Complicity and Waterfalls
Society trains us to keep our emotions in check. We’re taught to answer questions about our well-being with, “I’m fine,” no matter how we feel. Tears are unacceptable. If a woman cries, she’s hysterical. If a man cries, he’s a wimp. Sobbing when you’re young means you need to grow up. And when you’re old (like me), it suggests you’re senile.
Nonetheless, I recently had a mini meltdown in a public place. I’d been feeling out of sorts lately. Stomach in knots. Can’t sleep. And I finally thought to take my blood pressure. It was waaaay higher than it ought to be, and it scared me. I didn’t call my usual doc because it’s always difficult to get an appointment, and the busier he is, the more I feel like I’m in the way. I opted for a clinic that takes “walk-ins.”
My tears began to ooze out at the reception desk. I went into full waterfall mode in the exam room. Two kind nurse practitioners did their best to curb my feelings of embarrassment, but self-consciousness runs deep. And, of course, my feeling foolish made me cry even harder.
Turns out I’d been having an elongated anxiety attack. I didn’t connect the dots until a professional asked me how long this has been going on.
Oh, since shortly after the election…
Some years ago, a therapist helped me through the agonizing process of caring for my Alzheimer’s-stricken mother, the death of my husband and finally my mother’s demise. I had anxiety attacks then, too. But this wonderful woman kept me from going under—until I was able to stay afloat without her help.
So, I visited with her after my recent meltdown. She helped me to understand that (a) I was actually having a fairly rational response to events beyond my control, and (b) I’m not alone. She has other clients who are currently suffering anxiety because they love their country, and fear for its well-being.
I asked her why the benign morning word puzzles that used to help me calmly start my day are now tying me in knots.
Because, she explained, they’re on my laptop—where I know the headlines are lurking, even if I choose not to look at them.
And I told her I can’t do anything but read useless novels that contain no important messages whatsoever.
She, in turn, told me those novels are not useless at all. When things beyond our control make us acutely anxious, an escape becomes essential. But the escape should be temporary. It’s important to assess the situation and create a plan of action should the things we fear come to pass.
That was advice I needed to hear. My initial plan was to just discontinue the newspaper subscription, unplug the radio (yes, I still have one of those.), and ignore the state of the union.
But silence is complicity.
If masses of people are deported without compassion from our Melting Pot nation, if public schools become Christian schools in this country built on freedom of religion, if women continue dying because their rights are secondary to the unborn, and I do nothing—I am complicit.
And if I need to cry to find the courage to be a good citizen, let the tears flow madly.
Kudos to the medical personnel who cared for me—an absolute stranger walking into their clinic without an appointment. (I won’t mention the clinic by name so as not to scare off potential patients who would be alarmed by senile old women crying in the waiting room.)