Presence of Mind

When I got my first tattoo, I prepared by lining up things to distract me from the pain. I hated pain, was kind of a wuss about it. My friend Audrey came with me to the appointment toting a book of crossword puzzles that we could tackle together while the tattoo artist inked a branch of cherry blossoms on my calf. At first I tried to listen to and help with the crossword clues, but every time the tattoo needle was lifted for re-inking and set back upon my skin, the burn jerked me away from puzzle-solving or any thread of conversation I tried to maintain with Audrey.

She resorted to quietly keeping me company and taking occasional photos of the three-hour process, as I tried to shift back into my own mind and compartmentalize the pain. The plan was to keep most of my brain occupied with its usual program of ruminating on any topic it came across, as if I were lying comfortably in bed instead of facedown on a tattooist's table. So I let my thoughts run amok with the topics of the day, which in 2010 were likely my online dating profile and newly adopted cats. Meanwhile the tattooing process, with its buzzing needle and sensation of a hundred tiny bee stings, lit up another part of my brain like an alarm on a control panel. I saw the persistent red glow warning, "Something bad is being done to your body!" but I could only cast it a sideways glance and respond, with gritted teeth, "I know but I asked for this. We're just gonna have to live through it."

At some point I realized that setting the pain aside, viewing it as an alarming thing, wasn't helping to abate it. I tried another change in perspective: this time, accepting the discomfort and letting it mingle with the rest of my thoughts. I actively shifted my focus toward the painful pricks in my skin, acknowledging the "ouch." I sat with the feelings I didn't enjoy, rather than fighting them. Maybe it was a kind of placebo effect, but for the last half hour of my tattoo session, I swear that I was able to relax more and even enjoy myself a bit.

Every piece of mental health advice I've tried to follow has included a variation on sitting with your feelings. This is supposed to be a remedy for the anxious mind that is always looking for problems, the perfectionist who's afraid of choosing the wrong answer, even the depression sufferer to some extent. (All me, by the way.) We're expected to condition ourselves to be at ease with uncertainty and pain, or at the very least more mindful of those things. The practice of being present with our feelings trains us to stop resisting life's unpleasant but immutable truths, like the fact that outcomes are never certain and often beyond our control. When I start feeling depressed, I've learned to treat it like the illness it is, giving myself permission to lie down and feel like crap as soon as I'm able t0. People experience depression with different degrees of severity, so there is a natural limit to anyone's ability to "sit with" the disease. In my case, giving myself that initial time to wallow in the muck feels better than going about my business and pretending to be okay while the muck creeps over my boots and up my legs, gradually taking over my body. I don't waste energy fighting it or trying to rationalize my way out of it.

This doesn't apply only to illness and unpleasantness. Every yoga and Pilates instructor, too, emphasizes the importance of being in the moment, starting each class with a deepened awareness of breath and body. As a strength-building practice, Pilates has been a blessing for an overthinker like me because it gives little choice but to focus on my physical form. I can't be chasing thought butterflies while trying to hold a plank for just a few seconds longer, or doing side crunches on the reformer with my upper body hanging over thin air.

When my mind is left to pursue its own bliss, on the other hand, it runs wild. I've found this to be worst when I'm getting a therapeutic massage, which is supposedly the time I should be most relaxed. All I'm required to do is lie flat and listen to woodwind music, but my brain insists on getting busy trying to solve all problems real and imagined. My neurotic fear is that if I don't chase every notion, I will miss something revelatory. (Who knows what—an answer to the meaning of life? A solution to my son's picky eating? A landscaping plan for our yard?) My mind is like a junk-science research lab where technicians stay busy pouring mixtures from one flask into another, never producing actual results. I've tried hard to stop this habit in favor of focusing on whatever muscle group is currently being kneaded, but it only lasts for a moment. It's like a crowd of people momentarily hushed by the appearance of a colorful bird, then the bird flies off and the chatter resumes.

However, it might be just as important to embrace one's essential nature as it is to stop fighting the vagaries of life itself. I am working toward being okay with living in body and mind at the same time, letting a moderate stream of thoughts keep flowing while I acknowledge the sensations in my body. During my last massage appointment, this created an internal dialogue that would sound bonkers to anyone listening in: ooh, that feels good on my neck - how am I gonna deal with that problem at work tomorrow - mmm, scalp massage - gotta remember to order that math book for my kid - ohh, that spot kinda hurts but I need to stay relaxed - what should I watch on TV tonight?

Luckily, my craziness belongs to me and me alone. And a little bit to my readers.