There, there...

It is difficult for me to watch someone in pain. I don’t like it – feeling helpless and useless in the presence of an unhappy person. I like to help – provide food and distraction and some kind of comfort. If you’re sad, I could make cookies. Sick? Do you have Nyquil? Or Tylenol PM? How about Kleenex – the kind with the lotion so they don’t hurt your nose if you use many of them? I could loan you books if you enjoy romance novels or pick some up if you’d rather have another genre. I can listen for hours while someone whines or cries. I offer genuine sympathy and soothingly pat backs or stroke hair. I’ve historically been rather good in these situations.

Elle’s boyfriend of 3 years ended their relationship at the beginning of senior year of college. She was devastated – absolutely lost and crushed and desolate. Rachel and I had opposite sleep schedules, so she would sit with Elle at night, then I’d wake around 3AM and shuffle out to brush my teeth, then make tea and find another box of tissues. Then I’d sit next to Elle on the couch and let her curl into me and cry. Poor, poor dear. I knew it was hard, and would make soothing sounds and understanding statements until she was able to sleep for a couple hours.

M had her wisdom teeth removed in grad school – I insisted upon driving her to the oral surgeon so she could have the anesthesia, then smiled fondly as she came out of it. Yes, everything was fine. Sure, we could get ice cream later. No, she didn’t look like a chipmunk! Well, maybe a little. But just slightly. And a very cute chipmunk at that. But I helped her to the car, picked up the ice pack she dropped and drove to fill her prescriptions. I woke her up when she slept on my shoulder while we waited for her pain medication at the pharmacy, then covered her with a soft blanket and did some reading as I waited in her apartment.

I excel at calming Brother. It’s a tone of voice with him – whether he’s enraged or sobbing, simple words in my gentlest way of speaking. Repetition is key – it takes a few times for anything to sink in, so if I say it over and over, he seems to eventually cling to the concept, repeat it, and find a place of calm. Mom sent me to get him one night – he’d gone to a wedding with his wife and had gotten dangerously drunk. Like Dad, Brother is quite different when intoxicated. His wife was embarrassed and wanted him to leave – calling Mom and reporting she was going back inside because she couldn’t wake him from his slump against a tree (and they wonder why I abhor the girl).

Dad was angry, Mom was shaking with fear. Neither was capable of making the 45 minute drive at nearly midnight, so I took the car and sped toward where I thought the party was located. I took several frantic calls from my parents along the way, arriving to find Brother being propped up between 2 friends. I unlocked the door and buckled his seat belt without undoing my own and put the car in drive before acknowledging the man knocking on my window.

“Are you his sister?” He slurred when I opened it a bit.

“Yes.” I said, looking over at Brother again and asking if he was OK. Barely able to open his eyes, he nodded and said he wanted to stay with his wife. He was worried she’d meet someone else, he said. I bit back my reply that expressed my hope that she actually would and glared at her for only a moment when she emerged from the building to say good night to Brother.

“I’m sorry.” The “friend” outside my window said.

“What?” I snapped, turning my glare on him.

“I’m sorry you’re his sister. That must suck.”

I looked at him, furious and worried, spat out that he should get away from me, then rolled up my window and started to drive home. I bought food Brother refused to eat, calmly took his phone when he tried to call his wife again. I pulled over when he threw up and helped him take off his shirt because it was gross. I cleaned up pure liquor in vomit form when I heard him being sick in his old bedroom, then slept on the living room floor, listening in case he needed me. My parents were frustrated and upset as well, so I took care of it.

Carrie’s grandfather died in grad school, and I closed the door to the office and let her cry as I smoothed her hair. I - months later - took boxes of books to her apartment after she had surgery. In another year or so, I moved in for about a week when her husband had to move away for work. We put furniture in different places and she was happy with the simplicity of her living space rather than morose over the lack of the dining table because her husband took theirs when he moved. I bought Mexican food and shared cheese dip after difficult group meetings.

