My Coffee With Peter Shankman

Posted on February 27, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

Not the best pic of me, but here’s me talking with Peter Shankman at Dad 2.0

Ok. The title of this blog is a bit misleading. I didn’t have any coffee. Peter (if I can call him Peter – I completely forgot to ask, but I think he’ll be okay with it) did and he did offer me a cup, but I’m not a coffee drinker, so I passed. Plus I was plenty nervous so I think I would have passed on any beverage he offered.

When I spoke with Peter, the final keynote speaker at Dad 2.0 (you can read Michael Moebes’ recap of Peter’s speech here), at the conference, I mentioned that his references to needing to limit technology when it comes to parenting reminded me of Neil Postman, the late father of Media Ecology, creator of the master’s program I attended at NYU, and author of plenty of revered books including the brilliant Amusing Ourselves To Death. When I said this, Peter responded, “You know, so many people say I sound a bit like Neil Postman, but I’ve never read any of his work. Do me a favor, send me a list of books I should read. Better yet, here’s my number and e-mail. Let’s meet up for coffee sometime in NY.”

Stunned, I took the info and wondered if I’d ever do anything with it. I mean, we’re talking about a man who travels the world as a consultant for Fortune 500 companies and government agencies, an author of 3 books, the founder of the Internet sensation, Help A Reporter Out (HARO), not to mention the father of a 9-month-old. Why would he want to spend any of his precious time talking with me?

So I debated and worried and worried and debated and finally about a week and a half after leaving New Orleans, I sent out an e-mail and soon enough we set a date, time and place.

We met at a Starbucks but then quickly went next door to Peter’s apartment building. Peter, looking comfortable in jeans and a blue sweatshirt (thank God I didn’t dress up!) offered me coffee and then immediately began cleaning up bottles and toys and all sorts of kid paraphernalia. I gave him a copy of Amusing Ourselves To Death and he thanked me saying he couldn’t wait to read it. Then he offered me a seat and said, “So what would you like to talk about?”

Beat.

I had no idea. I figured based on our conversation at Dad 2.0 and me giving Peter a copy of Postman’s book that we’d discuss media, but what came out of my mouth was, “How do you deal with failure?”

SIDE NOTE: This is where I’m going to have trouble. I don’t know if it’s because of my depression or my meds or letting things build up so long that they eventually led to a severe nervous breakdown, but my short-term memory isn’t wonderful, so I can’t repeat things verbatim. I’ll paraphrase and write about the conversation’s themes, but I so wish I could write exactly what he said.

Peter talked about how many times he’s failed at business and in life and how each time it happens it angers him and at times he misplaced that anger, though he’s learned no longer to do that. Unlike me who’s crippled by failure, by even the THOUGHT of failure, Peter’s able to learn from his mistakes and move on. Naturally this led to a discussion about fear because I’m so afraid of, well, everything, but especially of failure. Peter, who continued to pick up a stray toy here or there and put it away leading me to think this man is just a dad like any of us dads, talked about how fear helps us learn and move, that when I got up on that stage at Dad 2.0 (and I was touched to know he saw me speak), he knew biologically that my pupils dilated and blood rushed to my legs because it’s a natural fight or flight instinct. He said he needs fear to keep going. That’s why he skydives. He needs to feel that fear and he needs to overcome it. He talked about how fear, if you let it, can imprison you, but it’s not worth it because life is so short. Not trying because you’re afraid makes you a self-fulfilling prophecy (something my therapist’s tried to drill through my skull about a zillion times). I told him how I had to be taken into a back room because I was hysterical after my reading and he said it makes sense, that it was the adrenaline pumping through my body and it needed release.

“But what about everyone else?” I asked. “How do you not worry about what they think of you?”

“What’s the point of worrying about what people who could care less about whether you exist on this planet think? Look, some people think I’m a douche. Sometimes I AM a douche. But who cares? I’m me.” He’s right. So’s my therapist. So’s my wife. So is everyone who’s ever told me this.

I sat curled up in a ball on a chair in Peter Shankman’s living room. Toys littered the floor. A playpen stood in one corner. Every once in awhile Peter’s phone or computer beeped as he got a text or e-mail.

