like whatever it takes to get us to feel, reflect on, and accept whatever we’ve seen, done, or experienced, as well as the reality of our lives in the present. For some, meditation works, or therapy, or yoga, or self-help books, or art. For others, it’s support groups, or ayahuasca journeys, or music, or a combination of several or all these things, and so much more. It comes down to figuring out what works for us and giving our intention and energy to it.
I use writing as a tool to process my pain. The act of spilling my thoughts and feelings onto a page, whether or not that page is to be seen by others, offers me a powerful and important outlet for my darkness. I read books, listen to podcasts, and watch talks that inspire me to open up a little more, to dig a little deeper. I dance my ass off all the time in my apartment to release energy. I engage in difficult conversations with my partner and family and friends to work through issues and to grow both personally and interpersonally. I connect with my social media communities, especially on Facebook, to share my experiences in an honest way with others who want to share their stories and work at creating the possibility of healing themselves. Others who want to dig rather than keep things buried.
I don’t do all these things all the time. Who wants to have difficult conversations every day? Not me. Sometimes I just melt into the sofa, lose myself in TV, and shovel chips and ice cream into my mouth. Sometimes I hide, or escape, or numb myself for a bit. But I always resurface and get back to work, because I’m dedicated to my spiritual growth, and to my happiness. I’m dedicated to myself.
Beyond everything else, growth requires dedication. Healing demands commitment. No number of books or podcasts or workshops will make a difference if we’re not committed to healing ourselves. And when we open ourselves to look at our pain for real, our pain will present itself. For real. It’s usually not a very pretty picture. I continue to learn things about myself that I wish weren’t true. I see new depths to my anger, and envy, and sadness. New proof all the time that I can be much less kind and generous than I desire and a much bigger asshole than I’d ever want to be. The work of awareness and consciousness is a process, and it’s endless.
I’m certain I still haven’t unburied all the pain around my parents’ death, or the pain I carry regarding my relationship with them while they were alive. I never liked my dad, and though I loved my mom, I resented both my parents for their lack of interest in my life. I wanted them to care more about me. I wanted them to see me. I may never expose all the wounds I’ve got around them, and that’s okay. I’m making progress. I’m opening. I’m growing. This book is another exercise in digging, in sharing my story so that it might support deeper healing for myself, and maybe, if I’m lucky, inspire it in others. That’s one of the many beautiful benefits of facing your pain: whether or not you intend to, you’re likely to inspire others to look at their own pain more openly and courageously. Along with digging yourself into a more fully realized life, you end up passing out shovels to others, too.
I’ve been digging for a while now, and I’ll continue to dig, because I want to invite any opportunity for deeper healing. I want to face the full expression of myself, past to present, with acceptance and love. Always more love. I need only to look at how far I’ve come to know it’s possible. I need only to consider my life right now to understand the transformational power of this kind of work. I will continue to explore all the possibilities of my growth, and to live as truthfully as possible. Because I want, more than anything, to be free.
I had an unusually inspiring experience at the San Francisco airport. I was relaxing in one of the airline clubs, because I’m fancy like that, eating pasty oatmeal topped with stale granola out of a cardboard bowl (see, fancy). I was doing my best to drown out the CNN election coverage, when a room-shaking yet succinct cough exploded from somewhere near the self-service espresso counter. The sound was extraordinary, like something you’d expect to come out of a bear or an elephant or even Godzilla, but definitely not a human. A thunderous boom, it made me jump a little in my seat.
I studied my fellow club denizens but couldn’t figure out who was behind the cough. Surely not the tanned, elderly woman dripping in diamonds and sipping her morning Chardonnay. She couldn’t have produced such a sound. It wasn’t the petite businesswoman, either, in a chocolate-brown pantsuit, typing away on her laptop in between bites of biscotti. All children were definitely out; this noise came from someone full-grown. But no one looked embarrassed or guilty or like a radioactive monster on layover from Tokyo. It was as though it hadn’t happened at all, like I had imagined the sound. Until it happened again, the same exact expulsion, every bit as enormous as the first one. This time, however, I was looking right at the culprit when he let loose — an older man, probably in his early seventies, casually dressed, reading USA Today, completely unfazed by the blare that had just exploded from his body. So unfazed was he that he didn’t even bother to cover his mouth. He let go right into the sports section.
For the next half hour, as I finished my oatmeal, downed two mini-muffins, and started on a bagel (because, free food), the man let out his monstrous cough about every minute. Like clockwork. If it was possible to hide his cough, or at least downsize it to a lower level on the Richter scale, he showed no interest in doing so. I had no idea what he was thinking, of course, but he didn’t appear bothered by the cough at all, or even, more incredibly, the least bit self-conscious about it. I wasn’t the only one alarmed by his sonic boom, either. More than a few people cleared the area after a couple of rounds. The tanned, elderly woman practically sprinted out of there, wine in hand. The cougher, however, just sipped his coffee and read his paper as he violently hacked his way through the morning. This was clearly his norm.
When the man got up to leave, he walked right by me and smiled a kind, sincere smile. I nodded and smiled back. Little did he know, in the short time I had listened to and watched him cough, he’d inspired me in a profound way. He became my airport club hero that morning. I still think about him and his cough regularly. Which sounds strange, of course, if you don’t know the reason why.
Hello. My name is Scott, and I’m a cougher. I cough all the time. Not just cough, either. I sniffle, clear my throat, swallow hard, and blow air out of my nose while making a chee sort of sound. I hem and ahem and snort and hack. In short, I make a whole lot of irritating noise with my nose, throat, and mouth, a symphony of gurgles and air and phlegm. Every day, throughout the day.
My coughsnifflechee is one of the things I’m most self-conscious about (nestled somewhere among my crooked teeth and back hair). Nobody likes to cough constantly, just as nobody likes a constant cougher. It’s distracting, annoying, even fear inducing in closed spaces. In movie theaters, I cough. On airplanes, I clear my throat. In restaurants, I ahem. In yoga class, I sniffle. No matter where I am, I’m making unnecessary noise, and unlike my hero in the airport lounge, I’m always aware of my coughsnifflechee and the probability that others are, too.
I’ve coughed for most of my life. Though I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, my first memory of coughing with any sort of regularity was in high school, not long after my parents died. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. As far as I know, and I’ve seen doctors about it in the past, my cough isn’t reflective of any physical ailment. That suggests it’s emotional, or psychological, and I believe it is. When I get nervous, my coughsnifflechee goes haywire — before business dealings and unfamiliar social gatherings and important relationship conversations. Any time I’m the least bit insecure or uncertain of an outcome, I devolve into a hacking mess. Usually, and luckily, the extreme of this happens when I’m alone, before engaging in whatever it is that’s induced my fit. Conversely, when I’m on vacation, completely relaxed, and especially when I’m immersed in nature of any kind, my cough relaxes. I can go days without coughing. Okay, not really. But a few hours, for sure.
About ten years ago, I stopped coughing, cold turkey. I pulled up to my favorite LA tennis court, about to go play a match, and told myself, “Enough with this cough. You’re done. Now.” And I was. I made it six months with no coughing. But I had to concentrate on not coughing all the time. Fighting back the coughs with my mind, swallowing them down instead of releasing