A few years
ago, a friend said she felt sorry for me because I didn’t drink coffee. Last
week, my aunty told me she felt sorry for me that I didn’t go to church. In
both cases, I could see what each was saying: “I find this thing enjoyable/calming/whatever,
and I want you to experience this same kind of joy/peace/whatever, because I
love you.” But what struck me about both of those comments was that they weren’t
preceded by me tearfully sharing my deep sadness over the lack of coffee or
church in my life; had they asked or listened, they would have noticed that in
fact I fell somewhere on the spectrum between neutral and completely happy
about both my caffeinated-beverage and Sunday-morning decisions.
I’m not sure
it’s ever okay to say “I feel sorry for you” (unless your aim is to insult
somebody, in which case, go nuts*). Even if the person feels sorry for
themselves, it seems to be a self-centred reaction: why start talking about
your feelings when someone else has just shared theirs? Let them have their
moment. This isn’t about you. But “I feel sorry for you” is especially inappropriate when the person
you’re speaking to has given you no reason to believe they’re at all sorry
about their circumstances/preferences/choices. It shows you’re listening to your thoughts and feelings rather than
those of the person you’re speaking with, and it suggests that you believe the
only way a person can live a truly fulfilled life is if they are exactly like
you.
It’s totally
fine to want other people to feel the same positive feelings as you – I, too, want
good things for everyone I know, as well as many people I don’t! Here’s the
difference, though: saying “I feel sorry for everyone who hasn’t heard this
song” is not the same as saying “I want everyone in the world to feel the same kind
of incredible joy that I felt while listening to this song.” The latter sees that
fundamentally one’s desire is for the feeling
to be shared, not necessarily the song. It acknowledges and accepts that the
song you love may make someone else gag, while the song that brings them incredible joy is the one that
makes you switch stations every time it comes on. People are different.
Different is good.
So, if you’re
about to blurt out, “I feel sorry for you!” you could stop and say
instead, “I find it so interesting that you’re not upset about not drinking
coffee, when I find so much pleasure in it!” Or, “Isn’t it strange that a service
that brings comfort to one person can have the complete opposite effect on
another person?”
Rather than the message being, “If you were like me your life would be
better,” it would be, “We’re different, and I love you anyway.”
///
* This is a
joke. Please be kind.
** There’s a
cool study, described in the first few minutes of this talk, which found that sometime
between 15 and 18 months old, babies figure out that not everyone likes the same
things they do. The researcher made it clear she preferred broccoli over
crackers and then asked the baby, “Can you give me some?” 18-month-old babies
would offer the researcher broccoli, whereas the 15-month-olds would offer the
crackers, because DUDE. It’s BROCCOLI. I’m not sure what I’m saying with this,
but I couldn’t help thinking of it. (Possibly: We learned this lesson a reeeeally
long time ago! We should know better!)
On Wednesday
morning I dropped Mo at school with thoughts of the US election bubbling in my head.
I imagined how it would feel watching Clinton accepting victory, a daydream which
made me happily teary. Later I read encouraging articles about the record number of Hispanics voting against Trump, greedily gobbled up all election-related
tweets, and followed a thread in a Facebook group populated mostly by Americans
which explained how the electoral college process worked and kept me updated on
what states Clinton needed to win. All the while I refreshed the Google page
for ‘Election USA’, which showed a map of the US with each state coloured red
or blue depending on who was leading there. The mood during the morning was
hopeful; just before lunch (Sydney time) one member of the Facebook group wrote,
“Trump is probably thinking he’s winning lol” and another, not long after, predicted
that “this is the worst moment of the night for those supporting the blue team.
When the big city votes come in I think it will look much more palatable.”
Over the
next couple of hours, however, hope was replaced with increasing shock and despair. By
school pick-up time, it was clear that Clinton’s victory speech would not be
needed. I was devastated, and surprised by how much it hurt given the fact
that I’m not American and Trump is literally #notmypresident. I was mostly
gutted because I’m female, and I was desperate to see a powerful role going to
a powerful woman, to prove that it was doable and that the times truly were a-changin’. I long for a day when a woman as president is not a news story.
