All kinds of things occur to a person. You can’t help what thoughts occur to you; all you can do is keep yourself from acting on thoughts that are unacceptable, such as, the desire to kill someone who’s hurt you in a relationship. The thoughts themselves are not under your conscious control. That I recognized this early in life made it easier, in a way, for me to do zazen or sitting meditation. I know I can’t stop the thoughts from coming; what I can do is stop myself from grabbing onto them.

All of this effort to be honest, though, may very well be a contributing factor in my lifelong, chronic depression. 

Have you heard this? Countless studies have proven that non-depressed people lie to themselves way more than depressed people do. Depressed people are far more likely to report, for example, that they are average drivers; most non-depressed people will claim to be above-average, though this is statistically impossible. Successful people, like the best athletes for example, are especially good at self-deception. They have to be. “I’m the best. I’m going to win. Nobody can beat me.” That kind of thinking is way more likely to help you win the race than “I’m only slightly above average; many of these people are better than I am” – although that may be true. Fair enough.

I enjoy listening to a science program from WNYC called Radiolab, which I highly recommend, and they discuss all of this in the show called Deception, which you can listen to here. A pair of scientists came up with a list of embarrassing questions to ask people in order to get them to have two thoughts at once, so they could see what was happening to them physiologically. Radiolab has the questionnaire on their website here.

A few sample questions from the show:

• Have you ever enjoyed a bowel movement?
• Have you ever thought of committing suicide to get back at someone?
• Have you ever fantasized about raping, or being raped by, someone?

The questions each break some kind of taboo, yet the assumption is that, at least at some point, every person has had such thoughts. These admissions are so embarrassing that most people would have trouble not only admitting the truth to another person, but they might not even be able to acknowledge the truth to themselves. I, of course, had no trouble answering in the affirmative, every time.

They’ve used this questionnaire in many, many studies, and invariably come up with the same results. People who lie to themselves are more successful, happier, better at business, and better at working in teams. I believe it.

However, those who answer the questionnaire honestly tend to be slightly more depressed than others. Depressed people lie less.

Here’s a quote from the show, from one of the authors of the Self-Deception Questionnaire, Harold Sackeim of Columbia University:

“They see all the pain in the world, how horrible people are with each other, and they tell you everything about themselves, what their weaknesses are, what terrible things they’ve done to other people, and the problem is they’re right. And so, maybe the way that we help people is to help them be wrong…. We’re so vulnerable to being hurt that we’re given the capacity to distort as a gift.”

That’s their answer. If people who see the world as it truly is are depressed, we need to teach these people to lie to themselves.

My response to that answer is probably a typical depressed person’s realistic response: that’s pretty depressing. But can we just look for a moment at where all these so-called successful, happy, self-deceiving people have gotten us? How good do you think those guys at Goldman Sachs are at lying to themselves? How about the folks at BP? Or politicians? Or that anti-gay bigot who was just exposed as a massive hypocrite? Or those responsible for any number of terrible events and situations?

My answer to this problem is the complete opposite. While I have learned that a certain amount of self-deception can give me more confidence, I don’t want to get in the habit of lying to myself. I’d rather be able to see the world as it truly is, and see the sadness that results, and not be incapacitated by it. Maybe it’s better to see the truth, and still be able to act. Maybe that’s a better goal than merely producing more “successful” people.

Maybe we need to reevaluate what we mean by “success.”

And maybe, just maybe, there are quite a few people in this world who need to learn how to stop lying.

I kind of hate birthdays, but not for the reasons you might think. I don’t even much like other people’s birthdays, and can never remember the dates. I don’t think anyone in my family has ever received a birthday card from me on time, and I seldom buy them for friends. I feel guilty about this, because I know other people do like birthdays. I just really, really don’t.

It’s not about aging. I’ve never wanted children, so I’m not worried that some kind of clock is running out. I have never considered myself pretty, though experience suggests that there’s something attractive about me, and its influence seems to wane over time. This is annoying, in that I’m used to being able to provoke positive reactions with light flirting, but hardly devastating. I’m just not girly enough to care. Mostly it’s a relief to become invisible to men, frankly, at least to the kind of men who overtly notice women.

I don’t mind getting old. I love the feeling of knowing more than I used to. I don’t know how wise I am, but I’m certainly not as stupid as I used to be. There’s a lot of satisfaction in that. Every year I read more books, have more experiences, meet more people, know my friends better. It’s a good thing.

But I’m afraid of dying, so having that number – my age – go up by 1 on this day makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s a vivid reminder that the clock is always ticking, and there’s only one way this story can end. On the other hand, I used to be terrified of dying, so perhaps I’m making progress. Since my main goal in life is to ensure that the moment of my death is not full of horror and regret, I suppose how I feel about each birthday depends on how I think I’m doing. This year I feel pretty good, looking forward to going back to school, and learning a lot.

