Better Out Than In

Conflict-avoiders, such as myself, tend to have . . . embattled kishkes. Since we keep our frustrated emotions on the inside, the physical insides, in turn, get pretty aggravated. Like I say, "My ulcer is in the mail."

I am sometimes jealous of volatile personalities. The get upset, they get it out, and they move on. Their collateral damage, however, is other people. That will always be unacceptable.

Oddly, I can also be a crybaby. I went to my eye doctor once, complaining that contacts dry out my eyes. He decided to attach irritating tags to my tear ducts to ensure that they were outputting sufficient moisture. "There is nothing wrong with my tears," I said dryly. Being a doctor, he didn't believe me until he saw the geysers spewing down my face, and hurriedly ended the experiment. 

For years I saw my biblical-Leah tendencies to be a weakness, and if any water began to well beneath the surface, I would fight with every fiber of will and shame to suppress the rising tide. Until I heard/read Brené Brown. 

For the sake of my internal and mental health, I have to get some things out. "Getting Grief Right" by Patrick O'Malley reminded me on the importance of acknowledging our emotions and processing them appropriately. 

The laws of shiva forces the bereaved to face the loss, to wallow in it, to speak about it; after a week, they take a morning walk and face the future. 

Mary, the mother in the article who lost her baby, never grieved. In turn, she hopped from therapist to therapist to have her "depression" treated. Dr. O'Malley coaxed her into sharing the story of her daughter's death, which opened up the locked box of repressed pain. 

“What is wrong with me?” she asked as she cried. “It has been almost seven months.”

Very gently, using simple, nonclinical words, I suggested to Mary that there was nothing wrong with her. She was not depressed or stuck or wrong. She was just very sad, consumed by sorrow, but not because she was grieving incorrectly. The depth of her sadness was simply a measure of the love she had for her daughter.

A transformation occurred when she heard this. She continued to weep but the muscles in her face relaxed. I watched as months of pent-up emotions were released. She had spent most of her energy trying to figure out why she was behind in her grieving. She had buried her feelings and vowed to be strong because that’s how a person was supposed to be.

Now, in my office, stages, self-diagnoses and societal expectations didn’t matter. She was free to surrender to her sorrow. As she did, the deep bond with her little girl was rekindled. Her loss was now part of her story, one to claim and cherish, not a painful event to try to put in the past.

In an episode of M*A*S*H ("Bless You, Hawkeye"), Hawkeye begins to sneeze uncontrollably and endlessly after a wounded soldier is brought in stinking from percolating in stagnant water. They do a full medical workup on him, with no diagnosis. 

They call in Dr. Sidney Freedman, the army psychologist. Delving into childhood memories, Hawkeye is dewy-eyed in fond thoughts of his older cousin Billy, whom he adored like a big brother.

Hawkeye, with reverence, tells over a story about how he and Billy, as kids, went fishing, and Hawkeye fell out of the boat. "Billy saved my life." 

Hawkeye: When I woke up, I smelled like a wet burlap sack. Thank God for Billy. Oh, I'd be dead if Billy hadn't helped me into the water.

Freedman: He helped you into the water? 

Hawkeye: No, he helped me out of the water. 

Freedman: So what do you think it meant when you said Billy helped you into the water? 

Hawkeye: I didn't mean anything. Billy didn't help me into the water.
Freedman: Well, how'd you get into the water? 

It turns out that Billy, his idol, his beloved, had pushed Hawkeye. The horror of that betrayal was too much for his 6-year-old mind to take. 

Hawkeye: He pushed me! [Sobbing] Why did he do that? I loved him! I loved him! I hated him! Why did he push me? I got I got back in the boat. He said to me, "You're so clumsy. If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead." And I thanked him. He pushed me in the water and I hated him so much for that. And all I could do was thank him.
Freedman: Why couldn't you say you hated him?

Hawkeye: I couldn't. I couldn't say that.
Freedman: Why? 

Hawkeye: I couldn't. I couldn't even think it. I loved him.
Freedman: So you altered the event. He didn't push you in. He only pulled you out. And with that little piece of reality safely tucked away so was your conflict.

Frankly, I'd rather not crack up at inopportune moments on some future date because I didn't process thoughts and emotions properly. I'd to prefer to put the ghosts to rest in a timely, less ticking-time-bomb-like fashion.