Something was nagging at me to give "The Velveteen Principles" a look. This book, by Toni Raiten-D'Antonio, was lent to me by my mother, who said she hadn't read the whole thing yet but thought it was interesting. I made it a little ways in -- to page 28. I do agree that it's a good concept, but it hasn't grabbed me yet. Written by a therapist, the book suggests we can learn valuable lessons from "The Velveteen Rabbit." The stuffed bunny is sad because he's not as nice and shiny as the other toys, but in the end the boy's love for him allows him to become real. Or, Real, as the word is portrayed in EVERY instance in this book. The author says the children's book can show us how to stop objectifying ourselves and just be real.
The self-acceptance that came with my attempt to be more Real made me feel less anxious and more comfortable in everyday life. It also affected the way I viewed others. I became more patient and openhearted, and this immediately brought me closer to the people I love. This made sense. After all, if this new understanding gave me permission to be specifically myself, then I certainly had to extend the same permission to others. (10)
I discovered that everyone's internal process was unique. I couldn't assume anything about anyone. Just as we know that no two snowflakes are identical, so it goes with Real people. The variety is endless and delightful. (11)
To that last sentence, I wanted to add: " ... and gets boring after a while." Perhaps you have to be in the right mood to read a book like this. If you work in an environment in which you continually interact with strangers, i.e. customers, you are expected to act in a certain way, i.e. gracious and perky. I currently (emphasis on temporarily) work in such an environment, and I have in the past, also. I admit I'm good at faking nice, but I grumble about it to myself a bit. I'm certainly a friendly person, but I'm not a big believer in small talk. If I'm invited, I'll play along, but I'm not usually the initiator. I can tell which people want to be talked to, and which would rather just get the hell wherever they're going. So the idea of seeing individual people as "delightful" is one I can put in practice only in certain situations, i.e. when I'm meeting someone I truly have a reason to invest in.
This book was written for people who are not being true to themselves. They have turned themselves into objects to be compared with others. The author specifically mentions how we might hold ourselves up to impossible standards portrayed by models or athletes. People who try to be "more" than they really are might obsess about their weight, their car, money, clothes, etc. I am not one of those people. And yes, the author writes that no one wants to admit they are an "object" person, but I shop at TJ Maxx and Goodwill. I love my car because I picked it out and I pay for it, not because it's flashy (it's not). I know what it's like to be untrue to myself, because I've been in relationships that required me to stifle my real self. I rationalized it by saying I was "adapting," but I always knew better. The most basic example I can come up with is that I was with a man who wanted me to have long hair. Short hair was "lesbian" hair. So, I grew my hair out and hated it. Now single, I have short hair and I love it, even if some people teasingly call it "boy" hair.
I'm not trying to say, "I'm so perfect, I don't need the help this book has to offer," but the best part of the book so far was when the author said the rabbit felt defective. I thought that was an idea applicable to more people, because you can feel defective without trying to overcompensate. However, I guess the overcompensation comes in because some of the other toys in the boy's room fell apart when they cracked under "the pressure to excel" (21).
The worst part so far was when the author talked about shame. She starts off great, then takes it one step too personally, I feel.
Shame is so unsettling that we can recall it long after the moment has passed. (This is why we all remember those times in childhood when we were ashamed.) (19)
The parenthetical statement is a little unnecessary. The first sentence is plenty. Why prompt the reader to recall specific moments they are ashamed of? As she says, people don't forget shame, so they likely still feel bad about themselves for those moments. I'm no therapist, but as a reader I'd rather take in what she says at my own pace -- let it digest -- without this bump in the road.
I may not pick this book up again for a while. I think it might be a good pick-me-up for when you're feeling bad about yourself, but as a leisurely read it's just a little annoying.
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