"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.