Self-help books were my coping mechanism

As a kid, I wasn’t allowed to read books while the semester was ongoing. My mom had this fear that they would only serve as distractions and eventually derail my studies. The only exception to this rule were the week-long book fairs our school held, which were easily the single highlight of each academic year.

Armed with a pocket filled with a thousand-peso bills—my strict budget—and some loose change just in case, I found a keychain bearing the likeness of my favorite fictional character, I would run towards our podium where stands and shelves of books from all genres would be waiting patiently for me, as if to say, “Angel, welcome home.”

I’d wade through crowds of children fighting for the last copy of Geronimo Stilton and try to get a good look at each item that was in the inventory for that day. (Only true enthusiasts would know that the selection changes every day: no prospects for purchase are ever safe.) I would often spend the whole of recess and lunch standing there, collecting options. But one time, something called The Happiness Project caught my eye—maybe because of how tiny it was compared to the other titles flanked around it, or the bright blue color of the front cover—and I knew it was what I’d be taking home in a paper bag.

According to the description, it involved singing in the morning, cleaning her closets, fighting right, reading Aristotle, and generally having more fun over the course of a year in an attempt to improve the quality of one’s life. I was in the seventh grade then and although teenagers at that stage are exempted from hardships where I’m from, I had to deal with a lot of internal turmoil.

I was going through some intense friendship drama, having been betrayed by the group of people I had trusted the most. Teachers in my grade had started meddling in our affairs—as if I asked—and took their word over mine without even bothering to hear my side. And of course, I really, truly, hated myself, for a myriad of reasons but mainly due to my lack of beauty. I definitely could have been happier, and I wanted to be. And so I picked it up.

Gretchen Rubin—the author, and spearheader of this movement—had said in the prologue that genetics are in charge of 50% of our happiness, our personal circumstances get 10-20% and then the rest is up to how we think and act. So, I took an afternoon off to think about what I wanted to change in myself and jot it down in my new Happiness Journal. I split my action plan into four parts, one for each quarter of 2014: my priorities ranged from a full-on “attitude makeover”, to more time dedicated to “trivial pursuits” such as fangirling and curating photos for Instagram. I divided these further, assigning tasks per month, then per week, then per day, complete with a little checklist that served as its own form of extrinsic motivation.

I guess this marked my descent down the self-improvement spiral. Day after day, I would do as I was told, tick off the necessary boxes in my notepad, and chronicle my progress. Sometimes, I thought that The Happiness Project didn’t give me guidelines on how to do some of the things I had listed for me to achieve. So, I had to branch out and pick up a couple of reference materials along the way.

I got The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens and its lesser-known cousin, The 6 Most Important Decisions You’ll Ever Make on a bundle deal. I also found some classics like How to Win Friends and Influence People and The Purpose-Driven Life lying around on my dad’s dresser that are now collecting dust on mine.

Having these books in my arsenal appeared to be an instant, surefire way to social acceptance and genuine goodness. Though I knew true reformation would require much more than getting through 300 or so pages, it was the closest thing I could afford to wiping out my existing history of transgressions and turning into someone I was finally proud of.

And so, I scoured stores for new titles during weekends and used all the money I saved up to buy them. It was addictive, the kick of reassurance I’d get for investing so much just to be better than what I was. Thankfully, my parents had eased their restrictions, provided that I visibly dedicated extra time to my academics. I wrote my findings down diligently and searched for articles and YouTube videos to serve as supplementary material. Sooner or later, I turned into this machine, feeding myself with psycho-spiritual concepts before churning out reflection prompts or discussion group questions.

I genuinely wonder how my versions of Joy, Sadness, Fear, Disgust, and Anger were controlling everything in my head: it must have been a mess. I imagine Headquarters going up in flames.

You’d think that by the end of this routine, I’d emerge as a perfect human being, someone capable of regurgitating the information she obtained and turning it into a book of her own. But if I was succeeding in my pursuit of a more agreeable version of myself, then why was I so tired?

