Why Worry? by George Lincoln Walton (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📖

philosopher to stand what he does not like,” and try at being a philosopher instead of a sensitive plant.

Inability to sleep while certain noises are continued must be similarly combated. If one goes from place to place in search of the quiet spot for sleep, he may finally find quiet itself oppressive, or worse yet, may be kept awake by hearing his own circulation, from which escape is out of the question. He who finds himself persistently out of joint with his surroundings will do well to ponder the language of the Chinese philosopher:

“The legs of the stork are long, the legs of the duck are short: you cannot make the legs of the stork short, neither can you make the legs of the duck long. Why worry?”

With regard to the character of sleep itself, the attitude of our mind in sleep is dominated, to a degree, at least, by its attitude in the waking hours. It is probable that during profound sleep the mind is inactive, and that dreams occur only during the transition-state from profound sleep to wakefulness. It is conceivable that in the ideal sleep there is only one such period, but ordinarily there occur many such periods during the night; for the uneasy sleeper the night may furnish a succession of such periods, with comparatively little undisturbed rest, hence his dreams seem to him continuous. The character of the pictures and suggestions of dreams, though in new combinations, are largely dependent on our daily experiences. Is it not, then, worth while to encourage, during our waking hours, as far as is consistent with our duties, such thoughts as are restful and useful, rather than those which serve no purpose but annoyance.

If we will, we can select our thoughts as we do our companions.

 

X.

OCCUPATION NEUROSIS

Be not ashamed, to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy duty like a soldier in the assault on a town. How, then, if being lame thou canst not mount up on the battlement alone, but with the help of another it is possible?

Marcus Aurelius.

 

The insistent and over-conscientious habit of mind plays so large a part in the so-called occupation neuroses that a brief discussion of their nature may here be in place.

The best-known form of this distressing malady is “writer’s cramp.” Upon this subject the proverbially dangerous little knowledge has been already acquired; a fuller knowledge may give comfort rather than alarm, and may even lead to the avoidance of this and allied nervous disorders.

The term “writer’s cramp” has unduly emphasized a feature, namely, the cramp, which is neither the most common nor the most troublesome among the symptoms resulting from over-use of a part. In occupation neuroses, other than those produced by the use of the pen, pain, weakness, and numbness are at least equally prominent, and even in writer’s cramp the “neuralgic” form is common.

The fact is generally realized that this type of disorder is particularly frequent among persons of nervous temperament. The reason is twofold, first, the resistance of such individuals is less than the average, second, the insistent habit of mind leads them to overdo. It is against the latter factor that our efforts may to advantage be directed.

I have in mind the case of a lady who complained of severe pain in the right arm with no apparent physical cause. The pain, at first appearing only when the arm was placed in a certain position, finally became almost constant. She denied excessive use of the arm, but her husband stated that she plied the needle to such an extent that it caused the family distress. This she indignantly denied, and fortified her position by the statement that she only took short stitches! Further inquiry elicited the acknowledgment that she did so because she could no longer take long ones. This is a fair example of an occupation neurosis.

Some time ago, after long continued and over-conscientious effort to satisfy the requirements of an athletic instructor, I acquired what is known as a “golf arm.” Efforts at its relief were unavailing. A vigorous course of massage only increased the pain. I finally asked a friend what they did in England when a golf player suffered this annoyance. He replied that no golf player ever did so; when it occurred among others the arm was placed in wool for three months, at the end of which time a single movement of swinging the club was made; if this movement caused pain the treatment was renewed for another three months. I did not suppose he intended the advice to be taken literally, but followed it, except as regarded the wool, and I verily believe that I should otherwise have been experimenting with the treatment of golf arm to-day.

My friend’s advice indicates the general experience with occupation neuroses including writer’s cramp, for which every imaginable measure has been tried, only to be replaced by protracted abstinence from the use of the pen. The attempt to use the left hand proves, as a rule, only temporarily efficacious. The speedy appearance of symptoms in the left hand emphasizes the fact that it is tired brain, as well as the tired muscle, that rebels.

The ranks of every profession, and of every trade, are daily depleted of the most promising among their members, whose zeal has outrun their discretion; their overworked brains and hands have succumbed under the incessant strain of tasks, often self-imposed.

It is hard, but essential, for the sufferer from an occupation neurosis to abandon frantic efforts at combining treatment with continuance of labor. He must bring all his philosophy to bear on the temporary, but complete, abandonment of his chosen occupation, at whatever loss to himself or others.

