Or Perhaps It's Just Me
About fifteen years ago, and rather against my better judgement, I took part in a weekend called The ISA Experience.
I work with actors, and a lot of people I knew had done it, and several of them were very keen that I should do it.
I had had a tough time, losing my first baby, and then had postnatal depression when Olli was born, and several people thought, from the best of intentions, that this might help me. My usual "pull yourself together and move on" method wasn't working, or not very well.
The trouble is, this weekend requires you to throw yourself into it, whole-heartedly, suspending all judgement and just going with the flow.
I'm not like that. I just can't do it. I am sceptical about everything. I wish I was religious, but I'm not: I'd like to believe in homoeopathy, but I can't: astrology, but it's a load of rubbish (I'm a typical Cancerian, mind) - - and so on. I have a suspicious mind. What's in it for the person who's pushing this theory, I wonder? And at the base of many things it seems, for me, to be crowd control, or money, or sometimes both.
A couple of hundred of us were asked to sit in rows in a big hall on a Friday evening. Loud music was played and the facilitator came in and pointed dramatically at the cd player and the music stopped.
At this point I thought - - - oh no, this isn't for me, I'm out of here. And I was delighted, years later, when Ricky Gervais' parody of a motivational speaker in the television comedy The Office included just such a moment.
But I didn't leave. I stayed, for the whole weekend. I couldn't take part in my head, but I pretended to. I put my hand up in a "Let me Speak!" kind of eager way and tried to mirror the enthusiasm of those around me.
I'll say one thing for the chap running it, he did clock this and came up to me and whispered in my ear "You are not participating very much."
"No, mate," I thought, "because you are trying to brainwash me." No clocks to show the passage of time and a really sudden effort to get a lot of intimacy with those in the room. We all had a "buddy" who was supposed to help us and we were supposed to tell them every detail of our problems.
I'm usually pretty open - I don't have any serious secrets and my close friends know pretty much everything about me. But over the course of the weekend, I got more and more closed and more and more miserable.
Everyone else, it seemed, was getting more and more open and delighted.
By the end of the weekend we all had to go up on a stage, one after the other and say "What I don't want you to know about me is - - "
People talked about their relationships, the abuse they had suffered as children, all sorts of deep torments.
One girl said "I'm an heiress and my problem is that I have too much money and it's ruining my life." I resisted the urge to shout "I can help you! Give it to me!" - - or, more seriously, "Give it to charity, you stupid cow, problem solved!"
Then it was my turn. "What I don't want you to know about me," I said, "is that I don't take part in things like this. I go through the motions, but I'm not really here. And there are plenty of decent people in this room who'll be very disappointed in me."
There were. By the end of it I was about as gloomy as I've ever felt. Everyone else, it seemed, felt that their lives were transformed. They were moving forward! Changing! Everything would be wonderful from now on!
Ten days later, we had to go to a reunion and answer lots of questions. I went, of course. One thing about me is that I do tend to see things through.
"Have you managed to continue to feel the huge feeling of happiness that you felt at the end of the weekend?" was one of them (though I'm paraphrasing).
I found one of the leaders and pointed out that this was what is known as a Leading Question.
They glowered at me and tried to get me to do a follow-up course. I hadn't played a full part in the course, clearly. (True) I hadn't seen the light, or whatever. (True again)
I was in a dark tunnel of cynicism by now, feeling much worse than I had before I started. I never went back.
But I found that, on my course, there were people who had done the whole thing fifteen or sixteen times.
The weekend, in those days, cost £225. I have no idea what it costs now: the website doesn't appear to tell me.
Crowd control. And money.
Or perhaps it's just me.
I work with actors, and a lot of people I knew had done it, and several of them were very keen that I should do it.
I had had a tough time, losing my first baby, and then had postnatal depression when Olli was born, and several people thought, from the best of intentions, that this might help me. My usual "pull yourself together and move on" method wasn't working, or not very well.
