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 DaysWhen I started writing this book, I offered a two-hundred-dollar prize for the mosthelpful and inspiring true story on "How I Conquered Worry".The three judges for this contest were: Eddie Rickenbacker, president, Eastern AirLines; Dr. Stewart W. McClelland, president, Lincoln Memorial University; H. V.Kaltenborn, radio news analyst. However, we received two stories so superb that thejudges found it impossible to choose between them. So we divided the prize. Here isone of the stories that tied for first prize-the story of C.R. Burton (who works forWhizzer 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 houseone day nineteen years ago; and I have never seen her since. Neither have I ever seenmy two little sisters that she took with her. She never even wrote me a letter until aftershe had been gone seven years. My father was killed in an accident three years afterMother left. He and a partner bought a cafe in a small Missouri town; and while Fatherwas away on a business trip, his partner sold the cafe for cash and skipped out. A friendwired Father to hurry back home; and in his hurry, Father was killed in a car accident atSalinas, Kansas. Two of my father's sisters, who were poor and old and sick took three ofthe children into their homes. Nobody wanted me and my little brother. We were left atthe mercy of the town. We were haunted by the fear of being called orphans andtreated 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 ofthe 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 wasseventy years old, and sick in bed with shingles. He told me I could stay there 'as long asI didn't lie, didn't steal, and did as I was told'. Those three orders became my Bible. Ilived by them strictly. I started to school, but the first week found me at home, bawlinglike a baby. The other children picked on me and poked fun at my big nose and said Iwas dumb and called me an 'orphan brat'. I was hurt so badly that I wanted to fightthem; but Mr. Loftin, the farmer who had taken me in, said to me: 'Always rememberthat it takes a bigger man to walk away from a fight than it does to stay and fight.' Ididn't fight until one day a kid picked up some chicken manure from the schoolhouseyard 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 girlsjerked it off my head and filled it with water and ruined it. She said she filled it withwater so that 'the water would wet my thick skull and keep my popcorn brains frompopping'."I never cried at school, but I used to bawl it out at home. Then one day Mrs. Loftingave me some advice that did away with all troubles and worries and turned myenemies into friends. She said: 'Ralph, they won't tease you and call you an "orphanbrat" any more if you will get interested in them and see how much you can do forthem.' I took her advice. I studied hard; and I soon headed the class. I was never enviedbecause I went out of my way to help them."I helped several of the boys write their themes and essays. I wrote complete debatesfor 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 wrotebook reviews for one lad and spent several evenings helping one of the girls on hermath's."Death struck our neighbourhood. Two elderly farmers died and one woman wasdeserted by her husband. I was the only male in four families. I helped these widows fortwo 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 ofcursed. I was accepted as a friend by everyone. They showed their real feelings when Ireturned home from the Navy. More than two hundred farmers came to see me the firstday I was home. Some of them drove as far as eighty miles, and their concern for mewas really sincere. Because I have been busy and happy trying to help other people, Ihave 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 conquerworry and enjoy life.So did the late Dr. Frank Loope, of Seattle, Washington. He was an invalid for twentythreeyears. Arthritis. Yet Stuart Whithouse of the Seattle Star wrote me, saying: "Iinterviewed Dr. Loope many times; and I have never known a man more unselfish or aman 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 hedo it by complaining and criticising? No. ... By wallowing in self-pity and demanding thathe be the centre of attention and everyone cater to him? No. ... Still wrong. He did it byadopting as his slogan the motto of the Prince of Wales: "Ich dien"-"I serve." Heaccumulated the names and addresses of other invalids and cheered both them andhimself by writing happy, encouraging letters. In fact, he organised a letter-writing clubfor invalids and got them writing letters to one another. Finally, he formed a nationalorganisation called the Shut-in Society.As he lay in bed, he wrote an average of fourteen hundred letters a year and broughtjoy 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 ofknowing 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 grievancescomplaining 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 greatpsychiatrist. This statement was made by Alfred Adler. He used to say to hismelancholia 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 acouple of pages from Dr. Adler's splendid book, What Life Should Mean to You. (*) (Bythe way, there is a book you ought to read.)