“Wouldn’t Versus Couldn’t” addresses will over ability within our life choices.
At the risk of being a Debbie Downer who deflates all positivity, we live in a life with limits.
Why am I bringing up this fun topic?
Because we tend to beat our heads against several walls, trying to force one answer where another already exists and will not change.
Situations like addiction and abuse highlight that reality. How many of us, especially us codependent types, will hang in there, enable, try, and blame ourselves for the self-destructive actions our loved ones make? It is often within this realm, we are confronted with will versus disease, and personal choice versus circumstances beyond our control.
Wouldn’t Over Couldn’t:
One such loved one for me was a female family member, “Jenny” (not her real name, of course).
Jenny grew up in a physically abusive home, regularly watching her father beat her mother with his fists and hammers. Unable to do anything to stop the chaos, Jenny, not surprisingly, focused on simply surviving.
And that meant she turned to food as her coping mechanism. She ate to feel better. She ate to escape. She ate to numb. She ate to deal with her “unacceptable,” unsafe, and repressed rage. She ate for every other reason, except to nourish her body.
This set the stage for her struggle with food, weight, and body image for the rest of her life. Constantly either dieting or binging, Jenny became a depressed individual. And, as an adult, she chose not to seek therapy for her issues. She became convinced her answer was only found in a diet and the achievement of a weight loss goal.
There were multiple factors impacting Jenny, not the least of which, was her depressed state. One can bring up the point of how much her depression was there from the start, eliciting her self-medication, or how much of it was brought on by her daily, abused trauma.
Chicken or egg: which one came FIRST?
Still, her “wouldn’t” exerted a strong will over her “couldn’t,” in the respect that, she was aware of professional help, therapy, and counselors. As a child, she was powerless to seek those things out, as her adult parents had the final say in her life. But as an adult, she could make a different choice. And she did not choose therapy.
She chose, instead, to insist she didn’t need counseling (that was for OTHER people), she was healthy, compared to her alcoholic siblings, all while dieting and binging, chasing an unrealistic and faulty solution in being thin as the remedy to her pain. She did this all while simultaneously becoming morbidly obese.
It’s not to shame or judge. It merely illuminates, despite the complexities of life and trauma, in this case, those of Jenny’s life, ultimately, her decision was to choose to say no to help. You and I can make that exact same choice, despite our different lives and painful issues.
Scripture has a couple of great ditties that underscore this concept.
First…
“‘If You will, Thou canst make me clean.’ And He stretched out His hand and touched him, saying, ‘I am willing; be clean.’”
Luke 5:12-13
There is help. Do you and I ask for it? There are therapists, doctors, programs, books, support people… and even prayer, itself.
Do we reach out, admit we need help, and grab those tools and lifelines? Because the overwhelming response from these helpful resources, usually, is this…
“I am willing. Be clean.”
Fairly straightforward, wouldn’t you say?
Ah, but here’s where another scripture ditty comes into play concerning the help/get clean issue…
“…‘Do you want to get well?’"
John 5:6
Boom! Mic drop.
Is our “want to” busted?
Would we rather stay sick?
Would we rather say no to help?
Each one of us has had moments in which we appeared to choose disease over health, chaos over peace, misery over fulfillment.
We all know the common sense answers: eat healthy, exercise, get enough sleep, be around people who treat us with love, dignity, kindness and healthy behaviors, delay gratification. Even if that hasn’t been our direct experience, we know, because, again, there are resources. There’s social media, the internet, television, and people offering to give us these very things.
Do we accept or do we refuse?
Most of us, if we’re honest with ourselves, can probably admit to, at least one instance of saying, “Nah, I’m good. I wanna get loaded, get high, binge on junk food, stay with this toxic person, etcetera.” We know the answer we “should” choose.
And then we choose its opposite.
Couldn’t Over Wouldn’t:
“…The spirit is indeed willing. But the flesh is weak.”
