Part Two In A Nutshell 9 страница

The most important thing in life is not to capitalize on your gains. Any fool can do that.

The really important thing is to profit from your losses. That requires intelligence; and

it makes the difference between a man of sense and a fool.

So, to cultivate a mental attitude that will bring us peace and happiness, let's do

something about Rule 6:

When fate hands us a lemon, let's try to make a lemonade.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 18: How To Cure Melancholy In Fourteen Days

When I started writing this book, I offered a two-hundred-dollar prize for the most

helpful and inspiring true story on " How I Conquered Worry".

The three judges for this contest were: Eddie Rickenbacker, president, Eastern Air

Lines; Dr. Stewart W. McClelland, president, Lincoln Memorial University; H. V.

Kaltenborn, radio news analyst. However, we received two stories so superb that the

judges found it impossible to choose between them. So we divided the prize. Here is

one of the stories that tied for first prize-the story of C. R. Burton (who works for

Whizzer Motor Sales of Missouri, Inc. ), 1067 Commercial Street, Springfield, Missouri.

" I lost my mother when I was nine years old, and my father when I was twelve, " Mr.

Burton wrote me. " My father was killed, but my mother simply walked out of the house

one day nineteen years ago; and I have never seen her since. Neither have I ever seen

my two little sisters that she took with her. She never even wrote me a letter until after

she had been gone seven years. My father was killed in an accident three years after

Mother left. He and a partner bought a cafe in a small Missouri town; and while Father

was away on a business trip, his partner sold the cafe for cash and skipped out. A friend

wired Father to hurry back home; and in his hurry, Father was killed in a car accident at

Salinas, Kansas. Two of my father's sisters, who were poor and old and sick took three of

the children into their homes. Nobody wanted me and my little brother. We were left at

the mercy of the town. We were haunted by the fear of being called orphans and

treated as orphans. Our fears soon materialised, too.

I lived for a little while with a poor family in town. But times were hard and the head of

the family lost his job, so they couldn't afford to feed me any longer. Then Mr. and Mrs.

Loftin took me to live with them on their farm eleven miles from town. Mr. Loftin was

seventy years old, and sick in bed with shingles. He told me I could stay there 'as long as

I didn't lie, didn't steal, and did as I was told'. Those three orders became my Bible. I

lived by them strictly. I started to school, but the first week found me at home, bawling

like a baby. The other children picked on me and poked fun at my big nose and said I

was dumb and called me an 'orphan brat'. I was hurt so badly that I wanted to fight

them; but Mr. Loftin, the farmer who had taken me in, said to me: 'Always remember

that it takes a bigger man to walk away from a fight than it does to stay and fight. ' I

didn't fight until one day a kid picked up some chicken manure from the schoolhouse

yard and threw it in my face. I beat the hell out of him; and made a couple of friends.

They said he had it coming to him.

" I was proud of a new cap that Mrs. Loftin had bought me. One day one of the big girls

jerked it off my head and filled it with water and ruined it. She said she filled it with

water so that 'the water would wet my thick skull and keep my popcorn brains from

popping'.

" I never cried at school, but I used to bawl it out at home. Then one day Mrs. Loftin

gave me some advice that did away with all troubles and worries and turned my

enemies into friends. She said: 'Ralph, they won't tease you and call you an " orphan

brat" any more if you will get interested in them and see how much you can do for

them. ' I took her advice. I studied hard; and I soon headed the class. I was never envied

because I went out of my way to help them.

" I helped several of the boys write their themes and essays. I wrote complete debates

for some of the boys. One lad was ashamed to let his folks know that I was helping him.

So he used to tell his mother he was going possum hunting. Then he would come to Mr.

Loftin's farm and tie his dogs up in the barn while I helped him with his lessons. I wrote

book reviews for one lad and spent several evenings helping one of the girls on her

math's.

