I want to write about the double-edged sword that is comparing yourself to others, both when applied to mental health issues but also to human suffering in general. I think it can be useful at times, but also a huge obstacle to embarking on recovery.
When my father died after a long illness a few years ago, my mother was devastated. They had been married nearly 45 years, and had loved each other to the end. And yet she constantly repeated to all who tried to console her: "We are so lucky." I found her attitude disturbing because I could see how underneath she was being torn apart by grief and the contrast was a little spooky, but I have to say that I agreed with her at the time, and I still do.
My father lived to 71. He survived more than 12 years after being diagnosed with cancer, having received some of the best treatment out there. His death, in the end, was mercifully quick compared to that of other cancer patients, and from what we know he was unconscious at the time and not in any pain.
At the time of his death, the conflict in Syria was turning darker day by day. The news was filled with images of senseless deaths and destruction, and reports of women and children hiding in cellars in terrible conditions.
Yes, I had lost my father, and my mother had lost her husband, but our lot seemed like a generous gift in comparison to that of so many other human beings. I have no doubt that we are incredibly "lucky" in the grand scheme of things. The question is really what to do with that good fortune, but I will keep that for another post.
However, it was clear from observing my mother and myself in the months after my father's death that this view on things became an obstacle to our grieving process. I felt numb for ages, and to some extent I still do. And I could hear in my mother's voice that she was using this idea of luck as a way to smother her sorrow, to stop it in its tracks. I understand that she was only doing what she could to keep afloat, to survive. She used reason to discount her own emotions, minimised them and ultimately suppressed them. Because of this I don't know whether she has really grieved him properly. She rarely mentions him, even though I am certain he is a huge part of her everyday life and thoughts.
I wish she could have just let herself grieve, without thinking about anyone else, just for a while. Just to let that emotion flow freely inside her without any attempts to block or weaken it. If we learnt to be more accepting of our emotions, if we were not so afraid and more able and willing to bear them, would we be happier overall? We often hear that suppressing our feelings is not good for us, but I don't think this is always true. Sometimes it is a necessity for survival but this does not apply to most of us and our lives, at least not very often.
In retrospect I can see very clearly how this way of coping shaped my upbringing and formation as an adult, and how it led to trouble. I was taught to deny my feelings, that they were ultimately worthless and should be ignored, instead of key to my wellbeing. A huge gulf developed between my reason and my emotions, between my heart and mind. This led to many bad decisions, to self-destructive behaviour and to an inability to do what was in my own best interest. I didn't know what my best interest was, I was divorced from my inner self. I think had I been more accepting and in touch with myself, many things that hurt me would not have happened.
It was a real turning point for me when early on in my recovery -- and this is thanks to SLAA -- I became able to look at my past and myself as it was, without explicitly comparing or judging myself. The programme and the experience of attending meetings allowed me to develop respect for myself, my experiences and feelings for the first time ever, because I could see that I was no different than anyone else in the fellowship. Of course some people have more traumatic lives behind them than others, but in those rooms I feel an equality and kinship that I have not felt anywhere else. I am not a churchgoer, so this may play a role. Being so humbled by this feeling of togetherness and mutual understanding and empathy, I had a real breakthrough: If I could be so compassionate to others, then I could be compassionate towards myself too.
I no longer had to make myself feel better by dwelling on how much worse things could have been. The numbing effect of that only last a short while, and I don't think it did me much good other than making me seem brave and stoical to other people, while I was drowning and screaming for help on the inside. SLAA allowed me to look at my life and my emotions, own them, take responsibility and be kind to myself while doing so.
Thoughts and comments welcome!
Have a nice day,
R
When my father died after a long illness a few years ago, my mother was devastated. They had been married nearly 45 years, and had loved each other to the end. And yet she constantly repeated to all who tried to console her: "We are so lucky." I found her attitude disturbing because I could see how underneath she was being torn apart by grief and the contrast was a little spooky, but I have to say that I agreed with her at the time, and I still do.
My father lived to 71. He survived more than 12 years after being diagnosed with cancer, having received some of the best treatment out there. His death, in the end, was mercifully quick compared to that of other cancer patients, and from what we know he was unconscious at the time and not in any pain.
At the time of his death, the conflict in Syria was turning darker day by day. The news was filled with images of senseless deaths and destruction, and reports of women and children hiding in cellars in terrible conditions.
Yes, I had lost my father, and my mother had lost her husband, but our lot seemed like a generous gift in comparison to that of so many other human beings. I have no doubt that we are incredibly "lucky" in the grand scheme of things. The question is really what to do with that good fortune, but I will keep that for another post.
However, it was clear from observing my mother and myself in the months after my father's death that this view on things became an obstacle to our grieving process. I felt numb for ages, and to some extent I still do. And I could hear in my mother's voice that she was using this idea of luck as a way to smother her sorrow, to stop it in its tracks. I understand that she was only doing what she could to keep afloat, to survive. She used reason to discount her own emotions, minimised them and ultimately suppressed them. Because of this I don't know whether she has really grieved him properly. She rarely mentions him, even though I am certain he is a huge part of her everyday life and thoughts.
I wish she could have just let herself grieve, without thinking about anyone else, just for a while. Just to let that emotion flow freely inside her without any attempts to block or weaken it. If we learnt to be more accepting of our emotions, if we were not so afraid and more able and willing to bear them, would we be happier overall? We often hear that suppressing our feelings is not good for us, but I don't think this is always true. Sometimes it is a necessity for survival but this does not apply to most of us and our lives, at least not very often.
In retrospect I can see very clearly how this way of coping shaped my upbringing and formation as an adult, and how it led to trouble. I was taught to deny my feelings, that they were ultimately worthless and should be ignored, instead of key to my wellbeing. A huge gulf developed between my reason and my emotions, between my heart and mind. This led to many bad decisions, to self-destructive behaviour and to an inability to do what was in my own best interest. I didn't know what my best interest was, I was divorced from my inner self. I think had I been more accepting and in touch with myself, many things that hurt me would not have happened.
It was a real turning point for me when early on in my recovery -- and this is thanks to SLAA -- I became able to look at my past and myself as it was, without explicitly comparing or judging myself. The programme and the experience of attending meetings allowed me to develop respect for myself, my experiences and feelings for the first time ever, because I could see that I was no different than anyone else in the fellowship. Of course some people have more traumatic lives behind them than others, but in those rooms I feel an equality and kinship that I have not felt anywhere else. I am not a churchgoer, so this may play a role. Being so humbled by this feeling of togetherness and mutual understanding and empathy, I had a real breakthrough: If I could be so compassionate to others, then I could be compassionate towards myself too.
I no longer had to make myself feel better by dwelling on how much worse things could have been. The numbing effect of that only last a short while, and I don't think it did me much good other than making me seem brave and stoical to other people, while I was drowning and screaming for help on the inside. SLAA allowed me to look at my life and my emotions, own them, take responsibility and be kind to myself while doing so.
Thoughts and comments welcome!
Have a nice day,
R
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