“You’re giving too much power to other people,” he said. “The power needs to come from within. You have to like yourself even if you don’t believe it at first. Eventually you will.” Again echoing my therapist.

We swapped stories about our pasts, our troubles, bullies, depression. Peter was self-deprecating and down-to-earth. His eyes blazed with triumph when he talked about how he’s taken up cross training and iron man to help get the good chemicals flowing in his brain. He urged me to do the same even if it’s just walking on a treadmill at home…just get those good brain chemicals flowing.

He also advised me to start enjoying the little things.

“You see that cat over there?” he said, looking towards a a small white porcelain cat waving at us from the windowsill. “I bought that for 2 bucks in Thailand. It’s supposed to bring good luck. I love that thing. Probably the best thing I ever bought. I just smile and laugh every time I see it.” I thought about an episode of The Amazing Race where teams had to search through hundreds of little waving porcelain cats to find a clue. The little things.

He also said, and this I love, “I don’t understand why people can’t just be nice.” I couldn’t agree more.

That’s something I never expected to hear from a person in his position, someone I imagined to have wealth, fame and power and I said as much. He explained that that’s all an illusion, that if we went outside and asked 30 people who “Peter Shankman” is 30 people would have no idea, that he has no real power to change the world and that he lives comfortably, but he’s no billionaire Wall Street guy and he feels like he doesn’t even belong in their company.

“Look,” he said. “You did something big just by coming here. Plenty of people came up to me at the conference and asked to meet, but you’re one of the few who followed up. That impressed me.”

But did it impress me?

As our time neared an end, Peter brought out this sweet-looking grey-black cat and talked about how much he loves him, how the cat loved him unconditionally and I choked up a bit thinking about my own love of cats, my lost Zeeb who died when he was just 9. Again, the little things. And let’s not forget the big things like our wives and children. We have people who love and depend on us. We have a lot to live for.

I stood up, put on my jacket and Peter walked me to the elevator saying that he’d be more than happy to meet up again. I thanked him profusely and said I’d definitely send him another e-mail.

The elevator door closed and my chest began to hurt. All of a sudden anxiety flooded my body. Or was it anxiety? I thought back to what Peter had said about the adrenaline rush after my reading and how I did something big just by going to meet with him, how it impressed him.

Perhaps I did indeed impress myself as well.

How The LEGO Movie Stimulated My Intellect While Gut Punching Me Emotionally

Posted on February 18, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

THIS BLOG CONTAINS SPOILERS SO SEE THE LEGO MOVIE ALREADY!

I wasn’t prepared. Not at all. I didn’t expect to feel like The LEGO Movie spoke to me directly while offering biting social satire to tickle my media studies background. I sure wasn’t prepared for that incredibly emotional twist at the end that made my childhood flash a bit before my eyes. No. When I first read that Hollywood planned to make a movie about LEGOs, I figured it’d be a hackneyed product placement flick for the kiddies, not a film designed for all ages and filled with brilliance, wit and deeply poignant moments.

The LEGO Movie had me within its first ten minutes. It tells the story of Emmet (Chris Pratt), an average construction worker who, like almost everyone else in his LEGO world, unquestioningly follows the rules, consumes reality TV programs, buys ridiculously overpriced coffee, loves chain restaurants and literally sings along for hours to a tune called “Everything Is Awesome,” all of which have been established by President Business (Will Ferrell) as a means to keep people in line and turn them into mindless robots. Emmet, in other words, is the everyday American consumer (a beautiful irony considering we’re watching a movie dealing with some of the world’s most popular and heavily consumed toys).

But suddenly Emmet stumbles upon Wild Style (Elizabeth Banks) and her counter-culture friends (a great nod to The Matrix) who are out searching for “The Special,” the one who will defeat President Business (who in a nod to the Star Wars prequels, is the diabolical LORD Business when not in front of the camera) and allow imagination and creativity to reign once more. Essentially, in addition lampooning American consumer culture, LEGO satirizes itself and how the toys morphed from a pail, bag or box of simple interlocking plastic bricks with which kids were meant to use their inventiveness into giant and expensive sets with point-by-point instructions often purchased and preserved by adults. Lord Business’ evil plan, in fact, is to use a secret weapon to eternally freeze the world using his vision of perfection.