I think this
is a helpful way of talking about the election, too. The story I’m telling
myself is that a woman wasn’t voted in because female is still (STILL!) seen as
inferior to male by too many people in our world. The story I’m telling myself
is that a lot of people thought that ‘racism’, ‘misogyny’, ‘sexual assault’ and
‘inexperience’ (among far too many other flaws) were preferable to ‘woman’. The
story I’m telling myself is that my views must be in the minority and things
will never change, that patriarchy will have the last word, that the struggle
will continue for our daughters and their daughters and their daughters until humanity
is wiped out in five billion years by a dead sun (or global warming or
something… I did start reading more about possible ways it could all end, but I
gave up; today I’m aiming for “relatively positive” and “anxiety-free”).
I’ve read
enough analysis since Wednesday to know that sexism probably played
a limited role in the election outcome. I think of Julia Gillard’s speech after
losing the leadership spill in 2013 in which she said that her sex did not explain everything about the difficulties she faced as PM,
nor did it explain nothing. It explained some things. Economics may have been
the primary factor influencing those who voted for Trump, but I saw enough to
know there were at least some who couldn’t bear the thought of a woman leading
and being empowered to make (or uphold) decisions about womens’ bodies and
rights. Sexism doesn’t explain everything about what happened in the
US this week, but it explains some things and “some things” is enough to cause deep
pain. (I’m also
aware that Trump’s harmful views on those who aren’t male, white, cisgender, straight,
Christian, able-bodied, etc. would cut far more deeply if I didn’t tick almost all
of these boxes. I still experience a level of privilege others don’t, and I can
only imagine, therefore, what the combination of insults would mean for the
tummies and hearts of people in the many groups Trump offended, if mine feel
this awful.)
So the stories I’m telling myself about the outcome may not be entirely accurate (certainly none of it is about me), but there’s some truth in them, and my feelings about them are valid.
I’m
currently training to work as a volunteer on a crisis support phone line, for
which we’re taught a model that is three-fifths listening and understanding and
two-fifths problem-solving and plan-making. Three-fifths may not sound like
much, but it takes effort to stick to; my natural inclination is one-fifth
listening, four-fifths fixing. My biggest challenge in training has been to not
rush too quickly to the solutions and the silver lining, but to sit in the
yukkiness for longer than feels comfortable so the caller can purge and feel
like they’re not alone in/with their big feelings.
Since the election, I’ve noticed how quickly people’s reactions have been dismissed,
how unwilling many are to sit in the hard places with those whose stories about
the outcome are hurting them. “It’s okay because God’s in control!” some say (as if reassuring us that God is also on Trump’s side will make us feel less
like dying). “The sun will still come out tomorrow!” chirp others (thanks so much,
guys! I’d briefly forgotten how science worked! My bad). “It’s not about race!”
was a loud and repeated response to Van Jones’ emotional speech. I heard a
journalist on the radio last night saying it certainly wasn’t sexism that got Trump elected, as if she
was tired of hearing this argument. And “This wouldn’t have happened if Bernie
Sanders was the candidate!” may or may not be true, but only acknowledges half
of my disappointment; for me the election was less The Republicans vs. The Democrats and more The Misogynist vs. The First Female President of the United States. (I imagine that for others it was The One Who Talked About Walls vs. The One Who Talked About Bridges, or Supported by the KKK vs. Not Supported by the KKK, or Anti-Abortion vs. Abortion Rights, or - importantly, it seems - Something Radically Different vs. More of the Same. Everyone saw the election through their particular lens.)
