And I was going
through a rough time when I saw her. A
time that was so difficult and new, in fact, that I didn't have the words I
needed to express what was happening, or how I felt, or what I needed. What I knew was that it was awful, and that I
needed it to change.
But it wasn't easy for me to say that, because I was
thinking that I, in part, was causing the awfulness. I was thinking that I, in part, was to blame
for the situation. When I finally got a
glimpse of the fact that this might not be the case, the closest thing I could
come to expressing it was to say, haltingly, "it's just...it's just
that...I'm just realizing that...this isn't fair. It's just not fair."
And do you know what she did? She laughed.
She laughed this big, loud, hearty laugh that startled me, and she said
loudly (she did everything loudly), "Ha!
Fair?! Whoever told you life was
fair? You're in for a sorry wake-up
call, sister."
I looked at her with what I hope was my very best
"WTF?" expression.
"Seriously," she said. "Do you really think life is supposed to
be fair?"
"No," I said, embarrassed, and I quickly ended the
conversation.
Here's what I learned from this conversation: (1) Stop
whining. (2) Your pain doesn't matter. (3) It's not going to get better, because you
deserve this pain. Everybody's got
it. This is yours.
These are lessons I've carried with me.
* * * * *
I recently had a young man come into my office who is being physically
and emotionally bullied by his peers. He
collapsed into a heap on the chair, eyes filled with tears, and said, "It
just isn't fair. It just isn't
fair. I'm telling you, it's just not
fair."
And for him -- as it was for me -- this acknowledgment was
momentous. Acknowledging that he does
not deserve this bullying, that it is wrong, that it's okay to talk about and
tell adults about and seek help about...that was a big deal. And, to me, that's what he was saying. He was saying, finally, "I don't deserve
this, and it just isn't fair."
So I told him he was right.
I told him that it isn't fair, and I let him sit backwards in the chair
with his feet over his head and cry. After
a while, I asked him to sit up and talk, and I explained that it ISN'T fair,
and that I can't undo what has already been done. But I also told him that there are powerful
steps he can take. I told him that he
has a team of people that want to work with him to help him take those powerful
steps. I told him that I see lots of
kids who are being bullied, and that when he is ready, I can teach him some
super strong anti-bully skills.
I could tell you that I'm an awesome therapist and that he sat
up and smiled said, "oh yeah!
You're right! Do teach me these
assertiveness skills and about my right to stand up for myself!"
But this is real life, so what actually happened is that he said
"fuck you," and flipped the table over, and told me not to talk to him
cause he was really mad, and that I was really lucky that he didn't have a
light saber 'cause if he had one, he would have killed me already.
So we'll try again next time.
*****
I get it. I really
do. I get where he's coming from. I'm in this place right now where I wouldn't
mind dropping an F-bomb, flipping a table -- and yes, if I had a light saber, I
probably would have light-sabered SOMETHING if I didn't believe there was enough
violence in the world already. I'm not
proud that this is where I'm at, but you know what? Like I will with my little client, I will try
again next time. What other choice is
there?
The world, it seems, is going to hell in a handbasket. The news is full of tragedies and violence I can't
bear to read about. My personal world is
full of friends who are struggling to make ends meet or to stay alive, family
members who are struggling in more ways than can be counted, and I've had
doctor's appointments that cause anxiety as I try to get a - probably simple
issue - resolved in what appears to be the most complicated manner ever. And, because The Universe coupled with social
media is a funny thing, those old issues I thought were resolved have come back
'round for visitation again: Anger and Betrayal namely, while I watched
Forgiveness slink out the back door when I thought she was here to stay.
I don't let myself
complain much, even in my head, but as I was driving home from work today, I
realized that...you know? It's NOT
fair. It's life -- and life isn't
fair. For me, there aren't any
superpower skills I can learn or practice to change it...but there is power
(for me) in acknowledging that it just isn't fair.
I know that if I were to pick up any self-help book, and
it's going to tell me not to think that way.
It's going to tell me that I'm making myself the victim, that I'm
relinquishing my power, or that I'm feeling sorry for myself -- and honestly,
that's the way it sounds. It sounds like
a whiny "life's hard" rant from a privileged girl who is not living
in Israel, or living with the fear of catching Ebola, or dealing with being
deported after surviving horrific conditions to make it to this country.
But this is how it feels: in my heart, when I say,
"This is life right now, and it isn't fair," I am saying, "this
thing that's going on is real, and it's hard." I am saying, "this stuff that's going on
is overwhelming and I can't do it alone."
I am saying, "I'm going to let myself acknowledge and name what is
going on, because it sucks, and pretending it's just life-as-usual is hard and
awful."
And funny enough, when I do that, my heart softens and the
breathing room around it expands.
Perhaps this is what Anne Lamott talks about in Help,
Thanks, Wow. She writes, "Where
do we even start on the daily walk of restoration and awakening? We start where we are. We find God in our human lives, and that
includes the suffering. I get thirsty
people glasses of water, even if that thirsty person is just me."
I don't believe in god...but I want to believe that there is
some sort of Universal Love Force out there in the world that hears me when I
say "help" or "thanks" or "wow." I don't necessarily miss the idea of a God,
but I miss believing that something bigger than me is listening. I miss believing that I can hand The Mess
over at the end of the day, and that something bigger than me will hold it for
a few hours so I can get some sleep. I
miss feeling like there is something larger than myself that I can turn to and
say, "hey," when I just need someone big and powerful to listen.
So perhaps this softening, this opening I can experience
through honesty and just being with myself -- perhaps that softness is that
force. Perhaps that softness is
Love. When I acknowledge and name the
suffering and the unfairness of it all, perhaps what I am doing is just giving
my thirsty self that drink of water. It
is starting where I am. It is, perhaps,
starting the walk of restoration and awakening.
Lamott continues, "You may be saying, 'It's so awful
right now, and I am so pissed off and sad and mental, that against all odds I'm
giving up. I'll accept whatever
happens.'
Maybe ... you'll go a little limp, and in that divine limpness
you'll be able to breathe again. Then
you're halfway home. In many cases,
breath is all you need. Breath is holy
spirit. Breath is life. It's oxygen.
Breath might get you a little rest.
You must be so exhausted.
...So when we cry out Help, or whisper it into our chests, we
enter the paradox of not going limp and not feeling so hopeless that we can
barely walk, and we release ourselves from the absolute craziness of trying to
be our own -- or other people's -- higher powers."
And perhaps that is what is needed, no? Perhaps what really needs to happen here is
to say, "okay, so maybe I'm NOT this awesome higher power all by myself
who Has It All Together and is beyond feeling angry, or unforgiving, or whiny." Maybe I can breathe into the fact that, above
all else, I am human, and I can whine, and be angry and unforgiving, like
humans are. Maybe I can acknowledge that
I'm allowed to be scared, and unsure...and that life, for sure, is not fair. Maybe I can get that part of me a drink of
water, and let her sit upside down and backwards in a lump on her chair until
she has herself put back together, and then we continue walking. Maybe that's what happens. I still don't believe in God, but there's a
possibility that maybe -- maybe --I
can call that spaciousness "grace."
Beautiful piece about that place, that breathing space that opens up when we name and claim our own Awful. It happens just like that! Thank you for the reminder...
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