" Death struck our neighbourhood. Two elderly farmers died and one woman was

deserted by her husband. I was the only male in four families. I helped these widows for

two years. On my way to and from school, I stopped at their farms, cut wood for them,

milked their cows, and fed and watered their stock. I was now blessed instead of

cursed. I was accepted as a friend by everyone. They showed their real feelings when I

returned home from the Navy. More than two hundred farmers came to see me the first

day I was home. Some of them drove as far as eighty miles, and their concern for me

was really sincere. Because I have been busy and happy trying to help other people, I

have few worries; and I haven't been called an 'orphan brat' now for thirteen years. "

Hooray for C. R. Burton! He knows how to win friends! And he also knows how to conquer

worry and enjoy life.

So did the late Dr. Frank Loope, of Seattle, Washington. He was an invalid for twenty-

three years. Arthritis. Yet Stuart Whithouse of the Seattle Star wrote me, saying: " I

interviewed Dr. Loope many times; and I have never known a man more unselfish or a

man who got more out of life. "

How did this bed-ridden invalid get so much out of life? I'll give you two guesses. Did he

do it by complaining and criticising? No. ... By wallowing in self-pity and demanding that

he be the centre of attention and everyone cater to him? No. ... Still wrong. He did it by

adopting as his slogan the motto of the Prince of Wales: " Ich dien" -" I serve. " He

accumulated the names and addresses of other invalids and cheered both them and

himself by writing happy, encouraging letters. In fact, he organised a letter-writing club

for invalids and got them writing letters to one another. Finally, he formed a national

organisation called the Shut-in Society.

As he lay in bed, he wrote an average of fourteen hundred letters a year and brought

joy to thousands of invalids by getting radios and books for shut-ins.

What was the chief difference between Dr. Loope and a lot of other people? Just this:

Dr. Loope had the inner glow of a man with a purpose, a mission. He had the joy of

knowing that he was being used by an idea far nobler and more significant than himself,

instead of being as Shaw put it: " a self-centred, little clod of ailments and grievances

complaining that the world would not devote itself to making him happy. "

Here is the most astonishing statement that I ever read from the pen of a great

psychiatrist. This statement was made by Alfred Adler. He used to say to his

melancholia patients: " You can be cured in fourteen days if you follow this prescription.

Try to think every day how you can please someone. "

That statement sounds so incredible that I feel I ought to try to explain it by quoting a

couple of pages from Dr. Adler's splendid book, What Life Should Mean to You. (*) (By

the way, there is a book you ought to read. )

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[*] Allen & Unwin Ltd.

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" Melancholia, " says Adler in What Life Should Mean to You: " is like a long-continued rage

and reproach against others, though for the purpose of gaining care, sympathy and

support, the patient seems only to be dejected about his own guilt. A melancholiac's

first memory is generally something like this: 'I remember I wanted to lie on the couch,

but my brother was lying there. I cried so much that he had to leave. '

" Melancholiacs are often inclined to revenge themselves by committing suicide, and the

doctor's first care is to avoid giving them an excuse for suicide. I myself try to relieve

the whole tension by proposing to them, as the first rule in treatment, 'Never do

anything you don't like. ' This seems to be very modest, but I believe that it goes to the

root of the whole trouble If a melancholiac is able to do anything he wants, whom can

he accuse? What has he got to revenge himself for? 'If you want to go to the theatre, ' I

tell him, 'or to go on a holiday, do it. If you find on the way that you don't want to, stop

it. ' It is the best situation anyone could be in. It gives a satisfaction to his striving for

superiority. He is like God and can do what he pleases. On the other hand, it does not

fit very easily into his style of life. He wants to dominate and accuse others and if they

agree with him there is no way of dominating them. This rule is a great relief and I have

never had a suicide among my patients.

" Generally the patient replies: 'But there is nothing I like doing. ' I have prepared for this

answer, because I have heard it so often. 'Then refrain from doing anything you dislike, '

I say. Sometimes, however, he will reply: 'I should like to stay in bed all day. ' I know

that, if I allow it, he will no longer want to do it. I know that, if I hinder him, he will

start a war. I always agree.

" This is one rule. Another attacks their style of life more directly. I tell them: 'You can

be cured in fourteen days if you follow this prescription. Try to think every day how you

can please someone. ' See what this means to them. They are occupied with the thought.