[*] Allen & Unwin Ltd."Melancholia," says Adler in What Life Should Mean to You: "is like a long-continued rageand reproach against others, though for the purpose of gaining care, sympathy andsupport, the patient seems only to be dejected about his own guilt. A melancholiac'sfirst 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 thedoctor's first care is to avoid giving them an excuse for suicide. I myself try to relievethe whole tension by proposing to them, as the first rule in treatment, 'Never doanything you don't like.' This seems to be very modest, but I believe that it goes to theroot of the whole trouble If a melancholiac is able to do anything he wants, whom canhe accuse? What has he got to revenge himself for? 'If you want to go to the theatre,' Itell him, 'or to go on a holiday, do it. If you find on the way that you don't want to, stopit.' It is the best situation anyone could be in. It gives a satisfaction to his striving forsuperiority. He is like God and can do what he pleases. On the other hand, it does notfit very easily into his style of life. He wants to dominate and accuse others and if theyagree with him there is no way of dominating them. This rule is a great relief and I havenever had a suicide among my patients."Generally the patient replies: 'But there is nothing I like doing.' I have prepared for thisanswer, 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 knowthat, if I allow it, he will no longer want to do it. I know that, if I hinder him, he willstart a war. I always agree."This is one rule. Another attacks their style of life more directly. I tell them: 'You canbe cured in fourteen days if you follow this prescription. Try to think every day how youcan 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 bevery easy for me. I have done it all my life.' They have never done it. I ask them to thinkit over. They do not think it over. I tell them: 'You can make use of all the time youspend when you are unable to go to sleep by thinking how you can please someone, andit will be a big step forward in your health.' When I see them next day, I ask them: 'Didyou think over what I suggested?' They answer: 'Last night I went to sleep as soon as I gotto bed.' All this must be done, of course, in a modest, friendly manner, without a hint ofsuperiority."Others will answer: 'I could never do it. I am so worried.' I tell them: 'Don't stopworrying; but at the same time you can think now and then of others.' I want to directtheir 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 otherswill suffer later on.' It is extremely rare that I have found a patient who said: 'I havethought over what you suggested.' All my efforts are devoted towards increasing thesocial interest of the patient. I know that the real reason for his malady is his lack of cooperationand I want him to see it too. As soon as he can connect himself with his fellowmen on an equal and co-operative footing, he is cured. ... The most important taskimposed by religion has always been 'Love thy neighbour'. ... It is the individual who isnot interested in his fellow man who has the greatest difficulties in life and provides thegreatest injury to others. It is from among such individuals that all human failuresspring.... All that we demand of a human being, and the highest praise we can give him is thathe should be a good fellow worker, a friend to all other men, and a true partner in loveand 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 verything that produces worry and fear and melancholia.Mrs. William T. Moon, who operates the Moon Secretarial School, 521 Fifth Avenue, NewYork, didn't have to spend two weeks thinking how she could please someone in order tobanish her melancholy. She went Alfred Adler one better-no, she went Adler thirteenbetter. She banished her melancholy, not in fourteen days, but in one day, by thinkinghow she could please a couple of orphans.It happened like this: "In December, five years ago," said Mrs. Moon, "I was engulfed in afeeling of sorrow and self-pity. After several years of happy married life, I had lost myhusband. As the Christmas holidays approached, my sadness deepened. I had neverspent a Christmas alone in all my life; and I dreaded to see this Christmas come. Friendshad invited me to spend Christmas with them. But I did not feel up to any gaiety. I knewI would be a wet blanket at any party. So, I refused their kind invitations. As ChristmasEve approached, I was more and more overwhelmed with self-pity. True, I should havebeen 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 startedwalking aimlessly up Fifth Avenue, hoping that I might banish my self-pity andmelancholy. The avenue was jammed with gay and happy crowds-scenes that broughtback memories of happy years that were gone.I just couldn't bear the thought of going home to a lonely and empty apartment. I wasbewildered. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't keep the tears back. After walkingaimlessly for an hour or so, I found myself in front of a bus terminal. I remembered thatmy husband and I had often boarded an unknown bus for adventure, so I boarded thefirst 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 ofthe town. It was a quiet, peaceful little place. While waiting for the next bus home, Istarted walking up a residential street. As I passed a church, I heard the beautifulstrains of 'Silent Night'. I went in. The church was empty except for the organist. I satdown unnoticed in one of the pews. The lights from the gaily decorated Christmas treemade the decorations seem like myriads of stars dancing in the moonbeams. The longdrawncadences of the music-and the fact that I had forgotten to eat since morningmademe 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 smallchildren who had apparently come in to see the Christmas tree. One, a little girl, waspointing at me and saying: 'I wonder if Santa Clause brought her'. These children werealso frightened when I awoke. I told them that I wouldn't hurt them. They were poorlydressed. I asked them where their mother and daddy were. 