Tonight, our discussion on Dr Henry Cloud’s Changes That Heal centered around distorted thinking: patterns of thought that are both untrue and damaging.

The “untrue” portion of that definition is very hard to deal with. As is often said from a pulpit, the problem with deception is that you don’t know you’re deceived. For me, the best defense against deception is acknowledging that it is possible. One of the very few things that I am dogmatic about is the fact that I might be wrong. My theology might be wrong, my politics might be wrong, the way I handle my finances might be wrong, the way I train might be wrong. And even if they aren’t “wrong,” per se, there might be a better way, or someone that is more knowledgeable than I am.

Because I admit this, and because I watch out for it, I’m constantly examining my beliefs, opinions, and thought processes, and looking for better information, trying to draw better conclusions. I think this is a key part in anyone’s search for truth.

But even this can only take you so far. As I told Pastor Mark one night, I’ve come about as far as I can on my own, at least in some areas. I’ve examined myself, my beliefs, and my behaviors, and made changes where I found it necessary, but I still have blind spots, things about myself that I just can’t see. And that’s why it’s so critical that we have people in our lives that are able to speak honestly with us, and why it’s so important that we be able to receive correction and encouragement from them.

Another issue that came up was actually dealing with distorted thinking. It’s one thing to recognize that a thought process is wrong and hurtful, but realizing this doesn’t always make that thought go away. Sometimes it does; sometimes, a truth encounter is all we need to recognize and discard a wrong way of thinking. But other times, even thought we know a thought is wrong, it is so ingrained in us, so emotionally real to us, that it haunts us even after we have made that realization.

Dealing with these thoughts is a three-step process. The first is the simplest, but also the most difficult: we have to recognize the need and commit to changing the way we think. We have to decide that, when these thoughts come up, we will not allow them to control us, but we will recognize them, control them, and deal with them. This takes work, time, and dedication.

Second, we need to have people that we trust, and who are willing to call us out when we fall back into these thought patterns. When we start to act or speak in a way that reflects wrong thinking patterns, we need to have someone who is able to remind you of your commitment to change.

Finally, and for me, the most important, you have to actively take control of your own mind. Most people have very little control over their thoughts; they mind wanders to and fro, jumping from random topic to random topic, thought to thought, fantasy to fantasy. There’s is a distinct advantage to having a mind that is neat, orderly, and disciplined. I’m given to introspection, so allow me to offer some advice on this matter:

First, spend a few moments each night thinking about your day. Think about your successes, your failures, what you did right and what you did wrong, but don’t get too focused on any one particular thing. Ask God to forgive you for anything that needs forgiving, and forgive anyone that you might be holding a grudge against.

When you’ve done that, count to ten a few times. Picture each number as you go, and try not to let anything else creep into your head. You won’t be able to do this – extraneous thoughts will always creep in – but don’t get caught up in them. Just let those other thoughts drift away, and keep counting.

Now, we’ll deal with the thoughts that you want to change. First, let that thought come up to the surface. Now, though, instead of getting caught up in that thought, and the emotions it brings with it, just kind of watch it. Look at it, examine it. Understand why you think that way, why it makes you feel that way. Think about why that thought might be wrong, and ask yourself what the truth really is.

The goal of all this is to see that thought as something separate from yourself. So, instead of being a lustful person, you see that thought as lustful, and separate from you. Instead of being an angry person, you see that thought as angry. Instead of being isolated, you see that thought as isolationist. This is similar to what Paul wrote to the Roman church:

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do – this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it.

Romans 7:15-20 (NIV)

Once you’ve drawn a distinction between yourself and these thoughts, it’s easier to let them go. When you recognize that thought coming back, you can look at it objectively, remind yourself that it is not a part of who you are or who you want to be, and let that thought quietly die again.

This isn’t foolproof, but I’ve found it fairly effective. An interesting side effect is that people who practice this regularly tend to need much less in the way of outside affirmation; they tend to have a better sense of who they are, and of their own worth.

More thoughts on Dr. Henry Cloud’s Changes That Heal. Tonight, I’ve been contemplating the emotional process that people go through when they experience isolation, and the emotional process that they go through when they start to heal.

Cloud explains that there is a three-step process people go through when they lose connection to those around them:

Anger if the first stage. We are born with an inherent sense that we deserve love, acceptance, and friendship, and when we are deprived of these things, our emotions protest against this violation of our natural rights. We become angry at others for not showing us kindness, and angry at ourselves for whatever failings we believe drives people away from us. This results in bitterness and cynicism.

Depression comes next. When we are angry, it is because there is still hope that the situation will change, and our anger allows us to fight until we see that change. When that hope is exhausted, however, when we no longer believe that people can or will love us, when we no longer harbor the belief that we can establish true, intimate friendships, despair sets in.

Detachment is the final stage of isolation. There comes a point where the depression is too deep, where the despair is too much to bear, and at that point, an emotional defense mechanism kicks in. We convince ourselves that we don’t really need deep relationships, we convince ourselves that intimacy is too great a liability, and we become emotionally dead, unable and unwilling to connect to those around us. We become, to borrow a phrase, comfortably numb.

