"Facebookers are looking for an approval fix."

I went to the bank the other day to withdraw money. I didn’t have to actually walk into the branch because the cash machine is outside. I walked up to it, and the man in front of me was mad.

“This is bullshit,” he said. He was a middle-aged white guy like me, so he must have assumed we were the same. He saw me behind him, and he shared his gripe.

“I have to choose English on this thing. This is America, isn’t it?” He waited for me to respond. He needed me to agree that he was labeling a real problem, but I just gave him a half smile then took my turn on the machine. What an ass, I thought. He’s getting cash from a machine, probably driving home in a new car to find his house with air conditioning and cable television waiting for him, yet he found a problem in his life. He has to click an extra button on the cash machine, and he is inconvenienced for one second. Poor guy.

It is difficult for me to hear people complaining about silly things. I realize he is unconscious, walking around listening to his mind as it finds things to call problems.

Likewise with Facebook. People are compelled to share the story of their life—it is like being addicted to heroin, but instead, Facebookers are looking for an approval fix. My friend Allison posts, “My wedding’s next Friday, can’t wait.” A whole bunch of people like her status. They post back. “Congratulations Allison.” “Enjoy every minute of it.” “You deserve all the best.” Because she is getting married she thinks she is supposed to be happy. And do you know why she is right? Because everyone agrees with her. Conversely, John is stuck in a traffic jam. He posts from his cell phone, “Backed up at the Lincoln Tunnel for over an hour now.” His friends validate his belief that he is dealing with a problem. “That sucks, buddy.” “I feel your pain.” John has sufficient agreement that being stuck in the traffic jam is not a good thing, and of course it isn’t.

Me, I have a problem that I consider to be much bigger than John’s traffic situation. If I posted my problem, everyone would post back, “I’m so sorry.” We are all praying for you.” “We love you.” And I would feel loved, and I would feel justified that what is happening in my life is really a problem—and that justification would only add to my suffering.

I have been living in the rehab hospital for over a month now. I am not the patient. I am a father who sleeps on a chair next to his son’s bed every night. There are other fathers like me here. I befriended a man named Tony. I don’t think that’s his real name because he is Korean and doesn’t speak English very well. I doubt Korean parents name their children Tony, but that’s what everybody calls him here. Tony is here to speak to his seventeen-year-old son, Alex. Alex can’t answer him back. Alex was in a jet-ski accident where he was hit in the head and spent ten minutes underwater before his friends noticed him. Alex can’t move any part of his body. He cannot speak, and he is fed through a tube. All Alex can do is blink. Tony has spent weeks trying to interpret meaning from Alex’s blinks but has been unsuccessful.

Tony is distraught, and he walks outside to the front of the hospital to smoke a cigarette every twenty minutes, and then he walks back in again, coughing his head off. I don’t know how to help Tony. I want to. I feel fortunate to be able to converse with my son.

My son, Jesse, cannot walk or sit up. He is fed through a tube like Alex, and as hard as he tries to swallow on his own, he cannot do it. Not being able to swallow causes him to drool, and I spend a lot of my time suctioning saliva out of his mouth so he doesn’t slobber all over himself. Jesse has a trach in his throat and a tube delivers oxygen to his lungs. His mind has not been affected by his ordeal, and he is aware of what has happened to him.

I am holding on to the possibility that Jesse will heal. My entire life seems to be hanging on that tiny thread of possibility. Our current situation can easily be labeled as a problem. My mind tells me it is. Talking about it with others and getting their agreement is only useful for proving that I am right about being upset.

I don’t presume to be qualified to tell you how you should live your life. I have read many books’ introductions, in which authors list their qualifications for writing about a certain subject. I have only one qualification. I have lived through my share of suffering. Not as much as some, but enough to know what suffering is. I have had the luxury of intense suffering to bring me into a state of conscious awareness.

This is an excerpt from:

I Told My Mind To Shut The F*ck Up!

…and then I saw what was possible.