'We ain't got no mother anddaddy,' 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 Christmastree and then took them to a drugstore and we had some refreshments, and I boughtthem some candy and a few presents. My loneliness vanished as if by magic. These twoorphans 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 myChristmases as a child had been bright with parental love and tenderness. Those twolittle orphans did far more for me than I did for them. That experience showed me againthe necessity of making other people happy in order to be happy ourselves. I found thathappiness is contagious. By giving, we receive. By helping someone and giving out love, Ihad conquered worry and sorrow and self-pity, and felt like a new person. And I was anew person-not only then, but in the years that followed." I could fill a book with storiesof people who forgot themselves into health and happiness. For example, let's take thecase of Margaret Tayler Yates, one of the most popular women in the United StatesNavy.Mrs. Yates is a writer of novels, but none of her mystery stories is half so interesting asthe true story of what happened to her that fateful morning when the Japanese struckour fleet at Pearl Harbour. Mrs. Yates had been an invalid for more than a year: a badheart. She spent twenty-two out of every twenty-four hours in bed. The longest journeythat she undertook was a walk into the garden to take a sunbath. Even then, she had tolean on the maid's arm as she walked. She herself told me that in those days sheexpected to be an invalid for the balance of her life. "I would never have really livedagain," she told me," if the Japs had not struck Pearl Harbour and jarred me out of mycomplacency."When this happened," Mrs. Yates said, as she told her story, "everything was chaos andconfusion. 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 Crosstelephoned those who had extra rooms to take them in. The Red Cross workers knewthat I had a telephone beside my bed, so they asked me to be a clearing-house ofinformation. So I kept track of where Army and Navy wives and children were beinghoused, and all Navy and Army men were instructed by the Red Cross to telephone meto find out where their families were."I soon discovered that my husband, Commander Robert Raleigh Yates, was safe. I triedto cheer up the wives who did not know whether their husbands had been killed; and Itried to give consolation to the widows whose husbands had been killed-and they weremany. Two thousand, one hundred and seventeen officers and enlisted men in the Navyand Marine Corps were killed and 960 were reported missing."At first I answered these phone calls while lying in bed. Then I answered them sittingup in bed. Finally, I got so busy, so excited, that I forgot all about my weakness and gotout of bed and sat by a table. By helping others who were much worse off than I was, Iforgot all about myself; and I have never gone back to bed again except for my regulareight hours of sleep each night. I realise now that if the Japs had not struck at PearlHarbour, I would probably have remained a semi-invalid all my life. I was comfortable inbed. I was constantly waited on, and I now realise that I was unconsciously losing mywill to rehabilitate myself."The attack on Pearl Harbour was one of the greatest tragedies in American history, butas far as I was concerned, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Thatterrible crisis gave me strength that I never dreamed I possessed. It took my attentionoff myself and focused it on others. It gave me something big and vital and important tolive 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 themselvesif 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 definableneurosis, but from the senselessness and emptiness of their lives." To put it anotherway, they are trying to thumb a ride through life-and the parade passes them by. Sothey rush to a psychiatrist with their petty, senseless, useless lives. Having missed theboat, they stand on the wharf, blaming everyone except themselves and demanding thatthe world cater to their self-centred desires.You may be saying to yourself now: "Well, I am not impressed by these stories. I myselfcould get interested in a couple of orphans I met on Christmas Eve; and if I had been atPearl Harbour, I would gladly have done what Margaret Tayler Yates did. But with methings are different: I live an ordinary humdrum life. I work at a dull job eight hours aday. 