23. Dead ends
What do you do when there’s nothing left to do? What if you’ve done your best advocacy, you’ve put your whole heart into it, but the person you’re trying to reach still won’t open to you and let you in?
One Saturday afternoon, I met up with Diana, a nonprofit director, at a café. I could tell at a glance she was not her usual upbeat self.
“What’s going on?”
“On Monday, I’m going to fire Ellen.”
“You look sad.”
“I really like her. She works magic with our hardest-to-reach teens. I want to keep her.”
“What’s wrong then?”
“She’s so negative with me and my program directors. She challenges every decision we make. It’s exhausting. Her work is so good but she refuses to be part of our team. I don’t think there’s anybody in our organization she actually likes.”
“Wow, that’s quite something given the staff you’ve got.”
“They’re such good people. They support each other like crazy.”
“But she does her job?”
“Beautifully, except now we’re hearing that she gossips badly about us. This makes no sense. We get rave reviews for our programs. The people in our community know us. They’ve known us a long time. They trust us. I’ve gotten four calls asking what’s wrong with Ellen.”
“What have you tried with her?”
“I’ve told her about those calls. I’ve explained how her trashy comments are making her look bad, not us. And I’ve asked her why she’s so unhappy. She changes the subject.”
“What about when she first started working for you?”
“All along I’ve had a feeling that she’s a bit fragile, so I’ve gone out of my way time and again to tell her how much we appreciate her.”
“Her response?”
“It’s backwards. When I call her into the office to talk with her about her negative attitude, she bristles a little, but mostly she’s so calm it’s almost as if she’s enjoying herself. When I try to give her support, though, she freaks out. She can’t sit still. She paces like a caged animal.”
“This makes me think of a woman I used to work with. Anytime we tried to give her support, she’d strike back at us like we were attacking her. One day her guard was down, and she told us how her father had sexually abused her. While he was doing it, he said, “I love you,” over and over. And he only said those words when he abused her. That’s the kind of thing that can poison love and make it feel like a threat. In any event, whatever Ellen’s story is, I’d bet something really bad happened to her to make her scared of sincere appreciation and support.”
“I don’t know anything about Ellen’s past, but her behavior maps onto that picture. She can’t tolerate simple kindness.
“And that’s such a terrible trap. If she can’t accept help, there’s no exit from her pain.”
“I told Ellen if she wanted coaching, if she thought that might help her be happier at work, we’d pay for seven sessions for her. She stared daggers at me then walked out.”
“Ouch.”
“I was worried maybe I was doing something wrong, so I went to see my old therapist, the one who got me through my bad time. I wanted to check, did I have a blind spot about Ellen. We couldn’t find one. I called our HR consultant. She says I’m handling this the right way. She says that ultimately Ellen has to take responsibility for herself. And at this point I’m all out of ideas. I’ve hit a dead end.”
“So what do you do when there’s nothing left to do?”
“Let go. But I’ve tried that and I can’t.”
“Sounds like you’re hurting.”
“I am and I’ve got no answers.”
“What if we stay with the hurting and hold off on the problem-solving?”
“I’m such a problem solver.”
“I know, and that works well for you…”
“…except when it’s a problem that can’t be solved.”
“And then?”
“I just sit around and feel sad and beat myself up.”
“How about if we keep the sadness and stop the beating up?”
“Okay. But how? I know you’re going for something. Tell me what.”
“When there’s nothing left to do, it seems to me we can still mourn and bless. Tell me about your sadness.”
“I’m sad for me. I don’t want to fire Ellen. And I’m sad for her. If she’d just engage with me maybe she could have a breakthrough and things would be very different for her. I think we could have a really good working relationship if she’d open to it….Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“I just realized something. I’m ordinarily so good with people, it pisses me off that I can’t get through to Ellen. I think I’m taking this way too personally. Like she’s thwarting me on purpose. Getting a kick out of making me fail.”
“And?”
“That’s not true and that’s not how I want to react to her.”
“What do you need right now?”
