Lessons from a dark part of ancient history

In 536 AD, a lot of the world was completely dark for 18 full months. This sounds bonkers but it’s true! The sun was literally blocked by some kind of weird fog so that crops failed and people subsequently went hungry and died. This fog blanketed the Middle East, Europe, and parts of Asia. It was huge and devastating and completely bewildering (one imagines) to the people who did not see the sun for more than a year.

I first heard about this story over a year ago but I think about it frequently. What must it have been like to be those people, covered in darkness for months and months, with no apparent rhyme or reason? What did they tell each other? What did they tell their children? How long did their hope last, if it lasted at all? I think too, about how utterly alone they were. There was no way to communicate with people beyond their borders, so each little hamlet and town must have thought they were totally alone in the dark.

While we may not be in literal darkness, many of us feel that way at this moment in time. There is so much ambient grief and anxiety and distress, it’s difficult not to feel it seeping into you. The usual coping skills are harder to access at times like these. Everything feels harder, actually. It’s hard to feel so overwhelmed by the state of the world and the winter and illness and anxiety and and and. We are all, collectively, overwhelmed by darkness.

However, unlike the people in 536, we are not alone in our distress. We are not isolated in our tiny towns, wondering if the world is ending or if we’ve been cursed. We can reach out to each other and get support, even if there are no quick fixes or easy answers. We are not alone; you, reading this, are not alone. We can find the light by being with each other and seeking joy in the darkness.

"I shouldn't complain; it could always be worse"

There are many phrases I would like to strike from the English language but these two, which are often coupled together, are currently at the top of my list: “I shouldn’t complain; it could always be worse.”

Now listen: I’m not here to deprive you of a helpful coping mechanism. If taking perspective works for you in times of crisis, have at it! But let me challenge you a little by asking you if it really does help.

Sometimes clients say this (or some version of it) because they are tired of having difficult feelings. Their problems begin to feel endless and frustrating; they are stuck. They aren’t looking for perspective so much as minimizing their own experience out of guilt and frustration. Specifically, in a time like this, when the world is full of worst case scenario stories, people are more likely to feel bad about “complaining.” When the news is full of the horrors of war, there is a tendency to minimize our own tough stuff. After all, if you’re safe in your home, with your relative comforts, it’s easy to feel guilty for feeling bad about anything. Of course things could be worse.

But they could also be better. Others’ suffering does not alleviate our own. There is no comparison chart that shows us when we are allowed to complain. Certainly you can count your blessings; in fact, there’s a significant body of research that posits that beginning the day with a gratitude exercise improves your mood. That’s great news! But still, even if you practice gratitude, you are allowed your own moments of sadness; of disappointment; of regret and complaints. You are allowed to experience your feelings without qualifying them with “it could be worse.” You can acknowledge the suffering of the wider world while also making space for your own little corner of grief. I’ll sit there with you until it gets better.

"I'm lonely but I also want to be alone"

A common theme for my recently bereaved clients is an overwhelming ambivalence about being around others. They’re lonely but at the same time, they’re avoiding phone calls and visits from their well-meaning friends and family. They can’t bridge these two feelings of abject loneliness and also real resistance to being around other people; they’re stuck in ambivalence.

Ambivalence is uncomfortable. We’ve all been in that space and you just can’t stay there for long; it feels too bad. I have to borrow from the late, brilliant Stephen Sondheim here for an accurate description: “Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor, not going left, not going right… am I losing my mind?” Ambivalence is like being paralyzed. How do you move out of it when you just feel stuck?

The answer, as usual, comes with more questions. Sometimes this conversation about being alone but being lonely but not being up for socializing but feeling isolated … leads to this: “which feels worse?” It can depend on the day! Sometimes answering the phone feels like climbing a mountain. Other days, the thought of spending another hour alone in a quiet house is the more daunting choice. Investigating our ambivalence is the ticket out of it. There is always a stronger pull in one direction or another if we allow ourselves to really sit with our feelings.

As with all parts of grieving, your mileage may vary. There will be days when being alone feels horrifying. On those days, use your energy reserve to reach out to someone. Likewise, there will be days when the mere thought of being with others feels exhausting. On those days, you have my permission to relish in your loneliness. Whichever choice you make, loneliness or connection, remember that it is just how you feel right now; it’s not permanent. You only have to get through the next day, the next hour, the next minute. The ambivalence of grief will ebb and flow, like all the other grief feelings. Give yourself the gift of waiting it out. Relief is coming; it may be beyond you right this second but any minute it will be within your grasp. Hang tight.