I have been isolated most of my life. The reason is a frothy mix of natural introversion and environmental influences, but the result is that I have trained myself not to rely on others, not to open up to them, not to connect to them.

There have been periods in my life when this wasn’t true. There have been girls who, despite the immoral nature of our relationship, I truly loved. At the end of high school, and in college, I had people that were truly close to me, people that were by my side as I came to faith, and that stood beside me as I grew in God.

But when we graduated and moved on, all of that sort of fell away, and I have defaulted back to my natural, isolated tendencies. And looking back, I can see myself going through Cloud’s three stages.

In reading Changes, working with my small group, and talking with a select few people that I almost trust, I’m trying to overcome this. I’m trying to undo the things that have been done to me, and the things that I have done to myself. And in that process, I’m experiencing something I didn’t expect.

I’m going through those three stages all over again.

I find myself getting angry at my situation. Even when I think about happy times, I find myself getting angry because I don’t have those things anymore. Salt in the wound, as it were. And I find myself getting depressed; there is a very real part of me that doesn’t think thins can change, a fatalistic voice that tells me I am what I am, and that is all I will ever be. And between those two things, the urge is to just give up, to detach once again, to become numb to the need and numb to the pain.

This sucks. But it’s also necessary.

I didn’t chose this. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I wanted to spend the rest of my life alone; that would be foolish. The choice was not mine; this was done to me. But, at the same time, the choice of what to do with that is mine. I can chose to detach, chose to remain alone, and alone I will be. I can actually see that path unfolding. But there is another option; I can chose to accept the pain of healing, trusting in the promise of better things to come.

This sucks. But it’s also necessary.

Our leaders are continuing our discussion of Dr. Henry Cloud’s Changes that Heal. Tonight, Pastor Mark mentioned something that I think is worth repeating: he said that a person that has never seen good behavior cannot model good behavior, because they never learned how. The mechanism just isn’t there.

A boy whose father never said “I love you” is going to have a hard time telling his son that he loves him. A boy whose father was a womanizer is going to have a hard time treating women with respect. A girl who was never nurtured will have a hard time becoming a nurturer. So very much of our behavior, and so many of our beliefs, our learned, and if what we learned is wrong, we ourselves will be dysfunctional.

Worse, we won’t always know that we’re dysfunctional; since that is all we’ve ever known, we assume that it is normal. Our frame of reference is skewed. That is why it is so critical to have people that can speak into our lives; we need people that can show us where our thinking, our behavior, and our beliefs are wrong. The father who is incapable of bonding with his son needs to be told that it’s ok – and necessary – to tell his son that his is loved. The womanizer needs to be told that women are not there for his enjoyment and use. They normally wouldn’t come to these conclusions on their own.

Finally, they need to learn positive behavior through observation and imitation. They need to learn the skills that they should have learned in childhood. The distant father needs to watch a loving father and son talk and share and play. The womanizer needs to see women treated with respect, courtesy, and purity. And then, they need to mimic these behaviors, copying them until they become ingrained. They need, to borrow a phrase, to fake it until they make it.

It’s a lot like going to the gym. When you first start out, you don’t have any real strength, and you don’t have the knowledge necessary to build strength. But if you watch the people around you, if you learn from the people whose knowledge is proven by their results, and if you do the things that they do, slowly but surely, you will build both strength and knowledge. Similarly, if we model the people living the life we want to live, if we model people with healthy relationships and boundaries, we can start to build those things for ourselves.

This process is a bit more difficult, though, when the missing mechanism is the one used to build relationships. In order to learn from someone, we need to be in a relationship with them, and in order to learn to build relationships, we need… to be in a relationship. I don’t know that there are any easy solutions to that dilemma.

Dr. Henry Cloud talks about Object Constancy, a condition wherein an infant recognizes themselves as a unique, individual person, and develops the sense that they are loved even when they are separate from their mother. It is this sense of absent love that allows us as individuals to function in isolation; we do not need to be constantly reminded that we are loved, nor does that love need to be constantly proved. Rather, we carry that sense of love around with us.

This week, the group discussed how past hurts can influence current relationships. If we have been told that we are bad, if we have been rejected, or if we have been abandoned, we come to expect that this will be true of all relationships. If our sense of object constancy is incomplete, we will always be waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. We will always be waiting for the other person to judge us, hurt us, or leave us.

This affects the way in which we are able to relate to others and to God. It limits the kinds of relationships we are capable of forming. Personally, I relate very well to God as Lord and as Warrior, but I have great difficulty relating to Him as Father or Friend.

That means I intrinsically understand God as an authority figure; He is right and He is to be obeyed. I also see Him as the Captain of the Hosts of Heaven; we are in a battle, He is my commander, and I receive from him both a mission to accomplish and the resources with which to do so.

