Image by Aberrant Realities/Pixabay
The Complexity of Expectations
Psst, Don’t Tell Anybody, But…
One day a friend let me in on a secret: My fears and resentments could be traced back to expectations. He illustrated this concept by helping me to examine thoughts and feelings I held toward *people, institutions, and ideals. Especially the entity which I refer to as God. While showing me how often I assumed that God owed me some unpaid favor, he also demonstrated the opposite. How frequently I feared that this power was denying me what I needed.
This lesson was vital. It helped me to see how unfulfilled expectations spawned the feelings of anger, anxiety, and sadness I so often felt. In extreme cases, I saw how these expectations had become full-blown entitlement, leading to some pretty ugly behaviors. This was very good to know. At 47-years-old, no one was raving about my maturity.
The Plot Thickens
Sometime later, my friend Glenn and I were again deep in conversation. I told him that I was going on a date that evening, meeting a woman whom I had met online. “You don’t seem too excited about it,” he remarked.
I replied, “Well, I’m not going in with any expectations. If it doesn’t work out, I don’t want to have any resentments to deal with. Just like you taught me.” I wanted to impress him. I wanted this man, my mentor, to know that I’d mastered his lesson. His response floored me.
“Chuck, I never told you that,” he said emphatically. “I set expectations all the time.”
I think it’s important to share that at this time, I was in fairly early recovery from severe, chronic alcoholism. As such, a good deal of brain matter was on the mend. And, since drinking had long since arrested my psychological development, critical thinking wasn’t a real priority to me. In fact, I kinda viewed life like it was a giant panda bear: all black-and-white. So, when the words flew from his mouth, the thoughts running through my head were of no surprise: You traitor! How could you set me up to be disillusioned like this?
You Mean There’s More?
I guess my Academy-Award expression of horror-disgust-betrayal alerted Glenn that he should tread lightly into our next lesson. He did. For the next hour, my friend explained to me the other side to expectations, their relationship to motivation and action “Do you think I would have come to meet you if I didn’t expect you to be here?” he asked. “Do you do your job with the expectation of being paid?” Whoa, never saw those coming.
“The big difference between you and me” he said, “is that I know when I’m setting expectations. I presume that my expectations may be met but acknowledge that they may not. This way, my expectations needn’t cause resentment. Do I ever get disappointed or afraid? Sure, sometimes-I’m human. But I don’t let expectations rule me. I won’t let fears of what I COULD lose dictate how I live my life.”
Another loving but pointed lesson on the jagged path toward adulthood. He sure could dole those out. Little did I know that this one would eventually save my life.
Life Happens
Fast forward, circa 2015: Out of nowhere, my testicle began to swell. A CT scan, an ultrasound, a diagnosis of malignancy, a left-sided radical orchiectomy. I doubt that I’d even processed the shock before I had become eternally lop-sided. The guy playing pocket pool with only one ball. Warped? Sure, but sometimes dark humor is like dark chocolate: irresistible.
As reality set in, fury was hot on its tail. Not so much an influx of emotion-more like a tsunami. For weeks, then months I lost myself in self-piteous resentments similar to those I had previously striven to purge. Resentments (i.e., hatred) toward a God who would take everything from me: my self-worth, my emotional stability, my sexual function. And at a time when I was working desperately to get my sh%# together.
It’s astonishing how quickly a threat like this can shatter one’s appreciation for truth. For example, almost immediately, I saw myself as inadequate and undesirable to women. Logically, the absence of a testicle is undetectable in an average pair of jeans. And the human body adjusts for changes in physiology; in this case, generating more testosterone from the healthy testicle. So that you-know-what can still happen. But do you think I considered-much less investigated these facts before the delusional tirades began?
Nope, the stock I had previously put into self-examination and mental clarity melted like ice cream in a fire. These were replaced by wailing, primordial screams intended to alert creation that I had once again been screwed. Oh, it was ugly. But what happened next? That’s where things get downright weird.
Into Action
I started journalling like an absolute madman. Thirty, forty-five, seventy-five minutes at a clip; multiple times a day; writing as fast as humanly possible. Sobbing while I spewed venom, my salty tears soaked the cheap notebook. Fuck it! I swore that if this was my last stand, I was going out in style! Where the moisture repelled the ink, I gouged the pages. I spit newly-uncovered rage onto pages I couldn’t even see. Over and over. Day after day. Evidently, “last stands” can last a while.
I wrote volumes about what cancer would cost me: romance, sex, financial stability, happiness. In between, I cursed the day I was born and plotted the date I would end. Then, as if I’d suddenly lost control of the pen, I began challenging my conclusions. This lifelong poster child for closed-minded conviction asked, “What if I’m wrong? Am I deciding whether to live or die based solely on my unsubstantiated fears? On what I assume that I’ve lost?”
At what point I began to write myself back to sanity I haven’t a clue, but I do recall the peace that suddenly resounded in me. I remember how good it felt to regain control over my thoughts and emotions. Thinking back, I recognized that my journal entries evolved from insane to absurd, then on to reflective. And I knew that in between the mangled lines lived each of the self-examination skills Glenn had ever taught me.
I Maybe Almost Think I’ve Got It
Somewhere along my path, I heard it said that the value of a challenge is what we learn from it. Sounds plausible. For me, this typically means finding ways to accept undesirable conditions so that I can live in relative peace. Not exactly a day at Disney-but doable. For instance, I still miss Lefty. Whenever I think of The Big Guy lying in some medical waste “Bag of Mixed Nuts,” I get a chill. But his void doesn’t define me. I know my strengths and limitations, both as a man and a human being.
I still occasionally fall prey to my expectations. When threat levels escalate high enough or quickly enough, I can fixate on what is to be lost or denied. The difference is that now I know what’s happening, and I have the tools to overcome it. An old friend showed me how to perform emotional surgery on myself. He taught me how to cauterize calamity and to excise entitlement. Ruptured perceptions? I can fix those, too. With honesty, courage, and logic.
Last Call
One final thought: I find that it’s easy to confuse expectations with “standards.” And this distinction is vitally important to relationships where I must work excessively on myself to maintain emotional balance. When expectations of people, institutions, and ideals persistently cause me to worry, despair, or doubt myself, I’m typically in danger. I’m in a situation where regard for my safety has fallen below a reasonable standard. Does this mean that I’m trapped?
Not at all. In such a case, I can turn to the very same skills as I decide how to proceed. By acknowledging that the consequences I expect may only be part of the story, I evade delusion. The same delusion that might stop me from acting rationally. Hmm, this seems familiar…
Chuck Weigand, 2025
*Please note that the construct of “people, institutions, and ideals” is borrowed from the works of a mainstream 12-Step group. In deference to that group’s tradition governing media references, attribution has intentionally been omitted.