Prickles of discomfort

The Seven Sisters are beautiful, and they are crumbling away. Guard rails are beside the point. (Image by Graham Hobster)

When I was a kid, I would become deeply engrossed in an activity and only vaguely register that my mother was trying to get my attention to ask me to do what I considered to be an unpleasant chore.

When she left the room, I would not be able to recall what she had said; I'd be left with only the prickle of discomfort that had penetrated my youthful cocoon of self-centered fun-seeking. What was it that I was supposed to do? No idea. Might as well keep reading my book.

As an adult, I still get this prickle, only now I have internalized my mother's voice into my own adult conscience. An unpleasant thought will flit across my mind, and I have to chase it down to remember what I need to do: "Oh yeah, the gas tank is close to empty, so I have to leave a few minutes early."

The prickle is a gentle warning system that helps me to make sure I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Every once in awhile, it wakes me up out of a sound sleep for something urgent ("I forgot to set my alarm clock!"). It mostly works pretty well.

I can see a few ways in which things could go wrong between me and my prickle of discomfort.

If I were to get frequent prickles about things that I have no control over ("What if martial law is declared while I'm asleep?"), that would be an anxiety disorder.

And if I were to bury my prickles so deep that I can no longer feel them, I'd start to lose control over the things that I am responsible for. I wouldn't be fully experiencing my life.

In my work with adolescents, I try to to teach them to navigate and respect their prickles. What do you have control over? What is yours to take care of? How do you summon the energy to deal with the prickles instead of avoiding them? How do you ask for help in figuring out what to do about them?

By helping kids make sense of their inner promptings, we are giving them space and support to become mature, functioning adults who take responsibility for themselves and respect the limitations of their power.

If we give them so much to do that they can't keep up, or we give them so little freedom that they can't practice making their own decisions, they can no longer heed the prickles of discomfort. In fact, they might try to escape the constant sense of unease by numbing out with media, substances, or risky behaviors.

And by "they," I mean "we." Obviously, adults are subject to the same challenges that children and adolescents are. Hopefully, we had some guidance when we were younger to make sense of our choices. Even if we didn't, we can begin to learn it now. We can learn to anticipate and appreciate the prickles of discomfort instead of avoiding them. Then, we can practice identifying which ones are truly ours to address and let the rest go.

This practice pays off. For me, the thoughts that once seemed so unpleasant ("You need to empty the dishwasher," "Tomorrow is the deadline to pay your mortgage," "You better find a new place to live before your lease runs out") are a lot more neutral than they used to be. The tasks attached to them are less onerous. I've gotten used to the routines of adulthood, and I no longer expect a daily life consisting only of pleasure and fun the way I did when I was a child. Even when the prickles are scary ("Have the difficult conversation with so-and-so") or vague ("Wasn't there something we were supposed to do this afternoon?"), I can make a plan to handle them instead of hitting snooze and sending them back into the void.

As I've built better systems for organizing my life and grown more clear about what my roles and responsibilities are, I have fewer prickles of discomfort (and fewer tantrums about doing my chores). When something comes along that I've got to do, I make a plan right away to do it. That's ultimately less stressful than hoping it will go away or that someone else will take care of it.

Our prickles of discomfort can signal danger of many kinds, from the threat of violence to the more banal threat of being stuck with two weeks' worth of trash because we forgot to put the bins out on the curb. They are useful and generous messages from our subconscious. Even when we don't want them, we ought to welcome them.

Do you experience these prickles of discomfort? Have yours tended to be overactive or under-active? Any memorable moments of heeding them just at the right time?