“I can’t complain.” “It could be worse.” Two little sentences big on inference, short on growth. Often spotted together, these toxic twins tend to shake a sharp mental index finger as if to say, “You should know better.” Better than to air out grievances, speak about any states of disenchantment in your world, let on that sometimes things aren’t fine, thanks for asking. Doesn’t even matter what kind of not-fine. Maybe not earth-shattering not-fine, possibly just meh, yuk, stressful, icky, annoying. The I-don’t-feel-like-pretending kind of not-fine. These aforementioned ditties often stalk around behind a door marked “comparative suffering,” which is described as “feeling the need to see one’s suffering in light of other people’s pain. … people may believe that they suffer more than someone who missed their bus, but less than a starving child. … In some cases, people can be quick to judge others who they feel haven’t paid their dues.” This explanation, lifted from Wtherapy is pretty straightforward and gives a nod to Brené Brown the, in her words, “researcher, storyteller, and (currently enraged) Texan who’s spent the past two decades studying courage, vulnerability, shame, and empathy.” You may have heard of her. She did a pretty popular Ted Talk about vulnerability that according to the Ted website has had, oh only about 55,758,634 views so far, and that’s not counting the hundreds or so that were in the audience. She also has a popular podcast. One, in particular, is on this very subject and another features a particular favorite human of mine, psychotherapist and author Esther Perel, that touches on this topic along with many other completely rad things (thank you as always to my podcast guru, Windy, for bringing it to my attention).

But enough about Brené and Esther, how and why did thoughts about comparative suffering pop into my current headspace? Well, a funny thing happened on the way to money-making, creativity, and balance: I stumbled as I often do over the fence I’d erected around my writing time. It’s clearly not a strong fence. Actually pretty flimsy given I trampled the crap out of it without even really thinking twice. Until after it was done, and I looked at my schedule and thought, Huh, that’s funny, I left no time for my writing sessions. Instead, I was feeling the heat of the little voice inside stoking my fear around money and acceptance. The one that mutters, “You better say yes. You need the money. Can’t afford to say No.” I mean, honestly, this is a do-si-do soundtrack to my life. As a freelancer, it’s always been thus. But that particular voice is not what this post is about. The shrinking of my creativity was merely the drawbridge to get me to Can’t-complain-could-be-worse land where I rolled around for a minute, but then had the self-realization to stand up and shake it off. Was pretty damn proud I recognized this nonsense of comparison was no good. Sure, it could be worse. OF COURSE IT COULD BE WORSE. That’s not the point. The negation of any emotion around any feelings is just a thing that leaves us empty. Whatever that shadow that passes over and into us is real and wants some attention. Some laying on of hands if only to say, What you’re feeling, yeah, it sucks. Carry on. I’m over here if you need me, but please don’t feel the need to pretend you’re okay.

I wonder if the need to platitude the occasion doesn’t stem from people being nervous about A) wanting to say something really meaningful but not at all sure what that is or B) not knowing what to say because they’re uncomfortable around icky-real feelings or C) not knowing what to say because no one has ever suffered as hard as them, so what the hell are you talking about? No matter which of those (or some other reason), it’s tricky territory. I get the idea of wanting so badly to have just the right thing to say that will then (in my fantasy) change their life for the better so they always think of me when recalling that time in their life. Oh, ego, you’re so overpowering. Journalist Anna Sale has a new book out Let’s Talk About Hard Things. I haven’t read it, but heard an interview with her that spoke of that very thing: People’s discomfort around topics, like death for instance, where it’s just so so so hard to know what to say and so often the conversation can fall on the side of bromides while frantically looking for the Exit sign. Cuz that’s just human. Yet. It’s also human to die, and that just freaks the f*&ck out of people (I’m in that camp too). But here we are collectively, globally in the midst of a year that’s been filled with death. And confusion. And fear. Personally, I’m someone who tends to tuck&roll through things, then when I reach a clear spot, could be days, months, years down the road, I’ll fall apart. It may look to the outside world as if I’m falling apart because, I don’t know, the orange tree we got when we moved here is really looking sad and appears to be dying. I mean, that’s sad, but probably not tears-streaming-down-face-sobbing sad. Naturally, that little orange tree (which really is suffering for reasons we can’t figure out) is a stand-in for a whole lot of emotional stuff going both far back and just yesterday. Spanning the trampling of my writing-time fence, taking on more work, and getting some crappity-crap news from the IRS, and all the way back to March 2020 when the first COVID case popped up on the local San Bernardino health site.

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I recently heard author Jeanette Winterson talk about how back in the day, folkx wore black for two years when they were mourning in order to let people know to be a bit gentle with them. These days mourning a loss has a get-on-with-it sheen and wearing all black just means you probably live in New York City. Bah, let’s all agree that we are okay with mourning all the many people and things we loved and lost during the pandemic. There is sadness and suffering inside that wants tending to, but also honest expression around. Sometimes things just suck. I’m still working on welcoming that. Holding it. Watering the tree and making sure to build a new fence around my writing-time moments. Life’s hard, y’all. (And side note: I’m not gonna lie about how hard it was to just let this end without tacking on some up-side message. Not doin’ it though. Letting things be where they are.)