16

BE KIND, BE WELL,
STOP F**KING SHOUTING

The man on the radio was screaming. I could almost feel the heat coming off his face. ‘I’m so sick of you loony, leftie, pinko morons telling us what we can and can’t say. Why don’t you just shut up?’

It seemed like a rhetorical question, but the young woman on the phone, a high-school teacher, valiantly attempted an answer. ‘We are taking a stand, as many teachers have done in the past, on human rights. Refugees are being tortured in offshore prisons and our students deserve to know what …’

‘It’s propaganda! You’re using the classroom to spread propaganda. This is child abuse!’

Modern life is so shouty. We have become so quick to anger — on talkback radio, on social media, on public transport, and in our cars as we honk our horns, trying to claim a tiny bit of this overpopulated planet for ourselves. In an age when facts have been downgraded to optional extras, and being right is a contest of who can shout the loudest, schoolyard name-calling is often rewarded. The ‘Loony Left’ whip themselves into a frenzy about trigger warnings and safe spaces, banning anyone they disagree with, while the ‘Rabid Right’ declares all-out war on political correctness and ‘Generation Snowflake’. Boomers accuse Millennials of being vapid, self-obsessed fame-whores. Gens Y and Z fight back, slamming their negatively-geared parents and grandparents for locking them out of the property market, destroying the planet, and robbing them of a future. It’s a perpetual orgy of outrage.

Then there’s the outrage at the reaction to the outrage. Online, a vicious form of lynch-mob justice can see a person crucified for a minor misstep. There is no escaping the noise and fury. It’s exhausting.

I turned off the radio as the ageing host continued his tirade about the ‘communists on the Left trying to brainwash our children’. I was genuinely concerned he was on the brink of having a heart attack.

There was a time when I would have joined in. I would have taken to Twitter to point out all the ways in which this narrow-minded dinosaur was wrong. My witticisms about his ridiculousness would have been applauded by my followers and set me on a thrilling collision course with the conservative commentariat.

Sometimes I still weigh in. But not as much as I once did. And not with the same level of fury. The soul-crushing pointlessness of these arguments is too much. It’s like standing at the top of an abandoned quarry and shouting into the abyss.

I used to think that by stridently highlighting my opponent’s factual errors and deriding their ignorance, I was defending those who had no voice. When this approach was rewarded by those whose views were aligned with my own, it only emboldened me to go harder. During one particularly exasperating episode of ABC’s Q&A that focused on marriage equality, I couldn’t contain my frustration when several panellists invoked the ‘slippery slope’ argument to suggest that allowing gay couples to marry would lead to generations of fatherless and motherless children. With smoke coming off my keyboard, I took to Twitter to point out: ‘Gay people are already having kids, you tedious imbeciles.’

Some weeks later, I was surprised to find my photograph on the front page of The Catholic Weekly, under the headline ‘TEDIOUS IMBECILES’, with an accompanying story about the ‘invective’ being unleashed on pro–traditional marriage advocates by biased, campaigning journalists. I duly shared the image on Facebook, joking that this was my most accomplished page one. Mum and Dad would be so proud. When The Age’s editor-in-chief found out, he approached my desk. I was sure I was in trouble. Instead, he laughed and said, ‘Next time annoy the Protestants, just to be balanced.’

After many fruitless online fights, I’ve come to see my problematic social-media activity as a canary in the coalmine for my mental health. If I find myself engaged in a three-hour online battle with misogynistic trolls or tone-deaf conservative commentators, it usually means I’m not in a particularly great place. I have learned to back slowly away from my phone or laptop, take a break, and ask myself, What is this really all about? What will it achieve?

The digital age has turned everyone into a keyboard warrior. When Twitter was first launched in 2006, it felt like a collegial global community — a marketplace of ideas and storytelling. Now, it can be a cauldron of venomous outrage, factional back-slapping, and outright bullying. This toxic echo chamber of righteous anger can make life even more fraught with anxiety. It’s hard to be calm when we’re constantly on alert. A foolish mistake can go viral in seconds. An errant tweet is turned into a three-day shitstorm as the media cannibalises itself reporting on something someone somewhere said.

Guardian journalist and author Jon Ronson documents this in his book So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, which paints a terrifying picture of a world in which people’s lives can be all but ruined in an instant, often in 140 characters or less. Social media has become the modern-day village square, where villains are placed in stocks and booed by the mob. Except their crime is not theft or murder, but posting an ill-considered photo on Facebook. As Ronson describes it, shaming an apparent wrongdoer seemed exhilarating in the early days of Twitter, and he was intrigued by the phenomenon. He told The New York Times, ‘When we deployed shame, we were utilising an immensely powerful tool. The silenced were getting a voice. It was like the democratisation of justice.’ Now he’s not so sure. Neither am I.