Matthew 26:41
As Jenny grew older, her weight ballooned. Her decades of dieting and binging caught up to her one day in the summer of 2009. She woke up on a Sunday morning, had a stroke, and collapsed. She wasn’t found until two days later, when a welfare check was done. Hospitalized for days, it was soon determined she had lost the ability to walk because of the stroke. And her excess weight made everything more difficult to achieve, including the restorative therapy to repair some of the stroke’s damage. She was moved to a care facility, where she spent the remainder of her life.
And now, her obese body is confined to a wheelchair. Despite exercise being a regular part of her daily routine, as part of her care, she cannot do what it physically takes to lose enough weight that would place her in a “healthy” range. She is monitored, on a multi-drug regimen to deal with her slew of health issues.
But, by and large, the window for Jenny’s ability to make significant changes to greatly improve her life and her health has closed. Try as she might, especially in the early days, post-stroke, Jenny was adamant about walking, insisting she’d be back to her normal self in no time flat.
Her legs said otherwise.
Stubborn at that reality, she often overdid things, pushing herself past what was doable or safe. She fell many times, all while maintaining she could walk.
This was a woman who once avoided physical activity, loathed it as punishment, and only a means to get “thin.” Now, she desperately wanted to be active… and could no longer be.
Perhaps, now she was willing. But, like Matthew 26:41 stated, her physical body was, indeed, weak.
It has been a painful cautionary tale for my family members and I to behold.
When the “Wouldn’t Window” Becomes the Closed “Couldn’t Window…”
We can delude ourselves into thinking we have all the time in the world. We have endless opportunities laid before us. We have chance after chance to do something. We will get to it “later.”
But what if “later” is “too late?”
I mention this, along with Jenny’s situation, to illustrate how, as despair-filled and hopeless this outcome may be, it also does have a silver lining attached to it.
When we flawed, vulnerable, human beings encounter life moments that show us that maybe, a moment or opportunity has passed us by, that maybe it does feel “to late,” a grace can flow from that broken place. And that broken place asserts that in human weakness, be it physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual, compassion is something we qualify for when we simply just “can’t.” It doesn’t need to be life and death matters, or something as severe and attention-getting as not being able to walk, like Jenny. It can be anything that we “give way” on.
When stress, pressure, and, well, life, come at us, we will find ourselves giving way to it. And there is no shame in that; there is only humanity.
And I hate to break it to ya, we’re not being excused with any kind of hall pass from that humanity.
Pesky little sucker.
So, when you and I simply can’t, for whatever reason, remember, humanity. We’re all subject to it.
Back to Wouldn’t Again:
Jenny was faced with opportunities and experiences to embrace and refuse help. She encountered the consequences of exerting her will, and of being fragile and limited concerning her desires and wishes.
For the past few years, she has settled into a resignation about her life.
Seeing it as largely over, living in a wheelchair, in a care facility, and unable to be the person she once was, she, not surprisingly, is not interested in exploring anything new. I’m not just talking about a new hobby.
Again, I am referring to the concept of getting therapy for herself.
And her refusal to do so is not simply because of her age and health limitations. Her decision, again, largely falls on her steadfast belief she doesn’t need the help, and, therefore, would not benefit from it. Maybe she believes she is “too old,” or it is “too late.”
But, mostly, she doesn’t want to enter into that therapeutic space, because of fear, pride, ego, and discomfort. To a certain degree, she’s content with her discontent. She’d rather exist in her status quo than live in better health and well-being.
I say this because, within her care facility, there are options and offers for her to discuss with a counselor, her issues, and circumstances, including her disordered image and abuse issues. She has refused them, insisting, again, therapy is for “other people,” and she is fine as she is.
Because of this choice Jenny has made for her life, I have had to sever contact with her. For, her refusal to help herself impacts on my ability to lead a healthier life. And since my cancer diagnosis hit my life years ago, “healthy” has become a non-negotiable for me. To waffle on this now could cost me my life, not to mention my sanity and my spirit.
Her disease cannot be my disease.
So, I made the painful decision. Jenny is no longer in my life.
“Do you want to get well…
…or not?”
The question cuts through reasons, excuse, lies, and circumstances.
There will never be a “good time” to deal with our pain and our issues. There will never be the perfect cocoon, the ideal environment. So, with that in mind, what is keeping us from transcending our “wouldn’t?”