Led by Vitruvius (Morgan Freeman), the rebels, consisting of “master builders” from Batman (a hilarious Will Arnett) to Unikitty (Alison Brie), make innovative use of their beautifully animated LEGO surroundings to fight off Lord Business’ second-in-command, Bad Cop (Liam Neeson), and his robots including “micromanagers” to eventually lead Emmet, “The Special,” to his destiny.

And that’s when things get really wild.

Suddenly The LEGO Movie jumps from animation to live-action where we learn a young boy has imagined everything we’ve seen up to date and Lord Business represents his father (Will Ferrell again), a man dressed in a starched white shirt and tie, who has devoted his basement to building a colossal LEGO city using step-by-step directions and wants to preserve it for all-time using Krazy Glue. It’s here where the The LEGO Movie becomes an emotional father/son tale as we learn that the dad (aka “The Man Upstairs” in Emmet’s world) has gone to great lengths to quash his son’s imagination and desires to just build cool and crazy LEGO things; signs that read “Do Not Touch” abound throughout the room, and the father asks his son how many times does he have to tell him not to play with his “stuff” (a word often spouted throughout the film by President/Lord Business).

As I watched the hurt in the young boy’s eyes, I remembered my own childhood. I was never very into LEGOs and my dad did try to get me into things he liked (such as model trains), but my father never understood me as a kid, never connected or urged on the creative blood that once flowed through my veins before I became too frightened and anxious to act on them and they all but disappeared. This major disconnect between my dad and I helped, along with many other things, lead to my clinical depression. Even today, after two nervous breakdowns, dozens of panic attacks, family therapy, and his own voice telling me he’s proud of me and that I should do whatever I want to do in life, pleasing him remains at the forefront of my brain.

I’ve written before about how much I associate my father with work (for the longest time I could not picture him without a suit and tie) and how that’s played a role in my warped view of success as being solely money- and job status-oriented. I hated ties as a kid (still do) and began to think of them as nooses designed to keep workers in place. In the film, Lord Business’ outfit even looks exactly like a tie! Total stroke of genius!

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Lord Business’ outfit from the rear

So when I saw this poor young boy whose dad was the epitome of work, perfection and practicality, I got a hitch in my throat, and the name “Lord Business” took on a whole new meaning. It was MY dad and I was the boy. But soon the father, through a bit of LEGO magic and personal reflection, learns the error of his ways and he and his son begin to bond over their creations, a union my father and I never had when I was a child. In the end, while The LEGO Movie is a gorgeously animated, wry and subversive take on our consumer society, it’s really about good parenting and a father and son, though I should say that the father tells the boy that his sister will be allowed to play as well (a nod, along with Unikitty and her bright and colorful wold, at how LEGO is attempting to appeal to young girls as well as boys).

But the third act father/son shocker wasn’t the only thing that got me emotionally, because early on in the film I whipped out my phone and wrote down this piece of dialogue spoken by Vetruvius to Emmet:

“Don’t worry about what the others are doing. You must embrace what’s special about you.”

This might as well have been spoken to me by my therapist, family, friends and fellow dad bloggers as I’ve fallen repeatedly into the depressive pit of comparing myself to everyone else. Despite my scary, insanely well-accepted and ultimately rewarding reading at Dad 2.0 just a few weeks ago, I’ve become more and more worried about my own writing and blog and keep comparing myself to others.

I’m not poetic enough. I’m not prolific enough. I don’t have brand connections. My blog doesn’t look as cool. I’m not on social media enough. I don’t have a Facebook page for my blog. On and on and on.

And as I sit there with my chest hurting and tears in my eyes, writing to fellow dad bloggers and asking for help on how to become more like them, speaking to my therapist about how I’m not good enough, telling my best friends about these fears that seem to have quadrupled because now I feel people EXPECT me to live up to what I presented at Dad 2.0 while my brain’s telling me that that’s an impossibility, I hear or see them write the same thing Vetruvius said to Emmet:

“Don’t worry about what the others are doing. You must embrace what’s special about you.”

