Through many years living with severe illness, I’ve come to know a lot about emotions. From the sorrow and regret of a life lived so differently to anything that might have been chosen; to the beams of happiness found in unexpected places. From the pain of feeling forgotten by the world; to the relief when someone listens.
Feelings are heightened when isolation and lack of distraction are a standard part of existence. Grief sits heavily indeed when it must be stared full in the face, day after day. But joy, conversely, soars high in a life stripped bare. How intense is the beauty of the sky or a spring flower when days are bleak.
I’ve come to know a lot about emotions, and yet, it seems, still have much to learn. Recent difficult events in my life have reminded me of something I’ve long known: that I place great pressure on myself to exist in a perfect state of coping. At times the conflict between my emotional reality and ideas of how I ought to be feeling can be strong indeed. And although the very notion of a prescribed set of emotions is unrealistic (for anyone, in any situation), it can still feel like a personal failing when I fall short of my own ideals.
Grief sits heavily indeed when it must be stared full in the face, day after day. But joy, conversely, soars high in a life stripped bare.
By any objective standard, I have known a great deal of suffering and loss. I fell seriously ill as a child and remain unwell decades later: my life has been very different to anything that would be deemed normal. And yet too often, I realise, I seek to banish those emotions which fall at the more challenging end of the spectrum – sorrow, anger, frustration, despair – despite their being the most natural reaction to circumstances that continue to demand much of me.
Logically I know that neither coping, nor healing, nor being a good person to be around, mean existing in a tightly controlled emotional state. And yet I tend to see my difficult feelings as something to be tamed or overcome, rather than as a part of me to be honoured and respected.
As I make slow but significant gains with my health, my instinct is often to measure every experience against my bleakest times – or, alternatively, against the trials of others. On the one hand this creates a welcome orientation of gratitude. I’m grateful to be alive. I’m grateful for the days when I’m free from pain, and well enough to feel sunshine on my skin. I can breathe, I can speak, I can move (albeit to a very limited degree): how lucky I am.
I tend to see my difficult feelings as something to be tamed or overcome, rather than as a part of me to be honoured and respected.
But comparison can also create a distorted perspective and give rise to the idea that there is little justification for finding life difficult. As though the fact of having previously lived through a greater state of hardship, or knowing others experiencing it now, were enough to negate all remaining suffering. (Important truth: it isn’t.)
My deep appreciation of the smallest things in life is something I treasure and would never want to lose. I’m happy in a way that even many healthy people are not. But there is a point at which gratitude can start to feel like an obligation; a place where it becomes an expectation of myself rather than a state that arises naturally. It can also, at times, be a subconscious bargaining chip with the universe: maybe, if I’m grateful enough for this experience or ability, it won’t be taken away from me, along with everything else that I’ve lost.
Gratitude, positivity and determination are the qualities that have allowed me to make the most of a very difficult life. But they can also make it hard to allow painful emotions to be present when needed. My grief can be too messy, too complex, too ugly to bear. I want to be calm and in control, for the sake of those around me as much as for myself. This is especially true when, as has been the case this year, loved ones are going through significant struggles of their own. In a life where my illness has caused huge disruption to my family, it can feel (from my perspective, not theirs) as though a tranquil emotional state is the least I can offer by way of compensation. The guilt of being unable to do so can be crippling. In addition, it’s tempting to believe that if I’m smiling and laughing, then I must be getting better, or at least laying strong foundations on which improvement can flourish. Through this lens the presence of difficult feelings can seem like a decline in wellbeing, rather than a normal part of being a person.
There is a strong societal expectation that any hardship in life must be overcome. We speak of illness as a battle, with winners and losers; of grief as a temporary state from which we must move on.
There is a strong societal expectation that any hardship in life must be overcome. We speak of illness as a battle, with winners and losers; of grief as a temporary state from which we must move on. In reality life’s greatest challenges shape us forever, and more realistically must be lived with rather than defeated. This isn’t to say that circumstances can’t change greatly for the better, or that we shouldn’t strive to create the best life available to us. But for me, an important part of growth is learning to hold all the emotional contradictions that being human brings. It’s possible simultaneously to be full of gratitude for the small treasures in my life, and full of sorrow for the fact that I need to be. I can give heartfelt thanks for the progress I’ve made, while mourning the loss of so much that life should have offered. I can feel dizzy with joy at the rediscovery of a simple ability, and raw with regret at the reminder of all I’ve missed out on. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.
Profound physical limitations can make powerful feelings especially difficult to bear. And I have yet to discover how best to process anger, despair and deep sadness when even taking a walk outside is beyond me. But a starting point has to be an acceptance of the existence of such emotions, and a willingness to allow them to move through me, at least sometimes. Along with an understanding that even wild, raging grief is a life force to be embraced, rather than a beast to be brought to heel. The ability to balance great sorrow alongside genuine joy, while not allowing one to overwhelm the other, is perhaps one of the most important learnings of being human.
The ability to balance great sorrow alongside genuine joy, while not allowing one to overwhelm the other, is perhaps one of the most important learnings of being human.
It seems fitting to end this piece with a poem which came to life a few years ago, but which I have resisted sharing for several reasons. My lack of familiarity with writing poetry has made me hesitant, as has the unsoftened expression of grief that this one contains. But honouring my pain in this imperfect and unapologetic way seems appropriate here.
It’s my way of acknowledging that grief is just as important a part of me as gratitude – and ultimately inseparable from it. The two will forever go hand in hand.
Today I walk in grief
Today I walk in grief:
Ugly, uninvited grief.
Grief with the howl of the tempest,
And the crash of the sea.
I crush the instinct to console myself
with blessings counted.
And renounce the need to remind the world (and myself)
That I am still whole.
Instead, I weep for the nevers.
The never was. The never will.
The little girl lost
And the woman hidden.
I mourn the feet that never touched this earth.
The eyes that will never see the sun.
For the lives lost stretch beyond my own.
Reaching
down
through generations
unknown.
Today I seize my loss,
unguarded.
Shed my skin on its shards
And pour my blood into the earth.
I curse the reminder that
grief is a cycle.
That, even in joy, it stands quietly alongside me.
Waiting its turn.
In this pain, there is no overcoming.
Only a ragged acceptance that these hollows will
forever
Form the very shape of my soul.
I want to run from the waves that drown me,
And to cower from the wail of the storm.
But today –
With the song of my sorrow,
And the courage of the dawn.
Today, I walk in grief.
I explored similar themes in 2020 in When Coping Is Too Much.
Image credits:
Main image: William Farlow on Unsplash
Second image: Sage Friedman on Unsplash
A Life Hidden 