For a few years I went big for my birthday, and invited all my friends to share an experience all or most of us had never had before. Once I treated everyone to an evening in the Tactile Dome at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. Another time, I took everyone to a firing range – that was interesting.

One year we all went to a restaurant that featured flamenco dancing, which I’d never seen in real life. Unfortunately some people I knew from work took off without paying, and then a few other people didn’t put in enough, and the whole thing turned into a hideous mess. I was outside smoking to relieve the stress and missed the dancing altogether. I wish I could’ve just paid the whole bill myself, but I was temping at that point and couldn’t afford it. That may have been the last time I did anything on that scale for my birthday. It still makes me cringe to think about it.

Although my friends saved the evening not only by paying the bill, but by presenting me with a birthday cake in the shape of a coffin. This amazed and confused the restaurant staff and remains the best birthday cake I’ve ever had. What could be more perfect?

Normally, though, I can’t stand the whole cake-and-candles ritual thing. Cake is all well and good, but please, don’t get me started on the Birthday Song. What am I, five? I hate being the center of attention that way. I even hated it when I was a kid.

One of my closest friends sings me “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” every year as a compromise.

I hate opening presents, too. I get overwhelmed by a sense of obligation I know can never be satisfied. (I’ve worked on this, but it’s no good.) Last night two friends took me out after work and treated me to beer, pool, and a cupcake, and I swear I just about wept with gratitude at their thoughtfulness. It was precisely what I needed.

What I do like about my birthday is that it marks the beginning of an upswing in my mood. The stressful grind of the holidays is followed, for me, by my least favorite anniversaries. I was raped at the end of January, and my mother and my brother both died in February; my mother died a week before my fifth birthday. No wonder I don’t like to make a big fuss. I get so depressed in February now, especially since my brother died, that I can’t even begin to make birthday plans, and couldn’t stand it if someone else made them for me – I don’t need the pressure.

I wish I lived in a culture where birthdays aren’t acknowledged after, say, your 18^th (with special allowance made for 21, perhaps?), but now I’m being a wet blanket. Now that it’s here, I feel good. February’s over, I have friends, and as I like to say when I’m feeling bleak about life:  at least nothing in my immediate vicinity’s on fire. Including birthday candles. Things could be a lot worse.

Time to get ready to go out, shoot some more pool, and get a little tipsy. I’m actually looking forward to this. But they’d better not have gotten me a cake.

How do you feel about your birthday?

I’ve never lived in a place that got more than its fair share of rain, like Seattle. And though I lived in San Francisco for ten years altogether, I never lived there during one of its periods that felt, to the residents, like the proverbial forty days and forty nights. I think I would love it in spite of the inconvenience.

I did live in London, but rainfall there, while frequent, is usually so scant, you can hardly hear it, though everything gets drenched. “It’s pissing down,” the locals grumble. Nothing relaxing about that. During the winter the constant iron-grey skies made everyone feel dreary and hopeless, including me. New York, since I’ve lived here, gets just enough rain that I’m satisfied, without being so much that I’m not still thirsty for it.

Rain provides lovely white noise, and is excellent for the purposes of concentration, as everyone who likes to read when it rains can attest. It’s also helpful in assisting those of us with a touch (or more) of insomnia to fall asleep. I have several CDs of the sound of rain, and they almost always do the trick for me.

And who doesn’t love a good thunderstorm? I find them exhilarating. Here in New York we get them regularly throughout the summer, and I have a pretty good view out my 6th floor window facing the south. I always stop whatever I’m doing and go to the window to watch it, like fireworks, as my cats growl and crouch-run to their favorite hiding places. Heavy rain is my favorite. It puts me into a blissful trance, watching and listening to it.

Thunder and lightning are amazing to me, so huge and overwhelming. I’ve just learned that thunder is caused by the super-heating of the air around the lightning bolt, sometimes to 50,000° Fahrenheit (27,760° C), three times hotter than the sun, which causes the air to expand and contract rapidly and creates a shock wave we hear as the cracks and rumblings of thunder. All of that is happening right there. Lightning is beautiful, too. Sure hope my fire escape never gets hit.

This past summer, a friend and I were watching a movie when a lightning storm began, ahead of the rain. There was a crack of thunder so loud and so close, I screeched and leapt up, convinced a bomb had gone off a few blocks away. I’d hate to be hit by something like that, though more than half the people struck survive it. Here is an entertaining Straight Dope article about that.

The most exciting thunderstorm I ever experienced was in Dahab, in the Sinai peninsula of Egypt, around New Year’s Eve 1993-94. We were staying in one of the numerous “camps” there, basically a group of concrete boxes with thatched roofs full of insects, set around a central courtyard, which cost us 5 Egyptian pounds or about $2 a night at the time. I think Dahab has changed its character from ultra-cheap backpackers’ heaven since then. They get a good storm like that every year, with heavy rain that washes away anything less solid than concrete and creates gullies and temporary rivers in the defenseless sand.