Between the father/son turn and that line of dialogue, I felt like The LEGO Movie spoke directly to me. Add on the fact that it impeccably satirizes consumer culture despite being a consumer product itself (essentially the question I explored when writing my master’s thesis about The Simpsons), and I can tell you that this is a special film wonderfully co-written and directed by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, one I’d love to take Sienna to. It made me think and feel on so many levels, even about how I plan never to stifle Sienna’s creativity and ambition.

As the song attests, everything about The LEGO Movie is indeed awesome.

Speaking At Dad 2.0 Challenges My Defenses

Posted on February 13, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

Pity

The word careened through my flabbergasted brain because it was the only one that made sense.

Pity

I remained at the podium staring into a fog of bodies united in a standing ovation, a cacophony of applause stinging my ears.

My defenses screeched and shook. Pity. It had to be pity.

I recalled someone telling me before I read from my blog to focus on him if I got lost or scared. Now I couldn’t remember who told me that and it didn’t matter anyway because I couldn’t see any faces.

At some point the room quieted, the audience took their seats and I left the stage. My body trembled. Slowly tears began to fall. Someone asked me if I needed help, if I needed to leave the room for a bit. I nodded and was led down a hall framed by companies sponsoring Dad 2.0 and into a room. Jason Greene, Kevin McKeever and Chris Read were with me speaking words of praise and comfort, but by the time my sister-in-law arrived and gave me an enormous hug, the tears were no longer silent. I cried loudly. I sobbed in shame and fear and anxiety and relief. Jason and Kevin kept telling me how proud they were. Chris told me the story of his own reading the previous year, how he was so wrecked afterwards that he had to return to his room to recuperate. Either Jason or Kevin or maybe both told me I was the star of Dad 2.0 2014, that I would be thing most remembered about the conference.

No one pitied me, they said. Rather the room coalesced in genuine awe at my bravery and my raw, powerful words. My mind screamed at them to SHUT UP!!!!!! JUST SHUT UP!!!!! My mouth kept returning to the pity thing, the disbelief thing, the distrust thing. It’s not real. It can’t be real.

Chris (I think it was Chris) told me to get ready to hear a ton of compliments, but even so I had no idea what I was in for. There was no way for me to prepare because this would be an experience so foreign to me that my usual coping mechanisms of self-deprecation, sarcasm and deflection (something the great Whit Honea told me he shared with me) could never work. As person after person after person (men and women both) congratulated and praised me, called me brilliant, courageous, a hero, I felt like I was stuck inside a hornet’s nest getting repeatedly stung from every direction because the fact is I, and my lifelong, irrational, negative defenses had NEVER received such validation; I didn’t know how to deal with it. I called Elaine and left some unintelligible message. I called one of my best friends who finally helped me calm down. All the while my sister-in-law and brother-in-law stuck close by.

People who I knew only via the web, people like Carter Gaddis, Aaron Gouveia, John Kinnear, Oren Miller told me to just relax and accept it, but how could I yield to something I didn’t trust? Each time someone came up to me, I stammered a thank you. Often I stared in confusion which I can only hope didn’t make them think I was insane. Lance Somerfield, co-founder of the NYC Dads Group, and a man I so, so wanted to please, told me how proud he was, told me I was a special part of this community of dads.

When I asked a question at a panel titled “Parenting it Forward: Compensating for Our Own Flawed Fathers” given by Charlie Capen, Ryan Hamilton, Eduardo Vega and moderated by Caleb Gardner, the first words spoken to me were about my reading and then room burst into applause. WHAT THE HELL????

When I went out to dinner with some of the guys, I learned that another table was talking about me and my reading. Again…WHAT THE HELL????

And as my defenses kept scrambling to regain finger- and footholds, a fellow dad (I’m not sure if he wants me to name him), came up and said he was so nervous about talking to me, but he wanted to because he felt like I “got it” more than anyone else at the conference; how he’d planned to leave until he heard me speak; how he too suffered from mental illness and it concerned him in his role as a father; how if I was brave enough to get on that stage, he should be strong enough to talk to me. We spoke for a long while acknowledging our similarities. We hugged. I teared up. I felt I had touched someone who truly understood.

As the conference continued, I somehow was able to compartmentalize the terror and unworthiness I felt and began to feel a camaraderie I’d never before experienced. Despite my anxiety, I felt a little at peace. I felt like I belonged. And that’s something else I didn’t know what to do with because I’d always believed myself to be the outcast.