The trouble is, this weekend requires you to throw yourself into it, whole-heartedly, suspending all judgement and just going with the flow.
I'm not like that. I just can't do it. I am sceptical about everything. I wish I was religious, but I'm not: I'd like to believe in homoeopathy, but I can't: astrology, but it's a load of rubbish (I'm a typical Cancerian, mind) - - and so on. I have a suspicious mind. What's in it for the person who's pushing this theory, I wonder? And at the base of many things it seems, for me, to be crowd control, or money, or sometimes both.
A couple of hundred of us were asked to sit in rows in a big hall on a Friday evening. Loud music was played and the facilitator came in and pointed dramatically at the cd player and the music stopped.
At this point I thought - - - oh no, this isn't for me, I'm out of here. And I was delighted, years later, when Ricky Gervais' parody of a motivational speaker in the television comedy The Office included just such a moment.
But I didn't leave. I stayed, for the whole weekend. I couldn't take part in my head, but I pretended to. I put my hand up in a "Let me Speak!" kind of eager way and tried to mirror the enthusiasm of those around me.
I'll say one thing for the chap running it, he did clock this and came up to me and whispered in my ear "You are not participating very much."
"No, mate," I thought, "because you are trying to brainwash me." No clocks to show the passage of time and a really sudden effort to get a lot of intimacy with those in the room. We all had a "buddy" who was supposed to help us and we were supposed to tell them every detail of our problems.
I'm usually pretty open - I don't have any serious secrets and my close friends know pretty much everything about me. But over the course of the weekend, I got more and more closed and more and more miserable.
Everyone else, it seemed, was getting more and more open and delighted.
By the end of the weekend we all had to go up on a stage, one after the other and say "What I don't want you to know about me is - - "
People talked about their relationships, the abuse they had suffered as children, all sorts of deep torments.
One girl said "I'm an heiress and my problem is that I have too much money and it's ruining my life." I resisted the urge to shout "I can help you! Give it to me!" - - or, more seriously, "Give it to charity, you stupid cow, problem solved!"
Then it was my turn. "What I don't want you to know about me," I said, "is that I don't take part in things like this. I go through the motions, but I'm not really here. And there are plenty of decent people in this room who'll be very disappointed in me."
There were. By the end of it I was about as gloomy as I've ever felt. Everyone else, it seemed, felt that their lives were transformed. They were moving forward! Changing! Everything would be wonderful from now on!
Ten days later, we had to go to a reunion and answer lots of questions. I went, of course. One thing about me is that I do tend to see things through.
"Have you managed to continue to feel the huge feeling of happiness that you felt at the end of the weekend?" was one of them (though I'm paraphrasing).
I found one of the leaders and pointed out that this was what is known as a Leading Question.
They glowered at me and tried to get me to do a follow-up course. I hadn't played a full part in the course, clearly. (True) I hadn't seen the light, or whatever. (True again)
I was in a dark tunnel of cynicism by now, feeling much worse than I had before I started. I never went back.
But I found that, on my course, there were people who had done the whole thing fifteen or sixteen times.
The weekend, in those days, cost £225. I have no idea what it costs now: the website doesn't appear to tell me.
Crowd control. And money.
Or perhaps it's just me.
posted by Daphne at 6:02 pm
3 Comments:
So, you're all signed up for the next weekend?
Tell me about it! Ever heard of Anthony Robbins - "Awaken The Giant Within"? Oh Good Lord! My school seemed to embrace this wicked charlatan's "can do" message as if there was no tomorrow. It was spooky. At Sheffield Arena when I went to see Robbins strut his stuff on the stage, I felt like you - totally removed. The only bit I liked was when you had to turn to the person next to you and hug them for a minute or two. I got a twenty something pin up girl. But she got the lecherous booby prize.
Sound a bit like the story of the 'Emperor who had no clothes'. Maybe you were the little boy who was the only one to point out the ridiculousness of the situation - everyone else went with the flow and probably blamed themselves for not really feeling 'wonderful', 'liberated' etc.
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