Rachel is less willing to let people in, but we’ve spent hours on the phone. Even when our bedrooms had a common wall in college, she’d sometimes call and talk without having to meet my eyes. And I’d listen and soothe, joke and distract. Send attentive emails the next day and buy little gifts so she could smile even when life wasn’t so good.

I’m good when times are bad. I feel stable because I’m busy. I crave comfort so often myself that I find offering it to others – especially those I love – rather effortless. I just keep making offers and doing little things until something seems to work. Helps the time pass just a little easier between now and when everything looks just slightly more OK.

It bothers me – I’d rather everyone just be fine all the time – but I’d rather be around than not. I’m used to offering comfort, being present in times of pain.

I’m not sure what the problem is, but the severity of my recent depressive episode has left me rather awkward in these times of late. The desire to help is there. I’m not afraid of the pain on a personal level, but I feel very worried about making it worse for the one who is suffering. I have a great appreciation for how dark the bad times can be. I know nothing helped me on those miserable days. And while I recognize that coping with life events that should be sad is very different than dealing with a mental health issue, I’m still fumbling through reactions that used to come quite easily.

I still offer food with great regularity, but I now understand completely when someone is too sick to even consider eating. I don’t murmur “shhh” when confronted with tears because sometimes crying releases a bit of that awful negative energy. I don’t suggest going to work because sometimes that’s too hard. The very act of being in the office can be agonizing. I can’t even ask gentle questions – I just wait until the words come. And if they don’t? That’s fine too – I get it. I’ll suggest walks because I walked a lot when I was lost in pain. It helped, I think.

I feel better - in the mental health sense - for the most part. I’m working and making serious progress. I saw my parents and enjoyed them, despite the complaints. I love my cat – I find him to be very sweet and cute. He sleeps in one corner of my bed, even when Chienne abandons me for the office and sporadic house guests. How to incorporate my faith in some profound way still rests uneasily in my mind. I’m waiting for something to click and feel right. So I comfort myself that I wasn’t really that bad. And even if I was rather crazy, the worst is clearly over. I’m OK.

But there are lingering effects. I look at people differently. Step much more carefully when I was once open and confident when I felt needed. I just don’t know what to do – I feel timid and unsure. The desire to help is immediate. My worry and sympathy is as sincere as it is strong. But even when I’m sleeping through the time when I planned to wake and check to make sure everything was OK, I did not have a plan for how to offer aid should some be required, and that bothered me. I felt like I should have had some idea, and I didn’t. I kept praying for the knowledge of what to say – how to offer comfort without condescension. And found myself opening my mouth, then closing it without saying a word. I couldn’t come up with much.

I made complaints while walking – about Chienne alternately yanking me forward then pulling me to a stop when she wanted to smell something. I tried to distract with stories – many of them random. I listened without comment or suggestion a great deal of the time. I don’t want to make it worse and have no idea how to make it better. I bought food and was relieved – tremendously so – when dinner “sounded OK.” I panted my way up a hill I’d climbed once before, then huffily declared there weren’t enough red trees on the side path we decided to take on our second trip around the park. I drove far out of the way on the trip home because I didn’t want to sit in traffic. Then worried that I was irritating my poor friend. Don’t make it worse, I scolded myself.

“Time will help.” I said at lunch – likely the only statement that helped me all day as I considered the future. “It won’t be OK, but I think it will be better. You’ll adjust.”

The truth – for me – is that bad things do happen. Those that are devastatingly awful and can’t be comforted or eased or taken away. And somehow in letting it hurt, allowing people to help – or at least to sit while they can’t think of how to help, letting time pass so that distractions become meaningful, humor and joy return and it does become OK. We cope and heal and move forward because there’s not really a good alternative.

It’s a good concept for me to remember. I think my fear is that there are moments of despair and panic that are profoundly bad. I’m scared of them. But I’m also hopeful that there are moments of great happiness and understanding and compassion. In the times when someone has to transition between the two states – from grief and pain to normalcy, pleasure and peace – I hope I figure out how to conduct myself with a bit less apprehension and a bit more grace. It’s part of who I was and who I hope to be. I’m just struggling to locate the right balance – in this as in many other things – right now.