To avoid this contingency the over-conscientious worker will do well to modify his ambition, and lower his pride if needful, consoling himself with the reflection that an occasional interruption of his labor, even at material loss, may be replaced by years of future usefulness. Cowper says:

“‘Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought, And rests, and is refreshed.”

 

XI.

THE WORRIER AT HOME

Small habits, well pursued betimes, May reach the dignity of crimes.

Hannah More.

 

More than one “sunbeam” and “life of the party” in society is the “cross patch” and “fuss budget” of the home. His gracious smiles and quips abroad are matched at home by darkened brows and moody silence, only broken by conversation of the italicized variety: “Will it ever stop raining?” “Can’t you see that I am busy?” “What are you doing?” and the like. Whatever banner is exhibited to the outside world, the motto at home seems to be “Whatever is, is wrong.” Defects in the m�nage, carefully overlooked when dining out, are called with peculiar unction to the attention of the housekeeper of the home, whose worry to please is only matched by the “sunbeam’s” fear that she shall think him satisfied with what is placed before him.

“There’s something kind of pitiful about a man that growls Because the sun beats down too hot, because the wild wind howls, Who never eats a meal but that the cream ain’t thick enough, The coffee ain’t been settled right, or else the meat’s too tough—

Poor chap! He’s just the victim of Fate’s oldest, meanest trick, You’ll see by watching mules and men, they don’t need brains to kick.”

Chicago Interocean.

Add to the “kicking habit” the insistence that each member of the family must be reminded at frequent intervals of his peculiar weaknesses, and that the discussion of uncomfortable topics, long since worn threadbare, must be reopened at every available opportunity, and the adage is justified, “be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

Try the following suggestion on approaching the house after a hard day’s work. Say to yourself, “Why tired and cross? Why not tired and good-natured?” The result may startle the family and cause inquiries for your health, but “Don’t Worry,” if it does; console yourself with the thought they will like you none the less for giving them a glimpse of that sunny nature of which they have often heard.

As a further preparation for the evening meal, and the evening, by way of alleviating the mental and physical discomfort following a trying day, one is surprised by the effectiveness of taking a bath and changing all the clothing. This treatment, in fact, almost offers a sure cure, but the person who would be most benefited thereby, is the person so obsessed to pursue the miserable tenor of his way that he scouts the suggestion that he thus bestir himself, instead of sinking into the easy chair. He may, however, accept the suggestion that simply changing the shoes and stockings is extremely restful, when reminded that if he had worn kid gloves all day he would be relieved to free his hands from the incubus, and, if gloves must still be worn, to put on a cool pair.

It is a further aid to physical, and indirectly to mental, comfort, if one can learn to wear low shoes and the thinnest of underwear the year round; the former offer a panacea for fidgets; the latter lessens the perspiration, which increases the susceptibility to drafts, and to even moderate lowering of temperature. The prevailing belief that this procedure is dangerous is disproved by the experience of the many who have given it a thorough trial. The insistent belief of the neurotic that he cannot acquire this habit is touched upon in the chapter on Worry and Obsession. If he thinks he is “taking cold,” let him throw back his shoulders and take a few deep breaths, or if convenient, a few exercises, instead of doubling the weight of his underwear, and in the long run he will find that he has not only increased his comfort, but has lessened, rather than increased, the number of his colds.

Much of the worry of the home is retrospective. “If I had only made Mary wear her rubbers,”—“If we had only invested in Calumet & Hecla at 25,”—“If we had only sent John to college,” represent a fruitful source of family discomfort. The morbid rhyme is familiar to all:

“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest these, ‘It might have been.’”

I should be glad to learn of any advantage accruing from the indulgence of this attitude toward the bygone. A happier and more sensible habit of mind may be attained by equal familiarity with the following:

“Add this suggestion to the verse, ‘It might have been a great deal worse.’”

A fruitful source of discomfort for the worrier at home is the absence of occupation. He looks forward to mental rest after using his brain all day, but there is no rest for him unless in sleep. The most valuable rest he could give his mind would be to occupy it with something worth while, yet not so strenuous as to cause solicitude. As Saleeby points out, the mock worry of a game is a good antidote for the real worry of life, and a game is far better than nothing, unless the player make, in turn, a work of his play, in which case worry continues.

The hardest task for the worrier at home is to get away from home. With advancing years the temptation grows upon us to spend our evenings by the fireside, to make no new friends and seek no new enjoyments. But this unbroken habit is neither the best preparation for a happy old age, nor the best method of counteracting present worry. Nor should one stop to decide whether the special entertainment in question will be worthwhile—he must depend rather on the realization that if he accepts most opportunities he will be, on the whole, the gainer.

The man