Whatever the
election result was actually driven by, the feelings I have about the stories I’m
telling myself are real and (mostly) rational, and they need to be allowed and heard and
validated, as do everyone else’s, closer to three-fifths of the time. As nice as
rushing to the positives and the planning (Michelle Obama 2020!) feels, the
reaction to “The story I’m telling myself is…” should never be, “Well, your
story sucks. Get over it.” This is a chance to work on checking your privilege, understanding others’ hurts and
fears and hopes and desires, and practicing extreme-sport-level empathy. I’m going to need to feel sad for a little bit longer, and I’m going to need you to be okay with that.
On Saturday I played an enthusiastic game of soccer with
Moses, during which I injured my ankle. Having just briefly researched both
sprains and strains, I’m not sure it was either – there was no bruising and
only mild swelling, and though the pain was tear-jerkingly intense by the end
of the first day, it had dramatically reduced on the second so that my limp was
far less pronounced, and by the third day I was walking almost normally with
only occasional pangs if I accidentally moved my foot in the wrong way.
(The first and second day, though, were no fun, and being
unable to walk well is the worst.
Actually, being unable to walk well and actually
having to walk, rather than lying around with limb elevated, is the worst. The desire for bed must be
partly driven by pain, obviously, but also partly by the knowledge that you
would be unable to run from a knife-wielding attacker, for example, should one
happen to knock on the front door (says my anxiety: I’ve prepared for every
possible scenario! You’re welcome!). Overriding both the pain and the survival
instinct in order to participate in normal life – rather than spending the day
recumbent – is exhausting.)
The throbbing pain and lack-of-ability-to-walk triggered
sensations I hadn’t felt since rupturing my Achilles tendon in 2009, and
unsettled a cloud of emotions that seemed completely disproportionate to the smallness
of my current injury. I remember in the days after my tendon snapped, my doctor
told me she was writing a medical certificate for me to take 6 weeks off work
and I obviously looked shocked because she sternly explained the seriousness of
my injury. The word “trauma” was used, which I thought a tad OTT at the time
but which later made perfect sense.
The day it happened was a regular day in August. I’d had an
awful year, dealing with a horrendous bout of depression followed by a
horrendous bout of dentistry (I had a root canal, multiple fillings, and all of my wisdom
teeth removed, one every few weeks). But I was fit; I’d been playing soccer with workmates a couple
of lunchtimes per week, and going to a weekly group fitness class. On that
particular day, I warmed up with my team and stretched like normal. I’d never
experienced any pain in my tendon and had no reason to worry about it. (The
orthopaedic surgeon later said there was no obvious cause, I was just unlucky. I’d
wanted him to point out something specific I could avoid or at least look out
for in future; to blame it on luck felt deeply unsatisfying.) And then it
happened: I was on the field for only a few minutes before I went to run and
felt as though I’d been kicked (hard) in the back of my foot. I turned to face
the culprit and noticed there was no one there; I then noticed I couldn’t
propel myself forward when I tried to walk. I hobbled off the field, confused.
Getting to the car and then from the car to the doctor
involved a lot of hopping; fortunately, during the latter trip, two of my
teammates spotted me, pulled over, and carried me the rest of the way (I felt
guilty for being heavy and awkward to hold and incapacitated). The doctor sent
me for an ultrasound, my mum (who – in what turned out to be bizarre timing – had
turned up to watch the game) hired me some crutches. The sonographer tsked sympathetically when
she saw the screen. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighed. “It’s a complete
rupture.” Back to the doctor, and then, the next day, to the orthopaedic
surgeon, where I opted for surgery to stitch the torn ends together, hoping that
would mean a faster healing process than simply waiting for them to reunite by
themselves.
My first cast
The operation was the following week, at Mona Vale. The view
from the window by my hospital bed was better than views I’d paid to wake up to on
holidays. The pain in my tendon post-surgery was worse than anything I’d
experienced until then, or since. I left hospital in a hard cast which held my foot
pointing like a ballerina’s, and I spent the next 6 weeks showering with my leg
outside the stall and watching stacks of DVDs and reading about others’
injuries and recovery online and injecting myself nightly with Clexane and
crying and keeping my leg horizontal as much as possible (the blood quickly
rushed to my foot when I stood, a sensation which convinced me it was about to
explode) and feeling bored and helpless. I remember thinking a lot about the
Bible verse which I’d thought said God would never give me more than I could
handle, and thinking, “He got it way wrong
this time. This was too much.”