The reason was clear but of course, I refused to acknowledge it—I pretended like I did not see it, in the words of today’s generation—in fear that I would have to stop whatever I was doing. I was so, so burnt out. This constant cycle of purchasing new guides and subscribing to new beliefs was subconsciously reinforcing and reminding me of my seemingly never-ending list of flaws—some of which I wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t consulted any external sources.

The person I was endlessly trying to improve never seemed to meet expectations: there was always something I should be doing, practicing, believing to be better. Sometimes, they weren’t even things I genuinely wanted to be - just things I was told I should have been to be considered worthy of taking up space in this world. And if I thought that was impossible, why could x from Random City, California do it? Although it’s true we humans must never grow complacent and think we’re too good to grow, at the same time, IjustwanttobegoodenoughforasecondcanIpleasebegoodenoughPLEASE.

I tried to cram as many new habits as possible in my system, most of which overlapped and canceled each other out—for example, Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes preached that I must say yes to every opportunity without thinking twice to double-cross my introverted tendencies, but Essentialism by Greg McKeown prompted me to assess my priorities carefully to avoid spreading myself too thin. How was I expected to strike the balance between those two? Would I be needing another self-help book for this too?

Others were impossible to practice as a teenager whose hours were set and bound by an educational institution. If the ~1,300 words before this paragraph didn’t make it obvious enough, I love writing and the only chance I had to prove it was if I adhere to every single listed idea in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Unfortunately, Morning Pages was always a source of cortisol instead of creative juices, which completely defeated the purpose of this exercise. It was impossible to write the designated three pages the moment I woke up when I had to prepare for school in less than an hour and I would forget to do so for the rest of the day.

Because these efforts were barely effective, I couldn’t feel myself getting any better. Whatever I was doing gave off the impression of multiple band-aid solutions instead of one concrete plan of action. Keeping a gratitude journal was borderline artificial thanks to my withering self-esteem and body issues. The law of attraction conditioned me to think that there were better things in store for me, but at present, it was powerless in the face of my friendship troubles. The root of my problem was something else: a deep form of shame or unworthiness, formed by previous experiences, further worsened by increased exposure to social media.

Facing all my existing problems was far too big a step to take: I often found myself on the brink of tears just thinking about how to solve them. And so I read books that claimed to know the answers, made little iterations to my daily routine according to their recommendations, and considered them steps forward. Which they were. Just not in the right direction.

At some point, I decided to shelf every book in my collection and start from the beginning: a factory reset, if you will. I realized that the solutions I needed were personal, only applicable to my own situation. It involved unlearning a lot of harmful mindsets and making amends, listening to the way I talked to myself, and actively countering what I was hearing.

It wasn’t aesthetically pleasing—no morning yoga by the window with the scent of a freshly lit Bath and Body Works candle wafting in the air or anything like that—since a lot of the work was intangible, focused inward. I drew support from family and friends, who were also more than willing to hold me accountable as I was in the process of living out these new habits. And these steps definitely can’t be prescribed to me by a third party who didn’t even know me.

Now, I’m proud to say that every day, I inch closer to the girl I want to be and that I will continue to do so even without any assistance from definitive guides to success. I know many people swear by this whole movement and claim it was the catalyst that they needed to turn their lives around. Some might even blame me and say I’ve simply been reading the wrong material before proceeding to send me unsolicited recommendations.

I don’t mean to invalidate the genre’s great impact and good intentions: I mean, how could I fault a group of people who want to impart their knowledge in the hopes of imbuing me with clarity and purpose? (Unless, of course, they’re an opportunist treating the industry as their latest money-making venture.) But I’ve learned that if I wanted to experience the profound and long-lasting change I craved, I needed to do something out of my own volition, not wait for a book to tell me so.

After all, self-help books are no substitute for professional treatment or in-person assistance. If they were, humans would no longer be expected to face their problems head-on. They would simply read about them and call it a day.



Angel Martinez is a 19-year-old business student, freelance writer, and mental health advocate from Manila, Philippines. She is a contributing staffer for Lithium Magazine and Reclamation Magazine. When she's not busy purging her emotions one personal essay at a time, she can be found watching films and taking photoshoots in her bedroom. You can find her on Twitter @angeltriestotwt and on Instagram @angeltriestogram.

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