My friends also helped this week. When I told them my sorrowful discovery, they held space for it so lovingly, so patiently. No platitudes, no false positivity–only empathy, validation, and compassion. They shared their own hardships, and I helped them hold it, too. How lucky am I, to know these wonderful people, to have them in my corner? The mutual uplift is absolutely synergistic and exponential, as is my gratitude.
I wrote about forgiveness last month, and how withholding it harms the (un)forgiver. Today I understand acutely how it also hurts and plagues the unforgiven. My loved one forgives me, thank God; I think I can forgive myself more easily now that I know that. We shall see.
“Big feelings” don’t just happen to kids. We grown-ups experience big, hard, complicated emotions as much as anyone. ”So much, so much,” as my friend’s daughter used to lament. ’Immense,’ as it occurred to me this week. Elation, gratitude, grief, guilt, regret, joy, humility, connection–it can all really be so much–sometimes too much for a mind to hold. So it puts it in the body for a while.
After several days of chasing–analyzing, journaling, thought experimenting, self-flagellating–I finally ran out of evaluative fuel and just let the feelings be. Rather than mixing, kneading, stretching, and folding, impatiently trying to shape the nebulous into a smooth ball of cognitive comprehension, I put it to sit and ferment a while. It didn’t take long for a form to rise, to show me what it was made of. I see now what’s been happening. Hopefully I can take the learning and apply it next time. [HA! Who knew a post on dark emotions could include a fun sourdough analogy?]
My back feels fine today, better than it has in weeks. Fascinating.
How many different names do you go by? In what contexts are they used? Who uses them? How do you and others identify with them? How do you feel about them?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pseudonyms. Authors and narrators use them often, and I have felt some inner conflict about how to address these people whom I so admire, especially if I consume their work under all of their names and want to know them as whole people… Then this past week I realized: I have multiple names, too.
Cathy, Cath, Catherine, Dr. Cheng, 鄭家薏 or just 家薏 (my Chinese full and given names), and 大姐 (literally big sister). Doc. Chenger. 媽 (“Ma”), or “Mother,” as Daughter chooses to call me. What you call me indicates how we know each other, my identity in your eyes, our relationship.
I use ‘Catherine’ on all legal and professional documents, and as a speaker/writer. I choose to maintain that name on social media as well, because I see it as my public name. ’Cathy’ is what you can call me when you know me personally. That is how I make the distinction; when you call me Cathy you have crossed a border of familiarity (it’s not hard). So it’s interesting to me when some people still call me Catherine after that connection is made. I don’t mind, necessarily, but I notice. I asked a colleague why he does this; he said he didn’t know, which was interesting. I think since then he just hasn’t used my first name when addressing me. Fascinating.
I call myself Dr. Cheng with students and trainees. That just feels appropriate. I introduce myself to patients and coworkers as Cathy Cheng. Unless they are senior physicians, whom I consider my teachers and thus address as Dr. ___, I address patients by their preferred first names unless otherwise requested. Some patients and staff still elect to call me Dr. Cheng. Here’s the interesting part: I get different feelings (and/or make up different stories) about why. From some, it feels like simple respect and deference, from a cultural, professional, or generational origin, which I appreciate. For others, it feels like an intentional separation, as if they don’t want to know me as a person, and resist letting me know them in kind–it’s transactional. I have no objective evidence for this theory, it’s just a feeling I get. And it’s all okay. I see it as my job to show up to patients however they need and allow me. My preference is for us to know each other as whole people, informally, openly, on a first name basis. But if that’s not what they want, I can still be a good enough doctor for them. We don’t have to be friends for you to get excellent care.
If I’m honest, though, I see every new patient–every new person I meet, actually–as a potential new friend. I have had the privilege now of making friends with many patients over the years. We keep appropriate boundaries. I message medical stuff through the patient portal and my work email. We keep clinical conversations to formal encounters, and I document accordingly. We agree in advance that if it gets too weird we will be open about it, and either party may exit either or both relationships, no hard feelings. So far it has not felt difficult and nobody has broken up with me yet. Having different names actually helps. ”Okay now I’m talking to Dr. Cathy,” Patient Friend may say, not necessarily addressing her physician, but her physician friend. It’s organic.
The more I think about it, the less important it feels to make too much of these identity distinctions around names. At the end of the day I am me, whole and indivisible. You may know me as doctor and friend, among many other roles. You may also choose to not know all of me. That’s okay too, as long as whatever relationship we have is mutually respectful. I have written before about the exercise that invites us to consider our various identities as petals on a flower, which we can orient and re-orient according to environment and context. One of the greatest rewards of any given relationship is when we slowly reveal more of ourselves to each other over time, and our connection deepens in its own unique way. I love that. I’m less confused now about how to relate to and address my book heroes. I will call them what they call themselves, and aim to know them however they wish to be known.
Apparently, the readings today in the Catholic church had to do with names. My friend Danielle emailed me her reflections just as I started writing this post, which I took as a divine signal. She has given me permission to share here, for which I am so grateful.
We take our names for granted. It’s not good or bad, it just is. I’m glad and grateful to have been nudged this week to explore and consider, to have time and space to think and write about my names and identities, and how they relate–to everything. I expect additional insights will emerge in the coming days, weeks, etc. How exciting! Please enjoy Danielle’s words below. I have known her since I was 18; I respect and admire her greatly. Best wishes, all!
On a personal level, I think about my name. I was born Daniel Tuck Wai Lum. My parents gave us English first names and Chinese middle names. (It made life easier when folks in the US called me Daniel, and didn’t have to attempt to pronounce Tuck Wai.) When I transitioned, I changed my name to Danielle Tuck Wai Lum. Most of us never change our first or middle names. For those of us who are transgender, everyone (or almost everyone) changes their first name. Many want a name that is very distinct from the name given to them at birth. For me, I liked my birth first name, just not the gender of it, so Danielle was an easy and logical choice. Tuck Wai was harder. As I mentioned earlier, in Chinese names, all children of the same generation and gender are given the same second name, so my brother is Tuck Leung and my sisters are Choy Quon and Choy Hung. When I transitioned, it would have made some sense to be Choy something or other, but I liked the meaning of my name. Tuck Wai is typically translated as “good conduct” but can also be translated as “rare kindness”. I liked the latter translation so much that I stuck with my birth middle name. When I pray I think about whether I am living up to my name. Perhaps you too can learn about some aspect of the derivation of your name and ponder whether you are living up to that.
Healing Through Connection 