'How can I worry someone. ' The answers are very interesting. Some say: 'This will be

very easy for me. I have done it all my life. ' They have never done it. I ask them to think

it over. They do not think it over. I tell them: 'You can make use of all the time you

spend when you are unable to go to sleep by thinking how you can please someone, and

it will be a big step forward in your health. ' When I see them next day, I ask them: 'Did

you think over what I suggested? ' They answer: 'Last night I went to sleep as soon as I got

to bed. ' All this must be done, of course, in a modest, friendly manner, without a hint of

superiority.

" Others will answer: 'I could never do it. I am so worried. ' I tell them: 'Don't stop

worrying; but at the same time you can think now and then of others. ' I want to direct

their interest always towards their fellows. Many say: 'Why should I please others?

Others do not try to please me. ' 'You must think of your health, ' I answer. The others

will suffer later on. ' It is extremely rare that I have found a patient who said: 'I have

thought over what you suggested. ' All my efforts are devoted towards increasing the

social interest of the patient. I know that the real reason for his malady is his lack of co-

operation and I want him to see it too. As soon as he can connect himself with his fellow

men on an equal and co-operative footing, he is cured. ... The most important task

imposed by religion has always been 'Love thy neighbour'. ... It is the individual who is

not interested in his fellow man who has the greatest difficulties in life and provides the

greatest injury to others. It is from among such individuals that all human failures

spring.

... All that we demand of a human being, and the highest praise we can give him is that

he should be a good fellow worker, a friend to all other men, and a true partner in love

and marriage. "

Dr. Adler urges us to do a good deed every day. And what is a good deed? " A good deed, "

said the prophet Mohammed, " is one that brings a smile of joy to the face of another. "

Why will doing a good deed every day produce such astounding efforts on the doer?

Because trying to please others will cause us to stop thinking of ourselves: the very

thing that produces worry and fear and melancholia.

Mrs. William T. Moon, who operates the Moon Secretarial School, 521 Fifth Avenue, New

York, didn't have to spend two weeks thinking how she could please someone in order to

banish her melancholy. She went Alfred Adler one better-no, she went Adler thirteen

better. She banished her melancholy, not in fourteen days, but in one day, by thinking

how she could please a couple of orphans.

It happened like this: " In December, five years ago, " said Mrs. Moon, " I was engulfed in a

feeling of sorrow and self-pity. After several years of happy married life, I had lost my

husband. As the Christmas holidays approached, my sadness deepened. I had never

spent a Christmas alone in all my life; and I dreaded to see this Christmas come. Friends

had invited me to spend Christmas with them. But I did not feel up to any gaiety. I knew

I would be a wet blanket at any party. So, I refused their kind invitations. As Christmas

Eve approached, I was more and more overwhelmed with self-pity. True, I should have

been thankful for many things, as all of us have many things for which to be thankful.

The day before Christmas, I left my office at three o'clock in the afternoon and started

walking aimlessly up Fifth Avenue, hoping that I might banish my self-pity and

melancholy. The avenue was jammed with gay and happy crowds-scenes that brought

back memories of happy years that were gone.

I just couldn't bear the thought of going home to a lonely and empty apartment. I was

bewildered. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't keep the tears back. After walking

aimlessly for an hour or so, I found myself in front of a bus terminal. I remembered that

my husband and I had often boarded an unknown bus for adventure, so I boarded the

first bus I found at the station. After crossing the Hudson River and riding for some time,

I heard the bus conductor say: 'Last stop, lady. ' I got off. I didn't even know the name of

the town. It was a quiet, peaceful little place. While waiting for the next bus home, I

started walking up a residential street. As I passed a church, I heard the beautiful

strains of 'Silent Night'. I went in. The church was empty except for the organist. I sat

down unnoticed in one of the pews. The lights from the gaily decorated Christmas tree

made the decorations seem like myriads of stars dancing in the moonbeams. The long-

drawn cadences of the music-and the fact that I had forgotten to eat since morning-

made me drowsy. I was weary and heavy-laden, so I drifted off to sleep.