Practically, that means I feel connected to Him, and loved by Him, when I’m doing something for Him. When I am teaching a class or preparing a sermon, it’s easy to sense His presence, easy to pray, easy to live right. But when I am not using my talents, it becomes much harder, because there is no real basis for relationship there,

Intellectually, I know that He loves me even when I am inactive, but experientially, I don’t feel like I know it. I don’t see Him as someone who simply wants to comfort me, or simple spend time with me, so allowing those things to happen is difficult. There is almost always a sense of “going through the motions.”

Dr. Cloud also mentions that this is often based in failed natural relationships, and I can definitely see his point. I don’t often engage in close relationships, but when I do, when I am around people who have common interest besides whatever crisis we’re currently handling, when I can allow myself to relax and relate to people, I find that it is also easier to do the same with God. When I have vibrant conversations with friends, it’s easier for me to have a vibrant prayer time with God. When I’m celebrating with my friends, it’s easier for me to worship God, even in the privacy of my own home.

Our relationship with God is tied directly and inseparably to our relationship with others.

“Understanding a pathology and knowing what to do about it are two totally different things.”

I’ve been tossing that out, or something like it, quite a bit lately. For one, I think the word “pathology” is cool. For another, it tends to bring uncomfortable conversations to a fast end.

My church, or at least the leaders, are going through Dr. Henry Cloud’s Changes that Heal, which is essentially about understanding your past and building appropriate relationships in order to live a healthier life.

Tonight, Pastor Mark talked about the various ways we screw up our relationships. The book and his sermon were both more in-depth, but basically, it boils down to the fact that people either let in too many people, or too few.

I don’t understand people that let in too many people, people that have trouble establishing boundaries, people that let anyone and everyone speak into their lives. I know that they exist – I’ve seen them – and I know what it looks like – a girl who cannot define her outside of a relationship, or someone who goes from social situation to social situation, because they can’t bear to be alone – but since my problem is isolation, I have trouble recognizing “over-relating” as a problem.

Under-relating, though, I can offer some insight into.

The lessons I learned growing up were, by and large, that I was not good enough, that no one wanted to be my friend, and that I would always be rejected. Later, I learned that whatever relationships I did form were pretty much destined to end. Those things have formed the core of my worldview pretty much ever since.

The early effects were two-fold. First, I attempted to earn acceptance. I figured that if people would not love me for what I am, maybe they would love me for what I do. The servanthood that people often praise me for is a direct offshoot of this.

Second, I learned to essentially do without relationships. I basically assume that people aren’t going to be there, and so I’ve learned to take care of myself, to meet my own needs, to work out my own problems. This has developed into an almost fierce independence.

Because of these two things, I have trouble opening up to people, especially when it comes to showing weakness. Because many of my relationships have been based on what I can do for someone else, I am very hesitant to enter into a relationship where I’m making any kind of emotional withdrawal. Especially since I don’t feel that it’s really necessary: I can take care of things myself.

After living like this for a couple of decades, it’s become what I see as normal. Relationships are emotionally expensive for me. Social contact, the small talk and bonding and whatever else you people do when you’re together, leave me literally, physically tired. Building relationships takes work, requires effort that I’m not used to putting forth.

I’ve found that this is true even n my romantic, or potentially romantic, relationships. I’ve been alone so long that not being alone frightens me, and I have a deep-seated tendency to push people away.

That means I’m very selective about who I allow to get near me. Driving home tonight, I realized that one of the reasons I push people away is that I assume that the relationship will be too taxing, and not worth the investment. I won’t get out what I have to put in. And that, I realized, makes me rather selfish about the whole thing. That’s probably not all bad – only relating to people who build you up sounds like reasonably healthy behavior – but I think I take it to an extreme.

So that’s the pathology and progression of a person with too many boundaries. Introspection is a wonderful thing. But as I said, understanding that you’re broken, and even understanding why you’re broken, doesn’t mean you know how to fix yourself.

Dr. Cloud’s mantra is “grace and truth, over time, in the context of a caring community.” Basically, you need to start opening up to someone who will not judge you, but who will love you and accept you unconditionally.

The thing is, if you’ll allow me to be more honest than some would probably prefer, I don’t believe that person exists. They might, but I can’t bring myself to take that leap. I’m going to be twenty-eight soon, and in my fairly wide-ranging experiences, I’ve never met them. I’m reading two books and attending a group that tells me I’m wrong, but this belief if very strongly ingrained in me.

I don’t have a particularly uplifting way of closing this, but I do want to make clear that this isn’t a cry for help or for attention. This post probably seems fairly transparent, but trust me, I’m still keeping the important parts hidden, and on top of that, I do still manage to get out of bed and off to work every day. While I may not be perfect, I am quite functional (a word that probably sets off a bunch of flags for those readers with a counselor’s training). I write these mostly for academic interest, to give you a glimpse into a mindset you probably don’t deal with very often, and to let those that are built like me know that they aren’t entirely unique.

Anyway, I’ve go a few more chapters and a few more weeks to go, so if I come to any startling revelations, I’ll be sure to share them.