Me in the shower
My left leg was strong; with a little help from my crutches,
it singlefootedly carried me around for months. The bottom of my right leg was
wrapped in a cast (a second one, which was lighter than the first) and therefore not visible; the top was atrophied and made me desperately sad to look
at. (I was at a friend’s house one night and she joked that she’d like the same
injury if it meant her leg could get as tiny as mine. I refrained from hopping
across the room and throttling her with a crutch.) The day my cast came off I
was shocked at how hairy and scaly and small and weak my lower leg looked. I
was given a boot, which I could take off at bedtime. Alan dropped me home from
the doctor and headed to work; I took myself straight to the bathroom and sat
on the side of the bath. I tenderly scrubbed away the dead skin and cradled my
leg as I shaved it. I felt protective of it, as if it was a small child in need
of care instead of a body part attached to me.
I returned to work, sitting at a new desk with room alongside
to pull up a chair upon which I could rest my leg. Before I learned how to get
through doors myself, a workmate would accompany me to the bathroom. I felt
terrible for the time I’d had to take off work, and I felt terrible being back there,
distracted by the discomfort in my foot and the effort it took to get around. There
was one afternoon when my crutch slipped on a wet foyer floor, and I fell
heavily on my healing foot. (The pain made me cry out in a way I later
recalled being loud and embarrassing.) I was convinced I’d re-torn my
tendon; I sobbed for the rest of the day. I found a physiotherapist, Vince, and saw him every week. He attached buzzing machines to my foot and massaged me painfully and
encouraged me to do heel-raises, and told me one day I’d be able to do them on
the edge of a step (I didn’t believe him). I hated
the feeling of raising myself up on tiptoes (it still feels strange), but Vince made me do it. My
sewn-up tendon was thick and tough-seeming; Vince told me it was mostly scar
tissue which he’d prefer to be lean and stretchy, but I preferred the solid look
of it to my left tendon, which seemed insufficiently skinny. My greatest fear
was that my left tendon would snap unexpectedly one day; I decided I could
live without running for the rest of my life if it meant I’d never again have
to live through the recovery process. I wasn’t strong enough to do it twice.
My second cast
I originally kept the calendar from 2009 to remind me of how
long I wore the cast and then the boot, but I chucked it when I realised I’d
thrown out the calendar on which I’d recorded all of Mo’s milestones in his
first year, and that hanging on to one but not the other was odd. I can’t
remember, therefore, the dates that I first drove a car or wore a complete pair
of shoes for the first time after the injury mid-August. I know I was still on
crutches in October, when we moved from Lane Cove to Canterbury. I worked that
day because it was clear I’d be of absolutely no help to Alan or the
removalists, who had to carry all of our furniture and boxes up three flights
of stairs to our new apartment. I know I was still limping (from stiffness in
my tendon rather than pain) the following January, because I was in the early
weeks of pregnancy with Moses and I remember many hobbly trips to the toilet at
all hours of the night and day.
It was 20I4 when I started running again, accidentally; I took
a gym class which unexpectedly involved running on the spot, and then laps
around the room. I started tentatively, terrified that I was moments away from
injury. And though I survived the class, and then the next one, and the one
after that, every time I started to run I’d check in with my tendon and make
sure it was coping okay. I thought I’d never run again without thinking at
least once of the possibility of rupture, but then earlier this year I realised
I’d done it. It seems there are effects of the injury which will always linger, though. On winter mornings it takes a little while for my tendon to warm
up and stretch enough for my heel to reach the floor again. My scar’s faded but
still visible, and my right leg will probably always be smaller than my left. And
I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to twist my ankle without completely overreacting.