I’ve been part of many a Twitter witch-hunt and can attest to the intoxicating pull of a mass shaming. When the world is watching, united against a common enemy, it can be hard to resist the temptation to jump in and receive a round of back-patting from the crowd. It can make you feel as though you’re part of something bigger than yourself. It can become almost performative. And when you feel like you’re under attack, it can be a way of exacting some semblance of control.

For journalists and other public figures, the internet’s anonymity has made online abuse a fact of life. Sometimes, the insults I receive are amusing and inventive. Like the time a reader got in touch to tell me my journalism was ‘the written form of herpes’. Or the guy that said the points I raised in an opinion piece were ‘dull and thudding and resembled someone carving a turkey with a clawhammer’. On other occasions, the comments have been gendered and violent. When I took an online-betting company to task on Twitter for its misogynistic advertising, I was attacked by angry rugby league fans whose objections took the form of calling for me to be euthanised; wishing I would die of AIDS; telling me, ‘Bitch, shut the fuck up’; and suggesting that I ‘just need some good cock up you’.

It can often be the most unlikely subjects that provoke a reaction. I have received repeated emails from a reader who hated me writing about binge drinking, and was particularly incensed with High Sobriety. Once, he wrote to tell me he hoped I got liver cancer. Another time, his message read, ‘You are a pro-booze bitch pretending to be otherwise. Hope you drop dead soon from your own self confessed binge drinking you cunt!’

I try to picture the person who wrote this. What does he look like? Does he have children? Is there pain in his life? Would he say these things to my face if he saw me on the street? I don’t reply to violent messages, but sometimes when I receive angry emails or personal insults, I will respond. My reply is always polite, and invariably the sender will write back and apologise, disarmed by the real person they find at the end of their rage. It’s all too easy to fire a furious missive into cyberspace. The anonymity of the online age has dehumanised our interactions. It’s the same removed dispassion that leads to road rage, prompting behaviour behind a windscreen most of us would never dream of if we stepped outside our cars.

With the rise of high-density apartment living, where people don’t know their neighbours, and disputes over car-parking spaces, rubbish, and noise pollution abound, the passive-aggressive note-leaver has become a troubling, if amusing, phenomenon that neatly encapsulates the anger that sits so close to the surface. In a piece about the trend, The Sydney Morning Herald published some of their favourite anonymous notes from neighbours sent in by readers, including ‘Congratulations, you’ve just won crappiest park of the week. Why don’t you park across three spaces next time? You wanker.’ And, ‘NO DOG POO. STINK YOUR OWN BIN OUT.’ And, ‘SHUT YOUR FUCKING SECURITY DOORS.’ In Melbourne, a producer for 3AW shared a typed note she and her boyfriend found taped to their front door one morning. Despite living what she described as a quiet ‘nana’s existence’, going to bed at 9.00 pm to get up at 4.00 am for breakfast radio, the producer had a neighbour who saw things differently:

You ALWAYS PLAY LOUD MUSIC ON WEEKENDS, as well as creating a RACKET with your loud bogan friends on your balcony. Also we shall be complaining about your BBQ TODAY, which MANY PEOPLE HAVE BEEN ANGRY ABOUT INCLUDING US. I know most of my neighbours and they will agree you are petty, bitchy freaks. Move out if you don’t like it here and get a life losers.

All this anger can’t be good for us. The temporary release of frustration might feel satisfying for a moment, but the rewards are short-lived. The temptation to vent is alluring in a world that can sometimes leave us feeling powerless. But after many pointless online battles, I’ve started to wonder what’s really going on underneath. Invariably, I find that there is some underlying issue driving my fury and frustration. The unacknowledged child part of me is looking for recognition. It’s as if I’m trying to wrestle back some autonomy over my emotions by asserting my rightness, looking for that elusive sense of belonging. It becomes compulsive, constantly refreshing the page to see how many strangers have validated my worldview. But the satisfaction doesn’t last. I’m left feeling spent. All that righteousness comes with a side serve of shame. I like myself more when I’m not angry.