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, yousurely meet some people every day of your life. What do you do about them? Do youmerely 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, deliveringmail to your door; but have you ever taken the trouble to find out where he lives, or askto see a snapshot of his wife and his kids? Did you ever ask him if his feet get tired, or ifhe ever gets bored?What about the grocery boy, the newspaper vendor, the chap at the corner who polishesyour shoes? These people are human -bursting with troubles, and dreams, and privateambitions. They are also bursting for the chance to share them with someone. But doyou 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 asocial reformer to help improve the world-your own private world; you can starttomorrow 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: "Doinggood 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," saidFranklin, "you are best to yourself.""No discovery of modern psychology," writes Henry C. Link, director of the PsychologicalService Centre in New York, "no discovery of modern psychology is, in my opinion, soimportant as its scientific proof of the necessity of self-sacrifice or discipline to selfrealisationand happiness."Thinking of others will not only keep you from worrying about yourself; it will also helpyou to make a lot of friends and have a lot of fun. How? Well, I once asked ProfessorWilliam 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 agreeableto everyone I meet. I try to say something that treats them as an individual-not merely acog in a machine. I sometimes compliment the girl who waits on me in the store bytelling her how beautiful her eyes are-or her hair. I will ask a barber if he doesn't gettired standing on his feet all day. I'll ask him how he came to take up barbering-howlong 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 frequentlyshake hands with a redcap who has carried my grip. It gives him a new lift and freshenshim up for the whole day. One extremely hot summer day, I went into the dining car ofthe New Haven Railway to have lunch. The crowded car was almost like a furnace andthe service was slow.When the steward finally got around to handing me the menu, I said: 'The boys backthere cooking in that hot kitchen certainly must be suffering today.' The steward beganto curse. His tones were bitter. At first, I thought he was angry. 'Good God Almighty,' heexclaimed, 'the people come in here and complain about the food. They kick about theslow service and growl about the heat and the prices. I have listened to their criticismsfor nineteen years and you are the first person and the only person that has everexpressed any sympathy for the cooks back there in the boiling kitchen. I wish to Godwe had more passengers like you.'"The steward was astounded because I had thought of the coloured cooks as humanbeings, and not merely as cogs in the organisation of a great railway. What peoplewant," continued Professor Phelps, "is a little attention as human beings. When I meet aman on the street with a beautiful dog, I always comment on the dog's beauty. As I walkon and glance back over my shoulder, I frequently see the man petting and admiring thedog. My appreciation has renewed his appreciation."One time in England, I met a shepherd, and expressed my sincere admiration for his bigintelligent sheepdog. I asked him to tell me how he trained the dog. As I walked away, Iglanced back over my shoulder and saw the dog standing with his paws on the shepherd'sshoulders and the shepherd was petting him. By taking a little interest in the shepherdand his dog, I made the shepherd happy. I made the dog happy and I made myselfhappy."Can you imagine a man who goes around shaking hands with porters and expressingsympathy for the cooks in the hot kitchen-and telling people how much he admires theirdogs-can you imagine a man like that being sour and worried and needing the servicesof a psychiatrist? You can't, can you? No, of course not. A Chinese proverb puts it thisway: "A bit of fragrance always clings to the hand that gives you roses."You didn't have to tell that to Billy Phelps of Yale. He knew it. He lived it.If you are a man, skip this paragraph. It won't interest you. It tells how a worried,unhappy girl got several men to propose to her. The girl who did that is a grandmothernow. A few years ago, I spent the night in her and her husband's home. I had been givinga lecture in her town; and the next morning she drove me about fifty miles to catch atrain on the main line to New York Central. We got to talking about winning friends, andshe said: "Mr. Carnegie, I am going to tell you something that I have never confessed toanyone before- not even to my husband." (By the way, this story isn't going to be half sointeresting as you probably imagine.) She told me that she had been reared in a socialregisterfamily in Philadelphia. "The tragedy of my girlhood and young womanhood," shesaid, "was our poverty. We could never entertain the way the other girls in my social setentertained.My clothes were never of the best quality. I outgrew them and they didn't fit and theywere often out of style. I was so humiliated, so ashamed, that I often cried myself tosleep. Finally, in sheer desperation, I hit upon the idea of always asking my partner atdinner-parties to tell me about his experiences, his ideas, and his plans for the future. Ididn't ask these questions because I was especially interested in the answers. I did itsolely to keep my partner from looking at my poor clothes. But a strange thinghappened: as I listened to these young men talk and learned more about them, I reallybecame interested in listening to what they had to say. I became so interested that Imyself sometimes forgot about my clothes. But the astounding thing to me was this:since I was a good listener and encouraged the boys to talk about themselves, I gavethem happiness and I gradually became the most popular girl in our social group andthree of these men proposed marriage to me."(There you are, girls: that is the way it is done.)
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