Never Quite Measuring Up

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I did the math in my head. If the sales revenue generated on the opening day of our fourth location remained even sort-of consistent, we would be good–finally over the hump to financial security. We started with one whole grain bread bakery in 2004, and four years later, we had added three locations, and I thought we had reached our goal. I remember where I was standing, on the stairs leading to our kitchen, when I was overcome by relief. A goal attained. At last. At long last.

But it didn’t last. I grew to resent those opening day looky-loos for getting my hopes up. Our fourth location settled into a revenue performance much like that of our other three bakeries. We would survive. But we were not going to thrive. So I looked for a new path to achieve our goal of financial security. I adjusted the product lines, trimmed down our workforce, promoted seasonal specials, changed our operating hours, partnered with other organizations, donated tons of bread in the community. I even ate nothing but whole grain bread for a whole month, and lost weight, to debunk the gluten-free frenzy. And I did it all in pursuit of a goal.

Looking back, my memories of that 15 year chunk of my life are cloaked with feelings of inadequacy, insufficiency, a lack of intelligence, poor decision making, and an insurmountable mountain of stress. We baked over a million loaves of 100% whole grain bread. We sold most of it, and fed people who were hungry with the rest. And somehow, the whole one-and-a-half decade experience left me feeling like a failure. How can a million loaves, hand kneaded, made from scratch, feel like failure?

I was convinced that I would be happy and content when I reached my financial goal. Until I reached my goal, I was determined to endure drudgery and make sacrifices and push myself to my mental and physical limits. I distinctly remember feeling guilty about temporary waves of satisfaction. What did I have about which to feel satisfied? I had not yet reached my goal.

Without the shiny trophy of goal achievement, the only evidence of my effort was ingrained in my suffering.

When we closed the original bakery, my teenage daughter wept uncontrollably. She was so sad to be turning away from a place that held so many fond memories of her childhood. It took me many years to understand why her tears surprised and hurt me so much. I had equated that bakery with pain. I had missed fifteen years of laughter and joy and conversation and savoring food (the best food) and achievement. I dismissed all of that because pre-goal contentment was for suckers and losers. It has taken a long time, but I finally understand the lesson in my daughter’s tears. Happiness and contentment is almost always there for us to live into. Peace and joy are choices, not a target.

Math makes financial goals simple to analyze for success and failure. But I am just as good at tying myself up in knots with intangible arbitrary goals. I can start a day with a clean slate, make a list of things I would like to accomplish, and twelve hours later, be beating myself up for failing to reach a goal that literally did not exist when the sun rose. No boss hanging over my head demanding results. No financial incentive like a productivity bonus. Just my own goal-oriented brain, making my life unnecessarily miserable.

When we analyze the underlying causes of addiction, we look to family patterns and childhood trauma. But the most prevalent cause of addiction I find, in working with people who relate to my writing, is the use of alcohol as a maladaptive coping mechanism. And what is the thing with which so many of us are trying to cope? Self-inflicted stress. Alcohol does a marvelous job of providing temporary relief for the self-beratement of never quite measuring up. Alcohol does not convince us we are good enough, but it helps us forget, temporarily, that we are not.

Not quite good enough: Inherent in that belief is the potential for improvement. I don’t spend a ton of time wallowing in the notion that I am a failure, although I’ve thrashed around in that end of the pool on occasion (see the million loaves above). Mostly, I feel insufficient, but like if I try harder or think harder or work harder, I can be good enough. It is kind of like how the victims of emotional abuse so frequently stay in the relationship. If there were bruises or broken bones, they would get out. But it’s not that bad, so they stay and keep trying. And hoping and praying. Feeling insufficient leaves me with the same sense that it’s not that bad, so I keep trying and hoping and praying.

But a chronic feeling of deficiency is a cognitive cancer, metastasizing until it takes over our whole beings, spiritually, biologically, and emotionally.

The cure lies in my understanding of the tears of my daughter. I’m hardly the first person to suggest that we live in the moment, appreciate the present, or view the journey as the destination. But it is one thing to understand a concept, and quite another thing to find the fortitude to let it change my life, and nudge my goal orientation into my history locked away with my alcoholism.

I write and talk a lot about emotional detachment in relationships plagued with addiction. But detachment is not a technique to be learned. It is a mindset, a world view, or a state of being that we reach after a prolonged metamorphosis. Once we learn to detach from responsibility for the emotions of others, the lucky among us stay detached forever, because the lesson has life-long value, and we endure a shit-ton of pain to learn it. The same is true for the lesson of living in the moment and choosing the enjoyment of interactions with other humans over chasing arbitrary goals. Philosophers and religious leaders have preached this lesson for thousands of years, and yet, the most culturally admired humans among us still seem engaged in some sort of penis-measuring contest.

I think a lot about gender. Most of us are aware that the majority of alcoholics are men. In fact, men have higher use rates than women of almost all addictive substances and behaviors including alcohol, cigarettes, cocaine, gambling, heroin, cannabis, and methamphetamine. (SAMHSA 2016 National Survey on Drug Use and Health). Is that because men are more prone than women to goal chasing? I know from my personal life, and from working with hundreds of mothers, that they find deep and meaningful satisfaction from nurturing their children. It is hormonal and evolutionarily cognitive. And I know from my own personal life, and from working with hundreds of men, that fathering is just different.

A woman will endure unthinkable abuse without flinching, but remove her child from even a hint of danger. And most women equate their own intoxication with the endangerment of their own children. So even women who find relief in substances often resist successfully for the sake of their kids. The connection between a mother and child goes further. Mom’s find relief in the safety and development of their children. Scholars tell us that the remaining gender pay gap is mostly because women choose positions that allow them to nurture their children, while men are willing to fly to a meeting in Japan with no notice if it will advance their careers. This gender discussion is not meant to spur debate about family related policy, it is meant to point out that men have a proclivity for career goal orientation, while women, mothers at least, prioritize their kids over all else. And I think the species owes moms a debt of gratitude. Both for the survival of humanity, and because they are less likely to be alcoholics.

While I am on the subject of evolution and genetics, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the role of goal orientation in the survival of humanity as well. A person with no goals is probably going to learn the hard way that Darwin was right. So my point is not that women are saintly nurturers and that men are greedy penis measurers. My point is that for me, and a bunch of others, goal orientation has become a growing tumor in our lives.

In fact, chasing arbitrary goals could be considered one of my co-occurring addictions. And that means that the work of living in the present, finding joy in most interactions, and letting the results manifest without letting the results cause me angst–all of that is the work of recovery for me. I have conquered alcohol successfully, but I am a goalaholic very much in recovery.

My friend, Johnny O, has for years reminded me that the secret to happiness is to remain untethered to any particular outcome. I repeat his mantra like it is my own. Unfortunately, I’m only starting to learn how to really live it. My world view is evolving, to my considerable relief.

While my friend provides inspiration, my daughter inspired the reckoning I did not understand that I needed. Her tears of mourning for the bakery that had felt to me like an inescapable albatross ignited my curiosity. What did she see that I missed while I wallowed in my insufficiency? What joy had she experienced while I insisted on suffering?

Joy is the vulnerability to embrace the experience and soak in the moment. Lasting happiness is not found at some arbitrary finish line. Contentment is not meant to be compared and analyzed.

I’m learning to put away my ruler.

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