I refused to look at Facebook for 5 days because I couldn’t bear any discussion about me. I’ve slowly gotten back into it, but I feel like I’m drowning. I feel like I’m obligated to “like” every single thing, to read and comment on every single blog written by my new friends because I owe them lest they abandon me. In the near two weeks since I gave my reading, I’ve been inundated with friend requests, instant messages, e-mails, blogs written about me, quotes about me, tweets about me (I joined Twitter right before the conference and have no clue what I’m doing). And I’m having so much trouble. My therapist, Elaine, my parents, my sister, my friends, my family, all told me how proud they are, how I deserve every little bit of praise I’m receiving. Fellow dad bloggers have written that I don’t owe anybody anything except to keep being myself, but that can’t be true, can it? Because my frigging defenses keep screaming that I deserve none of this! Nothing makes any sense anymore! And yet, in a haze I bought a ticket for Dad 2.0 2015 because I so want to see everyone and feel that esprit de corps.

And two days ago, one day after my 40th birthday, it was my voice screaming those phrases as I had the worst panic attack I’ve had in years. It began in front of Sienna and my mother-in-law (who speaks very little English). The trembling, the tears. The facial twitching. The stuttering. I texted my mom who came running. I used a translator to explain to my mother-in-law I was having a panic attack. I held on until my mom arrived. She took me to the bedroom where I fell into hysterics, repeating how I didn’t understand anything and didn’t deserve all of this ridiculous recognition and how I could never ever ever live up to this. I thrashed and cried and moaned through a session with my therapist, begging for Elaine to come home, my therapist telling me this is where I go, that my defenses are now fragile because of the influx of validation, they’re struggling to keep hold while a new me is fighting to be born. My mom stroked my head. My therapist told her to give me a diazepam to help calm me down and I fell into a bitter sleep with the words, “Help help help” leaving my lips.

I don’t remember when I woke up, but I was shaky. So shaky. Sienna was still awake, but it scared me to go near her because I didn’t want HER to be frightened of me. My mom stayed and took care of my daughter. I returned to the bedroom. When Elaine came home she held me tight. She explained that I finally got what I craved (approval, affirmation, acceptance), but because I was emotionally stunted, I didn’t know how to traverse these new, wild waters. She said that half of me wants it all to go away, but the other half is thrilled, a huge dichotomy, like I’m now playing the role of Two-Face in the Batman comics, but I’m only villainous to myself. She said that when I had my most recent nervous breakdown, it was like an angry 6 year old took over and right now I’m an adolescent looking at this new tribe in black and white: popularity or abandonment. And thus the desperate, nonsensical belief that if I don’t “like,” read, and comment on everything, they’ll all go away. I also needed to learn how to manage my time, to stop looking at things like a mountain and instead concentrate on one thing a day (Kevin McKeever had written me the same advice). I still don’t know how to do that, but I felt warm in my wife’s arms. Loved. I listened.

And yet I woke up jittery and Sienna throwing tantrums, being a normal toddler, made things worse. My mom had to take her for the day and then for the night. I needed time to recover from this last panic attack, one of the worst in my history. I needed to sleep. A lot. I needed to veg. I needed to THINK and think clearly. I woke up today knowing I was going to write, feeling the little sparks emanating from my fingertips. Is this blog too long? Is it exactly what I wanted to say? Does it matter? I’m trying not to let the latter question stop me.

All I know is that I found my people and I’m putting myself out there. I’m going to do everything I can to trust them and to hell with my defenses. It’s going to be a slow process as I try to accept all of these accolades and let them grow within me until they eventually destroy (or at least overtake) the defenses I’ve built up over 40 years. I won’t be able to respond to people immediately. I won’t be able to keep up with every conversation or read every blog and tweet, especially since my daughter comes first. But I’m part of a community now. An important, loving, caring community. I’ve never had that before, so bear with me.