‘Be kind and you will be well’ has been the cornerstone of Eastern philosophy for centuries. Buddhists practise loving-kindness to all beings as a path to enlightenment. The Dalai Lama says, ‘If you want others to be happy, practise compassion. If you want to be happy, practise compassion.’ Now, the Western world is catching up. Recognising our shared humanity is more than just a sentimental ideal. Consciously practising kindness could actually change the wiring of our brains and make us live longer, happier, and healthier lives. Compassion is neuroscience’s latest frontier.

The idea that all I might need to do to calm down and find happiness is stop fighting with Twitter trolls and go hug a News Corp columnist fascinates me. I’m sure those very same people would be the first to dismiss this notion as Leftist hippy nonsense dreamt up by a bunch of bleeding hearts singing ‘Kumbaya’ in a Tibetan prayer circle. But the science is compelling. Some studies have shown compassion can protect against disease and significantly increase lifespan. Brain imaging reveals that exercising compassion stimulates the same pleasure centres associated with the drive for food, water, and sex. Not only are we preconditioned to be kind, but it’s essential for the survival of our species.

Dr James Doty, founder of Stanford University’s Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education (doesn’t it just make you feel better that a place like this even exists?) is at the forefront of this emerging mental-health movement, which, instead of focusing on pharmaceutical interventions, relies more on our innate human traits of empathy, altruism, kindness, and resilience. I spoke to him not long after I returned to work, and his insights helped change the way I viewed the world, and myself.

‘We are seeing a revolution in how the mind works. As little as two weeks of practising compassion with intention has a positive physiological effect on the body. It can lower blood pressure, boost your immune response, and increase your calmness,’ he told me over the phone from California. ‘People are much happier and live a better life if they are able to maximise their genetic potential for being compassionate, and it has a significant contagion effect on others, motivating them to be more kind.’

This guy is no New-Age quack. He’s a professor of neurosurgery and a former US Army major who spent nine years on active military duty. He is also friends with the Dalai Lama. Doty’s centre was set up with the largest donation ever made by His Holiness to a non-Tibetan cause. Borrowing from Buddhist mind-training traditions, compassion practice uses meditation, visualisation, breathing, and mindfulness techniques to enhance mental health and foster connection by focusing on shared experiences. We can literally train our brains to be kinder. And that kindness has a flow-on effect. Doty said that when we recognise common fears or vulnerabilities rather than focus on our differences — be it with a difficult friend, an abrasive colleague, a noisy neighbour, or even a stranger on the internet — it calms the nervous system, boosting feelings of contentment and self-worth. ‘There is no-one who has not, will not, or does not suffer. By trying to identify common traits which you share, it starts breaking down this barrier of defining someone as an “other”,’ Doty told me. ‘You can see a dynamic happen when a person walks into a room with a sense of openness, kindness, connection, vulnerability, how the room reacts. It’s much more positive than when a person is demeaning, unkind, rude, or aggressive.’

Since the bottom fell out of my world, I have tried to be more compassionate to the people I meet and consider the baggage that, like me, they may be carrying. It’s not always easy when you’re on a packed tram and the guy next to you is playing head-banging death metal at full bore with no headphones. But it’s amazing how much a simple smile or eye contact with a fellow commuter can lift your mood. I try to remember that someone’s irritable demeanour is not necessarily a reflection of their feelings towards me. When I visited a local café and the manager didn’t acknowledge me as I sat down, and scowled before slamming a jug of water on the table and rushing off, my first thought was that I had transgressed. This had to be my fault. Then I was angry. Why was she so rude? But I’d been there many times before and she’d always been lovely. I looked around and saw that every table was full. There was a long queue for takeaway coffee. She had only one other staff member serving. So I waited. I was in no hurry. When she came to take my order, she said, ‘I’m so sorry about the wait. I had two people call in sick this morning. I figured I could leave you a bit longer because you’re a regular and you’d give me some leeway.’ I smiled, told her it was no problem, and pondered how different that interaction might have been if I’d allowed myself to presume the worst of a woman who was doing the best she could. I left feeling better about myself and the world.

The work I’ve done with Veronica has had compassion at its heart. Learning to view other people’s reactions to me through the prism of their own emotional preoccupations makes it easier to not always jump to the worst conclusion. One afternoon, walking back from therapy, I stopped and sat on a patch of grass in the park, feeling the winter sun on my skin as I absorbed the lessons from that day’s session. Behind me, an elderly lady in a pink dressing gown, her white hair tied up in a messy bun, emerged from a row of modest, single-storey red-brick townhouses. She was yelling in my direction, making a shooing gesture with her hands. ‘You’re all the bloody same, you lot,’ she barked. This was public parkland. I just wanted to sit for five minutes. I felt that sense of indignation rising in my chest and I turned to remonstrate in defence of ‘my lot’, whoever they were. But then as my gaze met hers I recognised a look of powerlessness in her eyes. It was a sense of fatigue, a weathered fragility. What events had preceded this moment? I gave her a nod and went on my way.