The answer: us, you and I making the willful choice, even after life changing circumstances and insights have altered our worlds and our perspectives.
Maybe the wakeup call didn’t wake us up.
Maybe the death or the health issue didn’t get our attention enough to change.
Maybe the loss of a relationship was not a powerful enough motivator to get us to seek help and deal with ourselves already.
Wouldn’t or Couldn’t Within Us:
We can make the choice, to improve, to get healthier, to deal, to heal. We make thousands of choices every single day. We can choose even while powerless in our lives. The choice in those paralyzed moments, is to choose to embrace and accept, not abandon ourselves.
We deserve to not abandon ourselves… ever.
Easier said than applied. It may feel like an impossible, harsh, judgmental standard, asking way too much of us.
Still, we choose, regardless of if we think we’re making a choice.
We choose.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
“Wouldn’t Versus Couldn’t” addresses will over ability within our life choices. | elephant journal
Beauty Marks
Marilyn Monroe. Cindy Crawford. Madonna. Some ole timey saloon girl.
What do they all have in common?
Beauty marks.
I am amongst those ranks, both pre and post-Breast cancer diagnosis.
Pre-diagnosis. I have a dark brown mole perched on top of my collarbone. Growing up, I often fell for the prank, “Oh, you have a tick on you!” I’d shriek, panic, trying to get the insect off me until I finally remembered, nope, that’s just my mole. For most of my life, my beauty mark buddy and I have peacefully coexisted, as I remained vigilant concerning peoples’ “tick pranks.”
And then came my Breast cancer diagnosis, followed by my bilateral mastectomy. I was prepared (as much as someone undergoing this surgery can be) for the reality, yep, my breasts will be gone. A quite visible chest change, yes, indeed-y.
But I hadn’t counted on other changes to the area. My little beauty mark was included in that. Because of the drastic nature of the surgery, yes, all breast tissue was removed. Besides my stitches, closing my wounds, my skin was pulled- stretched- to accommodate that breast removal.
And, that meant that my notorious tick/mole traveled south. Not a dramatic change. It didn’t wind up on my knee. But post-surgery, my little beauty mark now hung out about half an inch below my collarbone. That took some getting used to. It was kind of like when you see a photograph of a person reprinted in reverse. It’s the same person, the same image, the same features… but it’s different. If looks “off.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror, not only taking in my flat, bandaged chest, but also seeing the “off” placement of my collarbone mole. I didn’t obsess about it; I wasn’t weeping in the streets. But this was another aspect of my changed life. My beauty mark- and my beauty, itself, were different now. Not less than, just different.
But I wasn’t done with my beauty mark odyssey. Nope. For, six weeks later, after I recovered from my surgery, next came my course of radiation… and the reality of my radiation tattoos.
This was not the stuff of a sexy trip to the tattoo parlor to get some rebellious, feminine image forever “inked” on my body.
Rather, it was me, in a machine, making sure my chest site measurements were accurate and precise. I received three black radiation tattoos. Three new beauty marks. They spanned a triangular area on my chest, synching up coordinates, I suppose. During each radiation dose, I’d look at the machine’s neon number grid above my chest area, aligning me for the treatment; I hoped my beauty marks were truly “X marks the spot” when it came to eradicating cancer. There was massive important purpose to these beauty marks. A matter of life or death.
Now, as I go about my “survivorship” phase, with checkups to my oncologist, it’s regularly suggested I cover them with an elaborate, beautiful tattoo. A butterfly, a hummingbird or some hyper-powerful battle statement. Some women do that. I have seen photos of women who tattoo a peacock with fanned plumage or an entire bra, lacy and exquisite, onto their chests. And, that’s gorgeous. But, ouch! I hate needles- and pain. So, no. Getting my three dots was enough of a tattoo experience. These black dots remain on my body, just as they are.
Breast cancer has spotlighted yet another lesson about beauty for me. It’s re-introduced the constant of change. Those of us, having been dealt the cancer cards, with surgery and changed bodies to prove it, are faced with the dilemma of how to see ourselves. With stitches, scar lines, and body parts removed or changed, are you and I still beautiful? Still valuable?