" When I awoke, I didn't know where I was. I was terrified. I saw in front of me two small

children who had apparently come in to see the Christmas tree. One, a little girl, was

pointing at me and saying: 'I wonder if Santa Clause brought her'. These children were

also frightened when I awoke. I told them that I wouldn't hurt them. They were poorly

dressed. I asked them where their mother and daddy were. 'We ain't got no mother and

daddy, ' they said. Here were two little orphans much worse off than I had ever been.

They made me feel ashamed of my sorrow and self-pity. I showed them the Christmas

tree and then took them to a drugstore and we had some refreshments, and I bought

them some candy and a few presents. My loneliness vanished as if by magic. These two

orphans gave me the only real happiness and self-forgetfulness that I had had in months.

As I chatted with them, I realised how lucky I had been. I thanked God that all my

Christmases as a child had been bright with parental love and tenderness. Those two

little orphans did far more for me than I did for them. That experience showed me again

the necessity of making other people happy in order to be happy ourselves. I found that

happiness is contagious. By giving, we receive. By helping someone and giving out love, I

had conquered worry and sorrow and self-pity, and felt like a new person. And I was a

new person-not only then, but in the years that followed. " I could fill a book with stories

of people who forgot themselves into health and happiness. For example, let's take the

case of Margaret Tayler Yates, one of the most popular women in the United States

Navy.

Mrs. Yates is a writer of novels, but none of her mystery stories is half so interesting as

the true story of what happened to her that fateful morning when the Japanese struck

our fleet at Pearl Harbour. Mrs. Yates had been an invalid for more than a year: a bad

heart. She spent twenty-two out of every twenty-four hours in bed. The longest journey

that she undertook was a walk into the garden to take a sunbath. Even then, she had to

lean on the maid's arm as she walked. She herself told me that in those days she

expected to be an invalid for the balance of her life. " I would never have really lived

again, " she told me, " if the Japs had not struck Pearl Harbour and jarred me out of my

complacency.

" When this happened, " Mrs. Yates said, as she told her story, " everything was chaos and

confusion. One bomb struck so near my home, the concussion threw me out of bed.

Army trucks rushed out to Hickam Field, Scofield Barracks, and Kaneohe Bay Air Station,

to bring Army and Navy wives and children to the public schools. There the Red Cross

telephoned those who had extra rooms to take them in. The Red Cross workers knew

that I had a telephone beside my bed, so they asked me to be a clearing-house of

information. So I kept track of where Army and Navy wives and children were being

housed, and all Navy and Army men were instructed by the Red Cross to telephone me

to find out where their families were.

" I soon discovered that my husband, Commander Robert Raleigh Yates, was safe. I tried

to cheer up the wives who did not know whether their husbands had been killed; and I

tried to give consolation to the widows whose husbands had been killed-and they were

many. Two thousand, one hundred and seventeen officers and enlisted men in the Navy

and Marine Corps were killed and 960 were reported missing.

" At first I answered these phone calls while lying in bed. Then I answered them sitting

up in bed. Finally, I got so busy, so excited, that I forgot all about my weakness and got

out of bed and sat by a table. By helping others who were much worse off than I was, I

forgot all about myself; and I have never gone back to bed again except for my regular

eight hours of sleep each night. I realise now that if the Japs had not struck at Pearl

Harbour, I would probably have remained a semi-invalid all my life. I was comfortable in

bed. I was constantly waited on, and I now realise that I was unconsciously losing my

will to rehabilitate myself.

" The attack on Pearl Harbour was one of the greatest tragedies in American history, but

as far as I was concerned, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. That

terrible crisis gave me strength that I never dreamed I possessed. It took my attention

off myself and focused it on others. It gave me something big and vital and important to

live for. I no longer had time to think about myself or care about myself. "

A third of the people who rush to psychiatrists for help could probably cure themselves

if they would only do as Margaret Yates did: get interested in helping others. My idea?

No, that is approximately what Carl Jung said. And he ought to know -if anybody does.

He said: " About one-third of my patients are suffering from no clinically definable

neurosis, but from the senselessness and emptiness of their lives. " To put it another

way, they are trying to thumb a ride through life-and the parade passes them by. So

they rush to a psychiatrist with their petty, senseless, useless lives. Having missed the

boat, they stand on the wharf, blaming everyone except themselves and demanding that

the world cater to their self-centred desires.