The more I’m able to offer kindness to others, the better I have become at forgiving myself. Regina is not so brutal as she once was. I’m allowed to be flawed. Failure and setbacks don’t make me the problem child. It takes continued practice, but treating myself with the compassion and care I would a close friend has been enormously helpful. When my decisions have been questionable — drinking too much, binge eating my body weight in crap food, or midnight booty-calling that cute but shallow douchebro I promised myself I’d never text again — I try to be kind to myself instead of getting sucked into a shame spiral, which only leads to more bad choices.

The flow-on effects of practising compassion are not only good for emotional health but can also help our bodies. It reduces levels of the stress hormone cortisol by decreasing heart rate and arousal. Doty says that even as little as two weeks of compassion practice can have a positive effect on stress and immune function. When we’re kind and nurturing to ourselves and others, oxytocin — known as the ‘cuddle chemical’ — is released. It’s the same chemical emitted when a mother breastfeeds her child or we receive a warm embrace. That’s why hugs feel so good. We’re tapping into a primal, mammalian care-giving system that soothes emotional pain. Fledgling research shows that oxytocin, if administered in a nasal spray, can induce acts of altruism and increase bonding. Scientists are excited by its potential to create a kinder society.

In these deeply divided times, it’s never been more important to understand our adversaries. It’s much easier to brand people snowflakes or rednecks than it is to actually find out what’s driving their fears and frustrations. The way we live in the modern world is making it more difficult to reach out to one another. We have evolved from tribal living — in which caring for the members of our tight-knit groups was vital to survival — to a more displaced, disconnected way of life in which community bonds have been eroded and many of us are separated from family by thousands of kilometres. Combined with the frenetic pace of modern times, it has led to a stressed-out, individualised society with a reduced capacity for empathy. Compassion is often the first casualty when our newsfeeds are filled with acts of violence and atrocity. When we remain vigilant to real or perceived threats, the fear and anger can drive our behaviour.

Doty explained to me that identification with a group gives us social connection, lowering fear and anxiety and fostering a sense of safety. When we have those strong social bonds, we’re more likely to be of service to others. Without them, people will look for someone to blame, and quite often that is someone deemed to be different to us — an outsider or a newcomer. ‘If the economy is doing well and people are employed and there are resources for everyone, then there’s really never any issues regarding immigration,’ he said. ‘But as soon as a group feels a threat, especially those lower on the socio-economic scale, and they are concerned about loss of benefits or opportunity, they will often pick a weak group who can be perceived as taking resources from them.’

We’re seeing this in the extreme political polarisation emerging in many countries across the world, including Australia, with the rise of the alt-right and its anti-fascist counter movement. The more closed off we become in the way we live, the more defensive we are in our positions, and the easier it is to find a sense of purpose, belonging, or control by pitting ourselves against the ‘other’. We feel unhappy and aggrieved at perceived injustices and think that we can ease our discomfort by finding someone to shoulder the blame. But how many times have you felt happier by allowing your chest to swell with hate?

Thankfully, there are moves afoot to change things on a number of fronts. The corporate world, particularly large tech companies such as Google and Twitter, are running programs to help us understand one another better. Facebook hosts an annual Compassion Research Day to develop tools to resolve online conflict — a recognition that perhaps social media has been partly responsible for this ‘us and them’ culture and that making people feel safe and understood is not only good for business but will lead to a more cohesive society. Medically, Dr Doty’s team have begun using the therapy for war veterans suffering post-traumatic stress, and for cancer patients. And a growing number of psychologists are using compassion-focused therapy in clinical practice.

I recently spoke with Sydney-born author Roman Krznaric, who was visiting Melbourne to discuss the empathy training he has conducted for some of Britain’s top judges, as well as the violent offenders they sentence. He told me that while some judges initially believed that an empathetic approach could be viewed as being soft on crime, they found the training improved their awareness and decision-making. Ensuring that people felt as though they had been heard also improved courtroom management, making it faster to get through the system’s caseload. ‘Judges are often bringing their own stereotypes and prejudices to the table. They may be Catholics having to rule on issues of gay marriage, for example,’ Krznaric said. ‘Empathy can help shift some of their beliefs and be a tool for fairness. That imaginative leap is what helps us make a connection with another person who is different from us. We have all sorts of assumptions about people, and we’re so often wrong.’