And those questions don’t just apply to the diagnosed. Everyone has been scarred. How many of us are, in some way, marked? Did we lose a part of our physical bodies? What about our psyches? How are we changed from who we once were?
And, when we answer those questions, do we come back with a response like, “ugly,” “unacceptable,” “damaged” or “worthless?”
I see beauty marks much differently now. They go beyond a famous face like Marilyn, Cindy or Madonna.
Beauty marks provide evidence that you and I have lived, that you and I could have died, that you and I have fought. They are not just dots. They can symbolize the essence of change.
And they are beautiful.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
Small Talk
Recently, I came across another amusing post online…
“What you do during small talk…
1) Nod and smile
2) Plot your escape”
It brought the infernal reality of this chit-chat to my mind. I hate small talk. I find it awkward, artificial, and uncomfortable.
And, as an abuse survivor, it can throw me into survival mode and tactics that support that survival mode. Often, as I have been engaged in talking about the weather with someone, I can slowly, but surely, feel myself disassociating, leaving my body, traveling to the nearest amusement park, to situate myself in one of those water rides. Why do I do this?
A few of my “abused person” theories…
I view small talk as blissful ignorance of the more important issues.
It’s triggering to me, because of the original dysfunctional systems that damaged me. The systems were notorious for basking in their ignorance, to the detriment of the horrific abuse that was allowed to thrive and persist.
Now add small talk. Call it misinformation, denial, maladaptive coping, whatever, small talk still didn’t address the destructive reality that was not being noticed, corrected, stopped, or healed. In fact, it often re-created and mimicked the abuse I survived. Small talk is easier to deal with than heavy life subject matter is. Chatting about the weather or the lovely event we’re attending places no pressure on fixing anything that could make things riskier, more uncomfortable, and more painful for the status quo. “Isn’t it a sunny day?” is preferred to “Do you need help?”
But let’s get real. The “help” question is often what’s more relevant to us than the weather report. How many of us have been hurting, in agony, wanting someone to ask if we needed help? How many times did someone only respond with something we didn’t need or want, like discussing banal, trivial things which made us feel there was something wrong about us for not wanting to chit-chat about inane topics?
I view small talk as the strategic way to dismiss something more egregious and toxic.
As I was dealing with a past unhealthy relationship, the person I was involved with repeatedly stated, “Change the subject” whenever there was an uncomfortable topic or a confrontational moment. Things needed to be addressed, and this person absolutely refused to do just that. Many times, this individual, as away a deflecting, would start chit-chatting about the latest pop culture scandal or a stranger’s haircut that they admired.
That set the template for my visceral reaction regarding the more important things in life. Not every person intends on creating these unpleasant and uncomfortable flashbacks. Sometimes, yes, it is just about the weather.
As an abuse survivor, however, such small talk encounters seem to be reminiscent of the dismissive attitude towards something/someone that was hurting or violating me. I do my best with the small talk. But I frequently tense up as I am reminded of years of negatived pain that only worsened. It, therefore, is difficult for me to remark about how it’s cooler today than it was yesterday or someone’s cute chin-length bob.
I view small talk as a sneaky way to make the person wrong. (Enhanced by peer pressure).
Minimizing.
Ganging up.
Gaslighting.
Yeah, that’s what I often feel I experience with small talk situations.
And I can almost hear, usually in a sickly- sweet voice, the argument, “You’re being too sensitive.”
And then the rest of the village usually comes to pile on.
The town consensus? Why can’t you just make small talk?
Answer? Because I often feel like this is just a creative way to make me the bad guy, the “too serious” person who just can’t “lighten up.”
Yeah, I can’t lighten up because I feel judged by the person with whom I’m small talking, who is, by the way, currently shaming me for feeling like I’m being minimized, gaslit, shamed, or wrong.
Ah, the vicious circle continues.
Feelings are feelings. No one gets to dictate terms of what is right or wrong for them. No one in a family, the clergy, the school system, authority positions, or of a certain generation or age demographic.