I humbly thank everyone who came up to me, wrote to me, tweeted about me, friended me, wrote about me, believed in and continues to believe in me. I especially thank Doug French and John Pacini for inviting me and allowing my sister- and brother-in-law to be there in New Orleans (I had no idea I’d need them as much as I did) and I thank my sister- and brother-in-law for being so kind and loving and supportive. Thank you to my friends and family for your encouraging e-mails. Thank my parents for giving me this time to heal and for being so proud. Thank you to my therapist for all your help (don’t worry, your job’s far from over). Thank you to Elaine for your love, compassion, words, hugs, kisses and for giving birth to our incredible daughter, Sienna.

But most of all, thank you to myself for going to Dad 2.0, for getting up on that stage and bearing my heart and soul in front of 200+ people, and for beginning what could become one of the most significant journeys of my life.

I still have more to write about my Dad 2.0 experience, but I can’t say when it will happen. It’s enough for now that I got this out.

Regardless, I can’t wait to see my people again at Dad 2.0 2015!

Breaking Patterns

Posted on January 28, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I sat in my aunt and uncle’s house on Sunday, mere days before Dad 2.0, anxious about having to talk about the conference but wondering why I received zero congratulations. I sat on the couch waiting, butterflies fluttering throughout my torso and into my throat. Nothing from my aunt and uncle. Nothing from my cousins or their spouses. I couldn’t understand it, especially from my grandmother who supposedly was “thrilled” for me and cried when she read my post about Sienna and the moon. Wasn’t this supposed to be a big deal of sorts even if it made no sense to me why I was chosen? Even if I was having trouble accepting compliments and validation? Face-to-face with my extended family and there…was…nothing.

I asked Elaine her thoughts and she said maybe they were afraid to say anything that would upset me. My mom said the same and asked if she should investigate and if it turned out that there was a moratorium in place on talking to me about Dad 2.0, should I give my consent to lift it? I said yes. What followed was some whispering amongst my relatives while I sat, nervous, not knowing what I should with my hands. On one hand I dreaded the compliments and discussing the summit. On the other hand I craved them. My mom came back smiling and said that that’s exactly what was going on. My relatives were afraid of upsetting me, once again understandably walking on the proverbial eggshells.

I come from a very small family. I have one sister, an aunt (my dad’s sister) and uncle, two cousins and unfortunately only one grandparent (we’ve lost two and the other I never knew). I have a number of second cousins, but I rarely see them. Since I was born, we’ve gotten together with my aunt’s family about eight times a year, so if you think about it, I grew up with my cousins, though we’ve never been particularly close. We rarely see each other outside of holidays, birthdays celebrations and the like, and because I’ve suffered depression since around age nine and because I was a very angry and morose child, my kin (had to use that word!) tended not to know what to do with me. Depression can be a very selfish disease. One of its consequences is that it affects everyone around you without you realizing it. I remember a time before my first breakdown when my sister yelled at me to open my eyes to how my mood and behavior impacted my parents. It was the first time I saw the egocentric aspect of depression, but I was still too weak to act on it.

So even though my cousins and I can now sit at the “adult table” and even though my entire extended family has experience enough to discuss anything from politics to raising children, we generally don’t, and since my breakdown in 2010, it’s gotten a bit worse in terms of avoidance of certain subjects. I get that, but it also hurts and sometimes it’s not conveyed to me that that’s why there is no conversation. Thus it builds up in my head (Why? Why? Why?) and leads to further anxiety. For example, there was a miscommunication about Sienna’s 1st birthday that led to anger on both sides, but it took forever to resolve because we didn’t talk to each other directly. Likewise, this past fall, I unwittingly hurt one of my cousins when I wrote something on my blog, but it wasn’t discussed until I broke down in front of my uncle, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face, my chest like concrete. He took me for a walk and I told him how I felt everyone hated me and was angry with me and how guilty I felt, how the last thing I ever want to do is hurt anyone. We sat on a stoop and I went deeply into my childhood and how I wish there was more communication in our family to draw us closer together. He had his arm around me, talked about his own childhood, insecurities and wishes. He even teared up a little. He assured me that no one hated me. No one was furious at me. Everything was water under the bridge. Everyone loves me. When we got back to my house, I talked to my cousin about the incident and everything was ok. I’d been advised not to bring anything up, but I had to lest I explode which, of course, I eventually did.

