Yeah. I get that. And still I’m not
offended. I’m astonished by those who stick around and put up with my
transparency. With every article I post here, I have writer’s regret for days
afterward. I guess it goes with the territory. Anxiety about my raw honesty
hovers above my head until I beat the doubt away with, “I gotta be me!” As a
magnet on my refrigerator reminds me, “Be yourself – no one does it better.”
I’ve tried to be other people, but I’m
a lousy clone. The chameleon life is fake. I’ve also tried to be invisible, but humans aren’t built to be
ignored. The world needs you and me, just the way we are. It’s not always easy,
but it's more natural to simply be who I am. There's a risk to that, though.
If I speak up, the only response might be my own voice echoing back to me
across a lonely canyon. Exposure means I might be misunderstood, questioned,
ignored.
Or, even worse, viewed as spammy.
After my husband died, I turned to
this trusted space to do what I always do with my feelings. Not knowing whether
anyone would read my thoughts or turn away in horror, processing the confusion
and pain here was itself a witness to what I’ve experienced. There was a chance
that revelation might seem self-serving or repetitive, but there is
health in telling the truth about your life including your suffering,
weaknesses, and longings.
“We have to allow ourselves to speak
aloud the suffering our culture says should stay private,” writes K.J. Ramsey,
in her book, “This Too Shall Last.” Suffering requires a witness,
but that in itself calls for courage from both the sufferer and the audience.
You already know how hard it is to
watch helplessly while someone you love is in pain, knowing there’s nothing you
can do to change it and nothing you can say that will fix it. It's a visceral reminder that we’re not immune to the very same
thing. What a difficult pill to swallow. Sometimes it’s easier to click our red
heels together and run away.
Allowing someone else to know who I am
can feel scary and vulnerable, like going out in public without any makeup.
“This is the real me,” my barren face proclaims. “Judge me if you need to.” I
guess that only applies if you’re as addicted to mascara as I am. And if you’re
a guy, all it may take is a glimpse of your own emotion to feel unsafe.
Exposed. It's embarrassing to be viewed as weak. Others may feel uncomfortable around us. Our
culture’s message is the same across the board—we’re supposed to be strong,
resilient, overcoming. Emotions are evidence that we’re not in control, and Control.Is.Everything.
Until you discover you have never been
the one in control.
That’s the point where opportunity
reveals itself. The point where the realization that you are human can connect
you to others, giving them permission to be human as well. “We have to
allow ourselves to speak aloud the suffering our culture says should stay
private,” Ramsey says.
But why do we need to witness the
suffering of others? What does
our silent presence do for a broken heart? Or for us? When we dare to expose our grief, we may discover the power of being
heard. “Being heard rewires your brain,” Ramsey writes. And Henri Nouwen adds,
“One very important way to befriend our sorrow is to take it out of its
isolation and share it with someone who can receive it.”
Befriend my sorrow. Grief is not the enemy I first thought it was. It honors the connection Rob and I built over a lifetime loving each other.
I didn’t know until I found myself in
the dark hole of loss that the only way out is to tell myself the
truth about my pain in the presence of someone else who can listen. That’s
it. The challenge of grief is time. My brain has to rewire itself to be able to
function in a world where my loved one no longer lives. It’s a really
slow process. Even today, nearly four years since I lost Rob, the thought
crossed my mind that it was almost time to start cooking dinner for the two of
us. But there’s only one of us. Every time an instinct like that comes up and
stabs me in the heart with its brutal reminder, my brain makes another tiny adjustment. Rob isn’t coming home for dinner anymore. Talk about time
consuming. This adjustment feels like watching a glacier melt.
But I have to talk about this. Process
it all. Keep reminding myself in tiny increments that this is my life now. I
can’t take it all in at once. That’s how our brains are designed. Rewiring them
is a long process. If I avoid painful feelings, according to Psychology
Today, I don’t give my brain the opportunity to learn to manage them.
It’s a really lousy new hobby.
What the human heart needs is a
witness to the trauma that’s been experienced. No advice, please, unless asked
for of course. No cheerleading. No shovel donations to bury the truth. It’s
tempting to try to distract people who are in pain by changing the subject. It’s
incredibly difficult to just show up, willing to sit in silence, and weep with
those who weep. Incredibly difficult.
But there is no substitute for a
witness. Someone who validates that what a broken heart is experiencing is
truly awful. It’s a paradox of compassion. Even now, when I find myself on the witness
stand in the middle of someone else’s tragedy, I often fear that if I
commiserate with them that they will never recover their life and will remain
as they are, stuck in their sorrow.
But the opposite is what happens when
we dare to simply listen. Witnessing the devastation helps clear away the debris. Even if it scares us. Reminds us. Makes us feel
helpless. Brings us to tears.
Even when it’s too spammy.
Henri J. M. Nouwen, “Here and Now: Living in the Spirit”
How Grief Changes the Brain | Psychology Today
With many thanks to Kristin for the super spammy photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Spam | kristin | Flickr