Again, my visceral reaction is not positive about the small talk. I’ve tried to change it, force it to happen. I look like the character, “Templeton” from the animated film version of “Charlotte’s Web” when I do so. It’s not cute.
And it doesn’t feel cute. Probably because I’m going against my authentic true feelings!
And that is often what so many of us abuse survivors have been trained to do!
The sound of my screaming can probably be heard right now if you open your windows.
Go ahead. Open ‘em. I’ll wait.
If you want to engage in small talk, that’s one thing. But to mandate that everyone do likewise, and be giddy about it, is quite another. It’s not everyone’s bag. Some people hate it. Some people get triggered and anxious about it. And making anyone wrong because they don’t “hop to” the banal conversation with the enthusiasm of a lovestruck puppy is insane.
Not all of us are enthusiastic puppies. Some of us flinch.
I guess that’s the consideration I’d like to propose here. Be aware of the flinch then, please.
An Open or a Shut- Up Mouth?
Small talk can be a manipulative way to assert itself as far more important than the more real and brutal things we’ve been through in life. Like abuse.
And, sometimes, it can be weaponized to hurt, belittle, and silence. Keep talking about this, not that. Keep ignoring the bleeding wound by putting the small talk Band-Aid on it.
Am I taking this too personally? Yep.
But that’s the point. As harmless as small talk has been portrayed, it can injure, re-injure, and traumatize those of us already gun shy concerning human interaction and communication.
Part of abuse’s damaging impact is that, often, while we’re being abused, we may be told we actually are not, “it’s not that bad,” image is more important than truth, how we look, versus how we feel is what matters, and even how other things/people/situations are so much more important than the stuff we’re “over-reacting” to now.
And what can better exemplify the depiction of the coveted prettier image, the minimization, and the exalting of “other” over us, perhaps, more than that of small talk?
What is small talk doing? Keeping things light. Keeping things social. Keeping things surface. Keeping things distracted.
Yes, there have been plenty of conversations that have occurred in which there was no harm, no foul. There were no wicked ulterior motives, schemes, or plans that were set in motion. Lots of small talk has occurred without murder and other major felonies being committed.
However, small talk has the potential to make its participants feel unheard, unseen, unvalued, unloved, unimportant. The humanity can often get sacrificed for the sake of “good conversation.”
That tells me why, then, I often cringe in its presence.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
More Than Screaming Cat Face Mode
I often fall prey to internet memes, and an assortment of cute and absurd images.
I recently came across an image of a cat, labeled as “the screaming cat.” The photo captured a feline in three successive images, with its mouth open, sitting oddly, paws out, next to a fan that was not running.
And it made me think about a fundamental truth: things are often not as they appear. Then I thought about Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”
Then I thought about the all-around need for each of us to practice more self-compassion.
(Stay with me here).
First, it’s a yawn.
Things are not as they appear; same thing with screaming kitty. It is a yawn, shot, more than likely, in mid-expression by the photographer.
And that photographic evidence reminds me of how susceptible you and I are to being stuck in moments. Ugly moments. Unflattering moments. Embarrassing moments. Excruciating, “this-will-never-end-and-I-am-in-hell” moments.
You know, those moments.
But just like the screaming cat, the situation may not be what it seems. A yawn is not necessarily Munch’s “The Scream.” Sometimes, the unbearable moment we feel caught in is because we are tired. How many times are we in a circumstance that feels exponentially worse because we are exhausted? I know this statement is much easily uttered than solved. Sleep deprivation appears to be one of our modern-day plagues. And if/when life comes crashing down all around us, “taking a nap” just doesn’t seem to cut it.
See Compassion in Frozen in Time.
Kitty-Cat may give us a photographic reminder that we can be stuck in an exhausted, unattractive moment… and it’s okay.
We have some major tragedies and challenges that test us all. Being well-rested can help. It probably won’t cure anything, but the call for self-compassion still exists. Do we take the call?
The call is based on our human frailty and imperfection.
We all have made horrible decisions because we were exhausted.
