Waging war on the bully inside

When the going gets rough, clean up and forge ahead. Photo / Getty Images

There is nothing better than rats in the kitchen to impel your inner Girl Scout to make you buck up your ideas.

Here I am. This very second I'm supposed to be deliberately appreciating the pleasure in every moment. That's what the book said.

But no one explained how you do that when you have come away for the weekend and your son can't bear the sound of the heavy rain and the fire that could warm the cold house is just smoke and the kids are hungry and giant rodents have got into everything in the pantry and it smells, just, ugh, that sour rat smell that never goes away.

Appreciate the moment, dammit! Actually I think it may have been at this exact pungent moment that I had my mini-epiphany. Readers, envisage a freeze frame here of me, nose wrinkled, in my smelly kitchen in Opononi. Just leave me there while I explain.

The thing is, I've suddenly realised that whenever things are bad, I seem to have an uncontrollable urge to make them worse. Then I berate myself for being so useless and not being able to cope, and so I feel even worse. Whenever I feel a bit stressed I get inconsolably upset. Then I plunge into despair and try to escape into self-injurious behaviours that worsen the problem. See? It's a feedback loop. Round and round and round we go.

I seem to have learned at a visceral level that bad feelings just get worse and there is no way out. This is not a new thing. In 1985, as a teenager, I used to bike through the Domain at 2am on my own with a devil-may-care jaunty attitude. I simply didn't care. Attack me if you dare! Around that time I would have sex with anyone, pretty much. I guess I could have been a hooker if I hadn't also been so fat and unkempt. You could say I just didn't care much about myself.

And yes, I would berate myself, and then on top of it I would berate myself for berating myself. Like layers of puff pastry, loathing upon loathing. Sometimes it was a relief to let someone else take over the berating.

Yes, I'm aware we are supposed to be waging war against bullies, but secretly I think some of us might love them. Their cold primate stares, their rigid rules, their pulsing jaw muscles, and that comforting sense that - as per usual - nothing you have done is quite right.

In a terrifying chaotic world, bullies tell us what to think, what to do, and what we are doing wrong. This can be comforting if you feel untethered, vague, unsure who you are - human tofu taking on the flavours of those around you - and have embarked on the doomed venture of trying to please everybody but yourself. There is always the thrilling possibility that they can coldly cut you off at any moment, which they frequently do.

I guess it has something to do with what William Swann would call Self Verification Theory. We are comfortable with other people who share our view of ourselves. We get the bullies we secretly want; what Susan Sontag called "an ascent through degradation".

The drive for familiarity is a more powerful motivator than anything.

But today, frozen here in my acrid kitchen, I realise today, right now, this very second, I have the chance to do something differently. I could do something other than listening to my priggish and punitive super-ego and heading yet again into that familiar black hole.

Instead, I'm going to try to deliberately activate my circuit for compassion. It's pretty important for my kids that I learn this. If you can't empathise with your own pain you surely cannot be compassionate towards others either. If I'm going to really wage war on bullies maybe I should start with the bully inside me?

In the kitchen, instead of berating myself for this mess, I think: "Sweetie, you poor thing. Better get in touch with your inner Girl Scout." Wow! See, there IS a kind voice inside me. I don't hear her often.

I gag a bit as I throw all the food out of the pantry, clean it and light vanilla candles. I do get the fire going by feeding a Spectator into it. And I make dinner and we all put on our flannelette pyjamas and climb into bed. I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder. In a good way.

I am trying to intentionally notice relief or pleasure after completing every small action. Even if tonight we do seem to be the Waltons.

"If my tooth falls out in Hokianga, will the tooth fairy know?"

"Yes. Go to sleep."

Pause.

"Is the tooth fairy a stalker?"

I put the funny bit on the end because this column is meant to be humorous.

Oops.