Four of us had run and taken shelter in one of these concrete boxes, our own having had its roof collapse. We put cut-off plastic water bottles under the worst leaks and piled our packs on the driest  corners of the beds, and waited it out, as there was no sleeping with that racket going on. My ranger friend from Canada and I stood in the doorway and watched. Soon, however, we realized we had a problem. We both had to pee. Very badly. Watching the water rushing through the courtyard wasn’t helping, and also meant that the toilets across the courtyard were out of reach. We held out for as long as we could, then did the only thing possible. Taking turns, each of us dropped trou and leaned as far over the swirling waters as we could, whooping and laughing, holding a raincoat over our head in a vain attempt not to get completely drenched. It remains the most thrilling pee I’ve ever had. An hour or so later, the storm passed on, and we slept like angels, waking to minor devastation and a blue, blue sky.

I know some people hate storms. I know there’s definitely such a thing as too much rain, and I feel for those who’ve experienced floods. But I always smile, whenever I hear the sound of rain.

Like I'm really gonna get out of here alive. (But what if I do?)

Living in New York definitely brings home the idea of the impending apocalypse. Any subway at rush hour reminds me that disaster is just one panic away. We handle ourselves well here when disaster happens, and I’m glad to be in the city, but obviously 8 million people can’t just carry on as usual if there’s no electricity, or an epidemic, or a “dirty” bomb, or catastrophic economic collapse. I probably won’t survive such an eventuality, but in case I do, I want to be ready. I have extra water stored, and some stockpiled food. And I have a “go” bag.

It’s a comfortable backpack, built for a woman’s frame, which, for once, actually fits me. I could carry it for a long time if I had to. I have first aid stuff in there. A flashlight. Warm socks. Every so often, when I’m in a drugstore, I’ll buy something for my “go” bag: antihistamine, bandages , anti-diarrhea medicine. And if I’m ordering something from Amazon, I might include an inexpensive item from my survival list: 100′ of paracord, a firestarter, a basic compass, all for less than $10. On the slightly more costly side, I bought a sleeping bag recently, and I’ve got my eye on a portable solar/self-powered radio, a tent, and a wicked survival knife.

Of course, I can use these things for camping if civilization continues. But if it doesn’t, it’s all in one place so I can grab it and go. I can add some bottled water, food, more clothes if I have time, and then join the crowds of people who will no doubt be streaming out of the city some day.

I can see it so clearly. I don’t know what the disaster will be, and I don’t like to speculate much on specifics. I fervently hope it’s not as bad as I fear it will be.

I’ve considered including some things that will comfort me, like my favorite book. Survival lists often recommend a deck of cards, for people suffering withdrawal from TV and the internet. I’ll probably bring a few of my notebooks. What else would you want to save from your life, if you could only bring what you can carry yourself? Photos? Do you have your photos on a disk, do you know where that disk is, could you grab it while sirens are going off?

Am I bumming you out? Thinking about this stuff makes me feel better, actually. Denying that it could ever happen is foolish. Obviously it can happen. Would you rather be prepared, or unprepared?

What I need now is a “go” bag that will hold my cats. AbsurdBeats and I were discussing this the other night.

I’ve read books about survivalism, like The Unthinkable by Amanda Ripley. One thing disaster and survival experts definitely recommend is to visualize yourself doing something positive. That way your mind has some suggestions to make if it ever does happen.

I hope it doesn’t. But if it does, I want to be ready. What about you? Do you have a “go” bag?

I’m starting a new program this week to try and get back in shape. I want to do yoga, pilates, or some other kind of exercise every day. I’m also doing a raw food cleanse.

I’ve done some yoga or pilates in recent weeks, but going for more than a few days without keeping it up now means that I lose almost everything I’d gained, so it feels like I’m starting over. I guess this is part of what happens when you hit 40. It’s going to take some time to get back to where I was. I don’t know that I’ll be able to improve past that, but I’m going to try.

In pain and feeling crappy, I’ve started with some easy yoga routines. I’ve never been a super-athlete, but I’ve been better than this. It kills me to struggle with a simple forward bend, when I used to be able to stand on my head.

But I remind myself: the point of yoga is to deal with my body where it is in that moment. The point is not to get somewhere; the point is to be where I am. That’s where I start. That’s where I have to start. If I try to start where I  want to end up, I will hurt myself or get frustrated, and simply fail.

The trick is, while knowing that there’s a goal I’m working towards, to forget that and focus on what I’m doing right now. Ease into that forward bend, to the place I can reach today. Feel the sensation and breathe. Come back to the mat tomorrow.

This is true for everything I’ve ever wanted to accomplish.

Meanwhile, here’s a recipe for a delicious, vegan, mostly-raw salad dressing that I think tastes better than Caesar.