We all have looked ridiculous because we got caught unaware of some cosmic spinach in our teeth reality. Toilet paper on the bottom of the shoe. We didn’t know it looked that bad, we didn’t know it was that bad until some life incident, via person, place or thing, brought it to our attention.
And then, we wanted to crawl in a poison-encrusted hole… and die.
But what if it was okay to be caught mid-yawn, like Kitty? What if it was okay to make horrible decisions because we were tired, because we were not existing in any other state BUT tired?
Self-compassion asserts that we deserve kindness, love, grace, forgiveness, and rest, no matter what. No matter the blunder, the sin, the mistake. The stuck- in- the- moment yawn will give way to the normal looking face again. The cat’s “scream” is temporary.
So is your scream; so is mine.
We are sitting weird.
As I looked at this screaming cat image, another thing struck me. The feline was sitting in an awkward position; it looked like a prairie dog. The little guy was perched on its back legs, with its front legs held in front. To me, it looked like Kitty was about to do the bunny hop.
Anyway, this weird seating position reminded me of our own weird seating positions, be they physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual positions. How many of us have done our fair share of weird, perching bunny hop stances at different points in our lives?
See Compassion While Sitting Weird.
Maybe we’re at a crossroads. Maybe we have experienced death, loss, divorce, estrangement, and illness. It would probably, therefore, be unrealistic to expect us to look at our camera ready, absolute best, right? Therefore, self-compassion.
Indeed, while we are adapting or simply trying to hang on, there is little chance we will be sitting portrait pretty, hands folded in our laps, with a twinkling smile beaming. Nope. We will look like a prairie dog/awkward cat, waiting to hop, hop, hop down the bunny hop trail.
Instead of fighting that reality, let’s embrace it. This will be awkward; this will look awkward.
And, of course, this will FEEL awkward.
Nevertheless, just as you and I would not pummel this weird prairie dog of a feline, punishing it for its awkward, moment in time, posture, how about we not torture ourselves as well?
Be one with the sweet prairie dog/cat critter.
And the next time we get the urge to eviscerate ourselves, let’s remember that self-compassion… and act accordingly, while we sit on our weird haunches.
The Refreshing Fan is Turned Off.
As I continued to gaze at the screaming cat, I noticed a tabletop fan in the background. It was motionless. Perhaps it was now autumn when the photo was taken; maybe it hadn’t been put away in storage yet for the cooler weather.
Regardless, it made me think about what we have at our disposal.
Are we using all of the tools?
Like Kitty-Cat, are we turning away from a fan that is not in operation? Do we even see the fan?
It brings up the question of support; do we fight our help?
Therapists, groups, books, and even friends are some potential tabletop fans, just waiting for us to acknowledge them and access them. Do we take them up on their offers? Do we know about their existence?
See Compassion While Turning on the Tools.
We don’t have to have it all figured out right this second.
Apply that to anything we’re going through: relationships, career moves, crossroad decisions. We can place enormous pressure on ourselves to hurry up and get something all solved, perfectly, thoroughly, once and for all. Stick a big red bow on it. Ta-dah! Done! Finito!
And, how compassionate are we toward ourselves when we’re trying to do all of this perfect giftwrapping?
Exactly.
But life, specifically, our unique, one-of-a-kind life, does not that work that way. As much as we hear about how “life is short,” it’s also the long game as well. Things take time; things unfold, usually without us getting in there and mucking it all up.
How many of you Kitty Cats have seriously mucked up some life stuff? Raise your paw!
Setting the impossibility of our achieving quick, thorough, and a one-time effort only regarding perfection of said issue, outside help, so much of the time, is really the only way we’re going to get anywhere with anything: decisions, career moves, healing. We are going to have to recognize the motionless tabletop fan, waiting dormant in our own lives, do something concerning it, like, I don’t know, turn it on. Not a passive motion; it’s an active choice.
Choose, Kitty, choose, knowing you don’t have to do it all by yourself.
What’s the Heart, Kitty-Cat?
With our screaming feline, we get the refresher course of things not being what they appear to be. The scream is not a scream; it’s a yawn. The unflattering moment does not dictate eternal destiny. We can look ridiculous, sitting in an odd posture. A fan that doesn’t move can start up again. How we are caught, in any moment, is a moment in time. More will follow. It’s not hopeless.
