Helping In The Time of Clusterf*ck

 So something really, truly terrible has happened, but not to you. To your best friend, your sister, your parent. To somebody you love and care about.

It’s bad. It’s super, super bad. Like, epically, tragicomically, telenovela-level bad. The kind of shit that would make for bad writing-- too over-the-top awful for fiction. 

And what can you do? You can’t fix it. You can’t undo it. You can’t rip it up by the roots or time travel and unplant the seeds of it.

You experience the adrenaline urge: RUN towards it, or run from it, FIGHT it, break it into a million pieces, FIX it. FREEZE and stare blankly at the flickering lights above the Arby’s (the most romantic place in Night Vale).

You get a burst of terrible energy-- DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING.

Okay, so you and I, we’re in this place. What to DO? 

(Am I writing this for myself? Yes. If it helps you, I’ll be really happy about that.)

First 

First, remember--

No wait. Actually first, have a drink of water. Drop your shoulders, exhale. Exhale again. Relax your forehead. Notice that you are sitting like a corkscrew-- unwind your ankles, find a position where your feet, back, shoulders and necks are not in pain. Sit comfortably. Find some lotion, dab it onto your cheeks, your hands. Hi, hello. You have a body! You are here, hi!

Okay, deep breath.

Now.

First, again

The bullseye of life’s terrible bullshit is not on you. It’s on the person you love. They are at the center of this stupid hurricane. So follow the rule of “Comfort in, Dump Out” (from this 2013 article which proves that angels still speak to humans to reveal truths in these latter days: https://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-xpm-2013-apr-07-la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html)

That means, the person at the center of the bomb cyclone gets all the comfort, love, all the leeway. When you are facing them, you are all supportive, understanding, forgiving, and patient. If they need to joke, you LOL. If they need to scream, you say, that’s right. Yes, you say. This is hysterical (ly funny). Yes, you say. This is a nightmare.

You are distressed-- you need to scream and laugh and vent and brainstorm catastrophize. But dump that fear on somebody further from the disaster than you. 

The main takeaway is, do not turn to the person at the center of the disaster for comfort. Don’t ask them to reassure you. Also, do not ask their spouse or child or parent to comfort you. You comfort them. 

Comfort in. Dump out. 

Next

Next. Feelings. They are all allowed.

These things are feelings: Anger. Fear. Sadness. Happiness. Disgust. Surprise. Shame. 

Those are the building blocks of all other feelings. They are the primary colors. They break and refract and mix into the whole rainbow prism of human emotion.

A Note: “Fine” is actually not a feeling. Neither is “busy.” 

The thing is, feelings just HAPPEN, like patterns and knots in wood. They are supposed to be there-- they warn us and guide us, like touching a hot stove tells you to whip your hand away. 

However, feelings are not TRUE. And just because I swear that that sworl in the plaster looks like a profile, doesn’t mean it is. We naturally want to identify patterns, make meaning out of the randomness. Go ahead and do it. But just remember, your feelings are real. Your thoughts are not. 

For example. I’m scared that this XYZ terrible thing is going to happen next, because it happened before, so I need to brace myself against the possibility of XYZ, which may lead to QRS which would be terrible because LMNOP. 

But actually, you can just stop at:

I’m scared. I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared.

That’s it. You don’t know what’s going to happen, or what you can or can’t do to prevent it, fix it, stop it, heal it. 

“I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m sad.” 

Ugh. It’s so boring. Making up stories and plotting out scenarios is more interesting, more appealing for our pattern-seeking brains.

Nope. Your feelings matter. Your thoughts don’t. Keep coming back to the feelings. 

Next.

Planning and Shoulding and Fixing. These are great skills that we have developed through years of surviving horrifying clusterfucks of our own. Our experiences have given us crystal-clear expertise in surviving our lives. We’re really pretty great at it, frankly. And some of our advice may (she says hopefully, as she types up advice for herself to follow) be helpful! And that would be great. 

HOWEVER.