You may be saying to yourself now: " Well, I am not impressed by these stories. I myself

could get interested in a couple of orphans I met on Christmas Eve; and if I had been at

Pearl Harbour, I would gladly have done what Margaret Tayler Yates did. But with me

things are different: I live an ordinary humdrum life. I work at a dull job eight hours a

day. Nothing dramatic ever happens to me. How can I get interested in helping others?

And why should I? What is there in it for me? "

A fair question. I'll try to answer it. However humdrum your existence may be, you

surely meet some people every day of your life. What do you do about them? Do you

merely stare through them, or do you try to find out what it is that makes them tick?

How about the postman, for example-he walks hundreds of miles every year, delivering

mail to your door; but have you ever taken the trouble to find out where he lives, or ask

to see a snapshot of his wife and his kids? Did you ever ask him if his feet get tired, or if

he ever gets bored?

What about the grocery boy, the newspaper vendor, the chap at the corner who polishes

your shoes? These people are human -bursting with troubles, and dreams, and private

ambitions. They are also bursting for the chance to share them with someone. But do

you ever let them? Do you ever show an eager, honest interest in them or their lives?

That's the sort of thing I mean. You don't have to become a Florence Nightingale or a

social reformer to help improve the world-your own private world; you can start

tomorrow morning with the people you meet!

What's in it for you? Much greater happiness! Greater satisfaction, and pride in yourself!

Aristotle called this kind of attitude " enlightened selfishness". Zoroaster said: " Doing

good to others is not a duty. It is a joy, for it increases your own health and happiness. "

And Benjamin Franklin summed it up very simply-" When you are good to others, " said

Franklin, " you are best to yourself. "

" No discovery of modern psychology, " writes Henry C. Link, director of the Psychological

Service Centre in New York, " no discovery of modern psychology is, in my opinion, so

important as its scientific proof of the necessity of self-sacrifice or discipline to self-

realisation and happiness. "

Thinking of others will not only keep you from worrying about yourself; it will also help

you to make a lot of friends and have a lot of fun. How? Well, I once asked Professor

William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, how he did it; and here is what he said:

" I never go into a hotel or a barber-shop or a store without saying something agreeable

to everyone I meet. I try to say something that treats them as an individual-not merely a

cog in a machine. I sometimes compliment the girl who waits on me in the store by

telling her how beautiful her eyes are-or her hair. I will ask a barber if he doesn't get

tired standing on his feet all day. I'll ask him how he came to take up barbering- how

long he has been at it and how many heads of hair he has cut. I'll help him figure it out.

I find that taking an interest in people makes them beam with pleasure. I frequently

shake hands with a redcap who has carried my grip. It gives him a new lift and freshens

him up for the whole day. One extremely hot summer day, I went into the dining car of

the New Haven Railway to have lunch. The crowded car was almost like a furnace and

the service was slow.

When the steward finally got around to handing me the menu, I said: 'The boys back

there cooking in that hot kitchen certainly must be suffering today. ' The steward began

to curse. His tones were bitter. At first, I thought he was angry. 'Good God Almighty, ' he

exclaimed, 'the people come in here and complain about the food. They kick about the

slow service and growl about the heat and the prices. I have listened to their criticisms

for nineteen years and you are the first person and the only person that has ever

expressed any sympathy for the cooks back there in the boiling kitchen. I wish to God

we had more passengers like you. '

" The steward was astounded because I had thought of the coloured cooks as human

beings, and not merely as cogs in the organisation of a great railway. What people

want, " continued Professor Phelps, " is a little attention as human beings. When I meet a

man on the street with a beautiful dog, I always comment on the dog's beauty. As I walk

on and glance back over my shoulder, I frequently see the man petting and admiring the

dog. My appreciation has renewed his appreciation.

" One time in England, I met a shepherd, and expressed my sincere admiration for his big

intelligent sheepdog. I asked him to tell me how he trained the dog. As I walked away, I

glanced back over my shoulder and saw the dog standing with his paws on the shepherd's

shoulders and the shepherd was petting him. By taking a little interest in the shepherd

and his dog, I made the shepherd happy. I made the dog happy and I made myself