All things are subject to change.
And, in the meantime, don’t discount the heart, dear Kitty.
“‘…Elohim sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but Elohim looks on the heart.’”
1 Samuel 16:7
There’s more to the story, to any story. There’s more than we recognize.
And we’re not in total control. Compassion exists, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, physically because it needs to exist for our human vulnerabilities. We have them… and there’s no shame in having them.
So be in screaming cat mode if you need to be. It’s okay. There’s more to you than that.
You still have many purring days ahead.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
“See a Need, Or Idiot Compassion?” confronts our motivation to help.
As I have bumped along in life, I have lived by the saying, “See a need; meet a need.”
It sounds kind, sweet, generous, selfless. And maybe it is all of those things… and maybe it something else also.
The equivalent of a “Kick Me sign” bullseye target on the backs of all codependents.
Now, somehow, it elicits an uncomfortable squirm or two, doesn’t it?
Pema Chödrön is an American Buddhist nun who has famously taught on the principle, “idiot compassion.” I happened upon her a few years ago, as I was embarking on the full leg of my intense Narcissistic abuse recovery tour (without the snazzy t-shirts). Had it not been for the onslaught of my abuse, I wouldn’t have discovered her. After all, what did this recovering Lutheran from rural Minnesota have in common with not only a Buddhist nun, but a New Yorker, to boot?
(I can hear my Scandinavian ancestors, crying, “Uff-da).
Anyway, idiot compassion can be regarded as enabling, as giving into an unhealthy person or dynamic, simply because it’s easier to do that than it is to say no, and we cannot bear to see the struggling and the suffering of the situation or the person “going without.”
It is all about short-term pay off instead of delayed gratification or outright refusal of dysfunction.
And, in that light, I started thinking about my phrase, “See a need; meet a need.” Was that just idiotic compassion all along? Was that all there was to it? Not decency? Not love for my fellow man? Not helping? Just me being an idiotic who thinks she’s being helpful, when really, all that is happening is just a chaotic Kumbaya effort on steroids?
Oh, Pema, help a Lutheran codependent OUT here!
Alas, I’m left to wander and sift through my own pasture of perceived needs and discern as to whether or not I should meet them with help… with my help, most specifically.
So, wander I did. I started picking apart what have been some common themes, sparking some necessary questions about their existence in my life.
What is it?
Or, as Shakespeare once said, “Hark, who goes there?”
First thing is first. What is the thing begging for our help? What is the so-called “need?”
Many of us abuse survivors, especially, can get caught up in hypervigilance, seeing danger, threat, and pressing need at every turn. Therefore, we may “hop to” meeting something out there that, according to you, appears to be a need, but maybe is just a want, a request, a question, or a circumstance, needing none of your interaction whatsoever.
My personal case in point?
Recently, I was over at a friend’s home. We were sitting on his couch and his elderly cat was parked on his lap. Out of some Pavlovian habit, I asked if I could get my friend anything, because, you know, he was trapped under his eight- pound cat. Sounds like urgent danger to me.
My friend was not in distress. He was not in danger. There was nothing he needed or wanted. Yet I saw his cat on the lap reality as something that needed tending to, Johnny on the spot.
Never mind the absurdity that I was a guest in his home. He, in the name of hospitality and good manners, would normally be the one inclined to ask me if I needed or wanted anything.
So, for you, what is it? What is the thing set before you?
Did you put it there? Is the need a need?
What does it look like?
The old saying goes, “there is no reality; only perception.”
So, what are we perceiving about a person or a situation?
Are they a doomed, helpless victim? Can they be “shown the light” by us?
We can project and catastrophize a worst-- case scenario onto someone else. Life or death. Dire need.
“See a need; meet a need.”
We see someone in distress, maybe even in peril. Maybe they send us a call for help.
Or maybe we simply volunteer ourselves for their personal rescue. We see a need and try to meet that need. Forget about if someone else is more qualified or better trained. Forget about asking ourselves if we should be doing this in the first place. We swoop in there and determine our intentions and efforts will, indeed, save the day.
