It Will Make More Sense To You Now

You can actually choose the path you want to traverse. She struggles valiantly to save a desperately hurt patient, but if she fails and the patient dies, she simply moves on to the next case. She does not manufacture drama in her head. In fact, she would become ineffective and incompetent if she did. It bothers her to lose a patient, but she cannot stop to mourn because the next one needs her attention. That is the continuum, and you get to decide where you want to be. You probably don’t realize that you have a choice, but you do. And that is what I’m talking about. Think about this seriously for a week before you even attempt to contradict me. Yes, I know that, unlike April in the story, you really have experienced terrible loss. Nevertheless, the misery you felt was something you created. You didn’t have to create it.

Make Sure You're Sure

You probably didn’t realize you were doing it. You were culturally conditioned to do so. It will make more sense to you now. See how incredibly generous you’ve been with the bad thing label. What if the soldier in our story had actually been killed in that enemy attack? Would his wife’s agony still have been made up? It was so powerful precisely because we are socially and culturally conditioned to react this way. You don’t have to travel that route. You are still creating dramas in your life. Recall the maelstrom of emotions that it created in you. If the event happened some time ago, the turmoil will have subsided, although thinking of it might stir it up again to some extent. Take a deep breath and let the disquiet go. The acting is superb, the sound and special effects are terrific. It’s a slasher flick, and various members of the cast come to grisly, untimely ends.

Functioning Normally

You identify with the heroine as she searches for a way out. Her eyes are dilated, she swivels her head wildly, looking for the danger she knows is lurking close by. She moves toward the very spot she should avoid, and the tension becomes too much for you. Your heart is beating too fast, your mouth is parched, and your pulse is racing. All of a sudden you can’t take it anymore. You can remind yourself that it’s simply a stream of images flashing by at thirty frames per second on a curved white screen. Look at the exit signs off to the sides in dim red. See the person next to you with popcorn all over his shirtfront. Lean back in your seat and hear the springs squeak. What you have done is shift your focus, and that is enough to dispel the drama of the horror movie. What you don’t realize is that you can do exactly the same thing in real life, and the first step is to understand that you are always playing a role, but you are not the role. And one strange, scary man in his time plays many parts.

A Voice In The Wilderness

Jaques went on to define the parts in terms of the stages of life from infancy to old age, but the analogy holds for every role that you play. Say you’re an actor playing Willy Loman in a new screen production of Death of a Salesman. You really get into the role. You ache as your commissions decline and you no longer make the income you used to. You dream of bigger things but they do not materialize, and you suffer as you try to come to terms with it. You feel you are letting down your family and try your hand at suicide. You really go through agony. But even as your character goes through this pain, you are riding on a high plane as an actor. Somewhere in the back of your mind is the thought that if Willy Loman is sufficiently realistic in his misery, then maybe, just maybe, there could be a Golden Globe nomination in your future, perhaps even an Academy Award. So you pull out all the stops and pour yourself into the role with gusto. Never was a salesman more disgruntled or disappointment written more clearly on his face. No one ever tried more desperately to end his life by inhaling gas or crashing cars. You’re just a darn good actor playing the role of Willy Loman. Think about this again. This is hugely important. You’re able to enjoy playing a deadbeat salesperson whose life is coming apart at the seams, because you know at a very deep level that you’re not him. You’re playing him. As the Bard of Avon put it so well, the world is a stage. What you’re playing is a role. Each of these roles comes with its own set of problems and constraints. Your task is to play that role with virtuoso abandon. And as long as you clearly recognize that you’re playing that role, you’re just fine. Life becomes incredibly tough because you insist in identifying with the character and not the actor. You know that you can dispel the tension of a horror film by fixing your attention elsewhere. But you think there is nothing similar you can do about the manifold problems that beset you in real life because this is not a movie. That is a trap you fall into readily. You think you’re stuck, that there is no escape. But you can set yourself free by recognizing that you’re merely playing a role that you have identified with and shift your focus to who you really are. So who are you if you’re not your character? If you identify with the actor, life is a ball. Every day is a thrilling adventure. At least, they think they are. Al had won every award, every honor. His insights into the world of matter were legendary. That was why he was selected to become head of the jocularly named Ultimate Machine, which was the largest particle accelerator ever built