Tom Ballard pointed out in his Melbourne International Comedy Festival show Problematic that many of us on the Left view the world through our privileged inner-city bubbles. We support refugees, smile aggressively at women in hijabs, and demand action on climate change. In our hermetically sealed echo chambers, we can’t fathom a worldview that would allow for the building of a nine-metre-high anti-immigrant wall, scale back women’s rights, or challenge the veracity of climate science. We don’t question what might be behind these positions. So when Donald Trump and Pauline Hanson are elected, we don’t ask why, but instead shout that we are right and the people who voted for them are racist idiots. Only in the wash-up of the 2016 presidential election would commentators observe that Hillary Clinton describing Trump supporters as a ‘basket of deplorables’ might have helped him gain the keys to the White House.

The un-statesman-like behaviour of the 45th President of the United States has not only led to widespread condemnation and ridicule but has prompted many to label him as mentally unstable. Allen Frances, whose latest book, Twilight of American Sanity, is a psychiatric evaluation of life in the age of Trump, published a letter in The New York Times urging his colleagues to stop mislabelling the president as suffering from narcissistic personality disorder — a condition for which he wrote the DSM criteria. He argued that while Trump may be a ‘world-class narcissist’, this doesn’t make him mentally ill because he doesn’t suffer the distress and impairment needed to diagnose a mental disorder. It is, Frances believes, another example of the rush to explain normal human behaviour — as unpalatable and unhinged as it may seem — as abnormal. The temptation to medicalise actions, feelings, and personality traits we don’t like, in others and in ourselves, is perhaps a form of self-protection, an act of distancing. It is also a way to dehumanise our opponents, which in turn makes it easier to justify hatred.

Perhaps change comes from turning to our enemies, not from them. After the US election, civil rights activist and CNN commentator Van Jones launched his ‘Love Army’, with the idea of using love as an act of political resistance, reaching out to opponents in a bid to unite people at a time of deep division. Through a ‘summer of love’ series of teach-ins, connecting people from all walks of life, Jones aimed to find common ground between groups with differing views and life experiences. He said the suggestion that love was a weak quality was wrong. Jones told Rolling Stone that the key to a more just America was to listen to Trump voters, particularly those who voted for him but didn’t agree with his more controversial views. ‘We can overreact to that and say, “If you vote for a bigot, you are a bigot.” That’s just not true,’ Jones said. ‘That kind of language — and that kind of approach — is actually helping Trump to build his coalition … You’re giving away people who probably felt very conflicted voting for him. We need to build a bridge of respect, and part of it starts with actual dialogue.’

Jones faced criticism from many on the Left who said love was not enough to fight a regime that had introduced a ban on immigration from Muslim-majority countries, was winding back access to healthcare, and was taking a hammer to hard-won reproductive and LGBTIQ rights. How do you love the bigotry out of people? He countered by saying he wasn’t trying to change racists — he was trying to keep racists from changing him. He told Yes! magazine:

I’m going to fight for our side to quit being hypocrites, and reach out to poor white folks, and working white folks who may or may not even respect us as human beings. I don’t care if they respect me as a human being. I am not taking a stand for the dignity of all people to try to change somebody else’s mind. I’m taking a stand for the dignity and humanity of all people to make sure that my heart stays big in the era of Trump.

Retaining an open heart is challenging in the face of hatred. But it can also be healing. We saw it among the mourners in Manchester who stood together during a vigil after the Ariana Grande concert bombing and, rather than close down to hate, spontaneously burst into a rendition of Oasis’s ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’. It was there when conservative protesters tried to sabotage a same-sex formal for LGBTIQ young people in Melbourne by buying up the tickets and supporters responded by donating more than $40,000 in a matter of hours to ensure every kid could attend for free. And we saw it in Berkeley, California, when Al Letson, an African-American investigative journalist, threw himself on top of a neo-Nazi activist who lay bleeding on the ground to protect him from being beaten with poles by anti-fascist protesters. ‘He was a human being,’ Letson later said.

At the heart of these acts is compassion. It’s a uniquely human empathy for others, and a belief that individual acts of kindness can make a difference. There is a place for anger and resistance, but I try to ration my fury these days. I almost never feel better after lashing out at someone, whether online or in the real world. When you peel back the layers of your own anger, you start to see that holding on to it only hurts you, and that under anyone’s frustration there is usually an invisible battle the rest of us can’t see.