Most likely, since this is a GIANT CLUSTERFUCK, whatever we are about to suggest in this intense moment is a knee-jerk reaction to OUR trauma. 

So just, wait a second. Keep your advice to yourself, for now. 

We can make a giant list of all the things we COULD do, all the options, all the shoulds, all the plans and potentials. We can map the SHIT out of it. Check-lists, flow-charts, phone trees, five year plans for every person in the blast zone. Heck yes. Make all that. Color code it. Make a powerpoint.

And then just shut up about it. For a bit anyway. Because if you are “helping” from your own wounds, anything you offer is going to have long bloody strings attached. Because it’s about you. We can minister from our scars, not our wounds. (Credit for that idea goes to Vanessa Zoltan at Harry Potter and the Sacred Text Podcast.)

In a bit, when you’ve sat there for about 100 boring years saying, “ouch ouch ouch, feelings feelings feelings, fear fear fear, sadness sadness sadness” you will feel more clear about what is YOUR baggage, vs. what would actually be something useful to offer. 

When I’ve been at the center of the bullseye, I actually really appreciate Birds-Eye-View kinds of suggestions. When I’ve been in the thick of it, it’s hard to have perspective, or see options, or even remember what I’m thinking from one thought to the next. But I appreciate those suggestions when they are offered as just that-- options. No emotional baggage attached. “Hey I’ve been there. Would this help?” is a very different offering from “OMG I NEED YOU TO DO THIS because I DIDN’T, I SHOULD HAVE, I WISH--” no. Don’t bleed all over me with your open wounds.

So, this is good: 

Helper: Hey, I see a pile of laundry. Want me to fold it and put it away?

Person in bullseye of clusterfuck: Oh yes that would be a relief to have one less thing to worry about, thanks.

Helper: cool *does just what they said they would do, no more no less*

Person in bullseye of clusterfuck: *not under obligation to be grateful*

This is good too: 

Helper: Hey, I see a pile of laundry. Want me to fold it and put it away?

Person in bullseye of clusterfuck: Ope, nope. (That’s way too personal, doesn’t want to be reminded of all the things they’re failing at, wants to have control over something normal, they LIKE folding laundry, it reminds them of their grandma, whattheheckever, who knows, people are weird.)

Helper: cool *lets it go*

Person in bullseye of clusterfuck: Ugh, a mango lassi would be good though.

Helper: ON IT. *provides a mango lassi.*

Person in bullseye of clusterfuck: *not under obligation to be grateful*

Last

This one is credit to my sister Liz.

Pause.

Just, pause. There are moments of calm in any bomb-cyclones. What comes before, what comes after-- that’s for then. It’s okay to let calm moments be calm.

Actually, it’s super uncomfortable to let calm moments be calm. It’s okay. Let it be uncomfortable. Feelings will poke through (ew yuck feelings). 

One of the worst lessons I’ve ever learned is that our bodies can hold a universe worth of emotional pain and not actually die. So even if you let yourself feel the full extent of your fear and grief, the whole blazing infinite hellscape of it, you won’t die from feeling it all. You’re a tardis for pain-- you are bigger on the inside. 

It sucks to feel your feelings. You won’t die*, though.

*from feeling the feelings. I give no guarantees about anything else. Ugh. Stop storytelling, get back to feeling.

My mom wrote me a “matriarchal blessing” about 6 months before she died, and although I’ve just searched for it, I can’t find the original (I will panic about that in a moment, and tear the closet apart to find the right box of old journals, and trawl through digitized records), so I can’t quote it directly, but I’ve read it over and over and some of the words are tattooed across my corneas.

She said SOMETHING like:

“Don’t rehearse for pain.” Pain will come and be plenty in the moment when it’s really there. Practicing it in advance doesn’t make it hurt less when it comes for real.

And it will pass. Pain doesn’t last forever.

Unless, sometimes it does. If something comes along and affixes itself to your life forever and ever, without a cure, then “my child, my child, you are not alone.”

You are not alone.