Or maybe we do this.
We completely underestimate a situation, failing to heed the red flags. The addiction, the womanizing, the abuse, the theft, aren’t that bad.
We sense something is toxic and unhealthy. Maybe we have taken someone to detox, bailed them out of jail, or been hit by them. But seeing the need, the actual need, for what it is, without flinching, is not something we want to do. It’s too difficult, too painful, too inconvenient to do so.
So, we turn our version of a blind eye and we rationalize that we are helping their need. Maybe we even arrogantly assert that we are the only ones who can help them. We are the superheroes, the undying, unconditional love support person. We can love them into health and healing because, well, we are there on the scene.
Do we see danger?
Or do we simply downplay something that is harmful to us?
The definition of insanity is repeatedly doing the same thing but expecting a different result.
How many times have you encountered this need before?
“A man of great anger must pay the penalty; if you rescue him, you will have to do so again.”
Proverbs 19:19
Scripture’s take on anger issues can also be interchangeable with anything else deemed dangerous and unhealthy. And those are usually the attention-getting things clawing for our intervention.
I have been in friendships in which rent was always, somehow, past due, there was no food in the house, and their marriages were always on the brink of collapse and/or a felony being committed. High stakes, high drama.
And even though tears were the dominant staple in the sob stories I was confronted by, make no mistake, anger was rife throughout each circumstance. As I came to each dysfunctional rescue, Proverbs 19:19’s “man of great anger” soon showed up. It showed up in the underlying fueled causes for various dysfunctions, like unresolved trauma and unmet need. It showed up in white-hot rage that absolutely refused to learn the lesson, get help, make amends.
Indeed, a one-time rescue with such a person, inevitably, resulted in another trek around the mountain (but with no Sherpa to help bear the baggage).
Centuries’ old scripture and Pema’s well-taught idiot compassion seemed to utter (with a heavy sigh) the same perspective:
“Here we go again. Proceed at your own risk.”
Through these dysfunctional relationships, I learned that my best intentions and heart’s desires were no match for a human being’s free will. People choose. People can choose destruction. People can choose destruction and will not be deterred from that choice, even if it means we get harmed in the process.
Yep, swallow that. It’s a pretty spiky pill.
“See a need; meet a need.”
Oh, really, now? How’s that working out? Are you and I broke, with ruined credit, wrecked health, damaged reputations, and tattered marriages?
Are we the ones now in need, all because we tried to meet an idiot compassion situation, presenting itself to us as a need?
As we, perhaps, dare to answer those questions, desperately dreaming that Pema Chödrön will kiss our foreheads and feed us Rocky Road ice cream, we should probably take a pit stop at a few other questions as well:
What has changed?
What has not?
Why is this situation (this same old situation) before us (again)?
Will tending to this need hurt us?
And, if so, why is that acceptable?
Answering these questions can shed light on the deeper truths to who and why we are in the world. What drives us?
Is being a compassionate idiot soothing to us somehow? What is the payoff we’re getting from being this rescuing idiot?
What need do we think we are meeting and/or healing, by trying to rescue someone who does not want to be rescued?
Are we avoiding our own issues and pain? What are those issues? What IS that pain?
Does acting with idiot compassion give us an inflated sense of purpose, meaning, and identity?
Indeed, “See a need; meet a need” is not quite an innocent as it appears. The powerful prospect or even the lure of a “need” may mean way more than it should to us. The “need” can assure us with distraction, obliteration, and a sense of self. It can be a respite to dealing with our own problems. It can feed our Savior complex. It can turn the “bad boy or girl” into a “good boy or girl.” It can be the appropriate punishment we think we deserve.
Yeah. Maybe it’s more like, “See their need; meet our need.”
Eww. Not a flattering portrait, is it?
But it is probably the exact portrait we need to gaze upon.
It comes down to motivation. What is it for us? Why do we insist on helping? Who is that for, exactly?
Why do we insist on being the idiot? Aren’t we all smarter than that?
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
“See a Need, Or Idiot Compassion?” confronts our motivation to help. | elephant journal