So here I was again with my family wondering why no one was talking to me about my upcoming adventure in New Orleans, about how I was chosen to read from my blog in front of 300+ people. Once it was cleared up and my mother handed my nearly deaf grandmother a sheet of paper on which was written, “It’s ok to talk to Lorne about New Orleans,” things got better. I spent an hour using my dad’s IPad to explain the conference to my grandmother. She read the piece I’d been asked to read. I told her how I was advised to create business cards but made the mistake of writing, “For the first time in my life I can say, ‘Here’s my card'” which only reinforced in my brain the poisonous “success = money/job status” mantra that permeated my life. (ASIDE – that I recognized my negative phrasing is significant. It’s something I couldn’t have done before). I asked my grandmother if she was proud of me. She said she was “mesmerized” and then added she was excited to see where this leads. I took this part as if being invited to read at Dad 2.0 still wasn’t good enough for my grandmother even though she probably didn’t mean it that way.

I felt drained when the conversation ended, took a deep breath and shook it off. I went into the kitchen where my cousin told me he was proud, that he loved to read my blog (I didn’t know this…or I did and swatted it away like an annoying fly because I refused to accept it) and that I was going to do great in New Orleans. As the day continued, I received compliments from everyone and though they still stung, they didn’t destroy me or create a massive panic attack. I was glad I addressed the lack of communication, breaking the pattern of an innocent, yet hurtful, miscommunication roiling in my stomach only to morph into rage. I took action even if I timidly used my mom to solve the mystery.

By the end of the evening all was well. At one point I sat talking about Frozen with my cousins’ kids and we all watched a clip of “Let It Go” on my phone. I observed Sienna (who’s never seen the film but has heard the song countless times) interacting with her older cousins, singing along in own way, mimicking the gestures of Princess Elsa and I felt…rich. I wish for Sienna to develop a closeness with her family early and it’s partly my job to move things in that direction. It’s time for me to speak up. It’s time for me to stop relying on Elaine and my mom to diffuse and/or explore these situations. And I will. Yes the compliments about Dad 2.0 stung and added to my anxiety because I still feel underserving, but at the time I need to hear them if I’m to grow. I need to hear that my entire family loves and believes in me. One day I’ll believe it myself.

Sienna and her cousins watching and singing along to “Let It Go” and yes we immediately got her off that table!

Time To Fight My Fears Of Success And Failure

Posted on January 20, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

“I can’t…I can’t…do this.”

“Look at me!” Elaine grasped my arms, her eyes trying to magnetize my own so I’d stop staring everywhere but at her. “You can do it. You can. Stop saying you can’t. You can. Say you can.”

“I ca…ca…can’t.” Chest locked in a vice. Left side of my face twitched wildly.

“You can. Don’t say you can’t. Not in front of her.” Her grip tightened. I looked down and saw my daughter, my beautiful little girl. Her eyes a mix of confusion and concern with maybe a dash of fear. I took a deep a breath.

“I can….I can…I can…I can…I can…”

“Ok. I got this,” Elaine said. “Hug me and then go to the bedroom. We’re a team. You take care of me. I take care of you. You have nothing to prove.”

We hug. I set off for the bedroom, my mind imprisoning me once again. I try to read – ironically Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom. No attention span. Sleep. I need to sleep. I sleep for 4 hours.

How did I get here? Just 20 minutes before we were at Sienna’s music class and having a good time. But it was her last class and I had to sign her up for a new one which cost $470. That’s a lot of money. I have to pay off a few thousand dollars of credit card debt in the next month. Our finances are weak and it’s my fault. It’s my fault. But I’m getting birthday money in a few weeks. In a few weeks I’m turning 40. 40! How? How can that be? And I’m going to see my grandmother for the first time since she learned about me speaking at Dad 2.0. I’m not sure how much she understood of what my mom told her, but apparently she’s thrilled for me. She keeps reading my Sienna and the Moon blog and crying. She said it’s a huge honor. That’s not what I expected. I expected something along the lines of maybe he’ll actually do something with his life. Within 20 minutes I went from quality family time to being gripped by the cold hands of anxiety thanks to an insane thought process coupled with physical manifestation of emotion…again.

“I’m so glad they chose you to speak!”

“You’re an incredible writer!”

“I’m really proud of you and how far you’ve come with your blog.”

