[In a recent conversation with a new acquaintance, we eventually got around to discussing some of the more personal, painful parts of our histories. Although the unpleasant details varied, the feelings we experienced and others’ reactions to our predicaments were uncannily similar. We discovered that we were united in our conviction that a large majority of people, particularly those who haven’t been visited by adversity, just don’t know what to say or do when someone is hurting. This caused me to unearth the Public Service Announcement I scrawled in my journal last year in order to share.]
You’ve no doubt met at least one of us in your life: a hapless soul experiencing misfortune so unimaginable that you can’t imagine what to say or do. For several years, I was that person. And it was difficult, if not impossible, to obscure that fact despite my desperate attempts. As hard as I was on myself back then, I didn’t try to hide my misfortune because I was ashamed. Instead, I found it overwhelming to try to process others’ reactions to it; it began to feel like I was perpetrating unnecessary violence when I would answer a well-meaning question that revealed even a fraction of my story. The combination of working hard to preserve other people’s comfort and keeping a lid on my true feelings when well-intentioned interactions actually exacerbated my misery was shattering.
Before my “recent unpleasantness” (intended with the same sense of understatement as the popular Southern euphemism for the Civil War), I would have been one of the worst offenders. My unrecognized anxiety and my preference for sleepwalking rendered me utterly clueless. I could feel for a person undergoing hardship but because I couldn’t imagine the right thing to say or do, I opted for complete avoidance. So I get it. Which is why I feel compelled to offer the following guidelines, in the form of an open letter, for those who care but just don’t have the experience.
Dear [friend, family member, acquaintance, professional, or stranger]:
I know that my situation is shocking, and that you’re afraid: of the awkwardness of speaking about it, of saying the wrong thing, of imagining something similar happening to you. If you can take a deep breath and summon up a bit of courage, you may be surprised at the outcome.
Please, most importantly, don’t just disappear. I understand that it’s tough to know what to say, but here’s the thing: there is nothing to say that will make it better. It’s your presence that’s important. Say I’m here. Say What do you need? And keep in mind that it’s not as if I’ve forgotten my circumstances and your bringing up the subject will be an unpleasant reminder. Also? I promise it’s not contagious; you are not going to suddenly be stricken simply by witnessing my troubles.
It's great that you want to be supportive, but please don’t confuse empathy with pity. Your asking questions in an effort to understand how I’m feeling is welcome. Your pity, on the other hand, implies that you are superior to me; that you would already know the answers and would never be in this predicament.
Your loyalty is so appreciated, but in cases where another person seems mainly responsible for the disaster at hand, please resist the urge to villainize and pile on. I’m trying so hard not to do that anymore as it’s just poisoning me. Help me out by focusing on my side of the street.
Please, don’t tell me that I’m amazing, that you don’t know how I do it, that you wouldn’t be able to do it. It emphasizes the obscenity of my tribulation and makes me feel like a freak. Hearing this in relation to my caretaking of a suddenly chronically ill child was especially heartbreaking, not to mention unhelpful. The implication seemed to be that I shouldn’t be doing it, that you wouldn’t do it, that there was actually a viable alternative that I wasn’t thorough or intelligent enough to hit upon. Tell me I’m strong, tell me you’d like to give me a break, but don’t suggest that I’m some sort of misguided saint.
Please think twice before sharing your potential solutions with me. Above all, please don’t start your presentation with “you should”. If you’re convinced your idea is a winner, try “have you considered?” instead. Be aware that, unless I ask for ideas, I’m probably already investigating my options. If I had a dollar for every surefire “cure” for my daughter (the contradictory variety of which was stunning), I’d be writing from my villa on the Amalfi Coast. Some things just can’t be “fixed”.
Despite being very high on the Pollyanna spectrum, I find your toxic positivity especially repellent. Please don’t tell me that things happen for a reason, or to look at the bright side, or otherwise point out how the shit sandwich I’ve been served is really a delicious treat. It invalidates my legitimate suffering. While I will eventually be able to see the miracle hidden in a calamity, that is my journey, and your insistence signals that I should hurry up and get there for your comfort and convenience. And please, unless you want to see me erupt like Mt. Etna, don’t ever tell me that things could be worse.
These recommendations are easy to enumerate as the behaviors they warn against were the most prevalent among the people I encountered in my time of need. I am happy to report that there were a stalwart few who, instead of adding to my burden, temporarily eased it. These are the people, both intimates and acquaintances alike, who reacted with both empathy and consideration despite their discomfort. They are the source of the prescriptions that follow, and they’ve been my mentors as I exit the tunnel and strive to pay it forward.
Do keep showing up, even when I don’t reciprocate or seem appreciative of your efforts. You don’t have to make grand gestures: a phone call or text will do. And you don’t have to say much, just that you’re checking in. I guarantee I will remember and be grateful for your support forever.
Do ask if I’d like to talk about my situation. Some days I’ll want to; others I’ll want to talk about anything else. And please, do keep me posted on your life. It’ll relieve me of my self-absorption for a bit and keep our connection strong. Extra points for providing a healthy distraction by judiciously asking me to use my special skill or expertise to help you out.
Do use your empathy and imagination to decide what might be helpful for me, because I’m way too fragile and self-protective to ask. And then tell me you’re doing it. If it really doesn’t work for me, I’ll say so, but chances are I’ll be touched and thrilled.
Do keep being curious and brave. I know you did your best, and as you learn more you’ll do better.
May you live with ease.