“The star of our NYC delegation will be Lorne Jaffe, who has been selected as one of five ‘spotlight’ speakers. Lorne will read one of the many frank, touching posts from his blog.”

I can’t take the validation even though I’ve craved it my entire life. WHY CAN”T I ACCEPT IT?? I don’t understand! The compliments enter my ears only to be instantaneously attacked by black thoughts and accusations as if they were extremely malevolent viruses.

“You don’t deserve this!” “You’re not worthy of it! “You still won’t amount to anything!”

I had a piece I’d written years ago just accepted by The Good Men Project (GMP). They even asked me to be a regular contributor. I felt a moment’s elation following by relentless skepticism and vehement negativity. I’m not being published in print so it doesn’t count. I didn’t receive any money so it’s meaningless. The site must accept everything. The site probably asks everyone to be a regular contributor. It couldn’t possibly be that what I’d written is actually good. I had to post in the Dad Bloggers group to ask if GMP accepts everything and was assured that they don’t. That was almost a week ago. I frantically check my e-mail awaiting a report that my piece is live. Will it ever happen? Did they forget about me? Does it even matter?

In 10 days I’ll be on a plane to New Orleans. In 11 days I’ll be at a podium reading from my blog in front of more than 300 people.

I am petrified.

What happens if I falter? What happens if I succeed? How can I top it…ever? I don’t have the artistic talent that so many other bloggers seem to possess; ones who write and illustrate brilliant and creative children’s books; ones who draw remarkable cartoons emanating the joy in even the most mundane aspects of being a stay-at-home dad; ones who post 3-4 times a week; ones who come up with scintillating titles that immediately make you want to read their words; ones who blog like poets and apply fantastic quotes to their lives.

And hence the comparison game continues. Why can’t I just accept myself for who I am? Why can’t I stop hating myself?

It’s all happening so fast, squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe. New Orleans approaches like a tidal wave. Compliments I can’t comprehend fill my ears, but my mind bars them from taking root and growing.

What happens when I get back from Dad 2.0? What happens when it’s all over?

I’m terrified this is the pinnacle of my life, of my achievements. It’ll be like a deflating balloon, an unfed fire. I’ll never be able to top it. I’ll never be able to sustain it.

This is what’s been going through my mind the last few days, this almost tangible fear of success and failure. This is all so weird! (A term my therapist claims I use whenever something is good and drags me out of my mental hell of comfortable pessimism).

Am I doing this for everyone else or am I doing it for me? I feel like I’m doing it for everyone else, but that’s just my old screwed-up brain talking. This is about me growing as a person and a father. This is about me facing and tackling my fears. This is about me standing at a podium, reading from my blog, imagining I’m a hero to Sienna. This is about me learning to accept accolades because I deserve them. This is about me having the guts to send what is an emotionally raw piece to GMP whether they accept it or not, whether they pay me or not. This is about me trusting Elaine when she sees I’m having trouble instead of me trying to prove that I can handle everything. This is about me letting my mom know (as I did today) that I was struggling and didn’t want Sienna to see me like this…could she please take her for a bit? This is about me pouring my heart and soul into this blog and helping others stricken with depression and anxiety.

It’s time to realize that my speaking at Dad 2.0 will not be the zenith of my life or achievements. It’s a milestone. It’s an honor. Nothing less, possibly more.

The real pinnacles (because there are many) of my life and achievements migrate each and every day when I see Elaine and Sienna; when Elaine tells me she loves me; when Sienna speaks new words; when I’m stunned again and again by Elaine’s beauty; when Sienna kisses my nose; when Sienna sees Elaine and I embracing, happily yells, “HUG!” and vaults herself into our arms until we’re wrapped together as a family.

My fears of failure and success will not dissipate like overnight mist. They might be with me my entire life. But it’s time I fight. It’s time I yell and scream as loud as they do. It’s time I realize I have lots of people in my corner and it’s time I accept that I deserve them.

I never again want to stand trembling, stuttering and look down at my daughter and see a mix of confusion and concern with a dash of fear. I want her to see a person ready to stand up for himself TO himself.

I want Sienna to be proud to have me as a father.

Most importantly, I want to be proud of myself.