“To catch my breath. To get back to myself. To not make Ellen wrong. She’s hurting, that’s all. At least that’s how I choose to see it.”
“What if you decide the work you need to do right now is just to mourn, really mourn, not a little bit around the edges, but take your mourning to the real depth of your sadness?”
“That would be a relief. I feel so helpless and I hate feeling that because I’m not helpless.”
“What might sadness give you?”
“I’d be focused instead of frazzled. I’d make better decisions. Okay, I’m going to do that, take my sadness seriously. And invite my program directors to join me. They need this too. We’ve been pretending that we’re more okay than we are.”
“Could you do some kind of ritual together?”
“We sure could. I love rituals. I see each of us holding a candle—red for healing hearts—and we’ve got a picture of Ellen in the middle of our circle, and we each tell our sadness about her until our feelings settle and we can find peace. Okay, I get the mourning part, so now tell me about the blessing part.”
“What do you wish for Ellen?”
“I want her to get over what’s holding her back, I want her to grow her talents, I want her to have success, I want her to have friends, I want her to be happy.”
“And what blessings do you have for her?”
“Oh, those wishes are my blessings. A flood of blessings. I’ll make that a part of our ritual, too. We’ll each write each blessing we have for her on index cards—yellow for the light of possibility—and place the cards around her picture making a nest.”
“When you meet with Ellen to do the actual firing, how do you want to handle the conversation?”
“I don’t look forward to it.”
“You’ve got options. For example, there’s the corporate style of firing where you walk the person out of the building in silence.”
“I can’t do that. That’s cold.”
“So then…”
“I need to tell her one last time how much I appreciate her work. But then she might react badly because compliments upset her.”
“How could you buffer what you say to her?”
“I could take the pressure off her. I could tell her: ‘We’re meeting today to make your exit plan. But first I have four things I want to say. You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to believe me, you don’t even have to listen. I want to say these things to you for my own sake, so I’m going to do that.’ ”
“Wow.”
“Yes, I like it. And then I’ll say, ‘First, I’ve seen you work magic with our hardest-to-reach teens. If you have someone call me for a job reference, that’s what I’ll tell them. Second, I’m so sad this did not work out. Really, really sad. But you don’t have to worry about my sadness. It’s mine. I’ll take care of it. Third, you get to decide if you want to resign, and if you don’t want to, I’ll do a formal firing. It doesn’t matter to me which you choose, but you get to choose. And fourth, I wish you the best, I really do. You don’t have to like hearing that, but I need to say it because that’s the kind of person I am.”
“And what are you noticing right now?”
“This is so me.”
“How might this conversation bless Ellen?”
“I’m not making her wrong. I’m doing what I can to defuse her reactivity. I’m telling her the truth about her strength and—this is big—I’m really letting go of her. I’m not trying to manage her. I’m not needing anything from her. She’s not a problem I have to solve. I’m not scared of her reaction. I get to hold her in my heart because I really do wish her well. How weird is that? Letting go of her allows me to hold her in a deeper way.”
“What about the future? What if she leaves your office on Monday feeling mad, but two years down the road she hits a crisis and wakes up to the trap she’s in?”
“She might remember that I’m someone who cared about her.”
“And…”
“And that I didn’t put up with her crap but invited her out of her trap. And that I could be an exit person for her.”
“So…”
“So here’s one more thing I could say on Monday: ‘Sometimes, Ellen, this idea pops into my mind and I wonder if maybe you have a knot in your life, a really tough one, and it causes you trouble. I used to have a knot in my life and it kept messing me up. I might be quite wrong about you, but if you do ever discover a knot, and even if it’s two years from now, you’re welcome to call me. I know about knots. I know what it takes to get them untied. I know a counselor who’s really good at helping with that. I’d be glad to talk to you about this. And I understand you might never want to talk to me ever again.’ ”
“And you would say that because…”
“I feel it. Deeply. In fact, it’s the thing I most want to say, so I’m going to say it.”
“And how might that be a blessing for Ellen?”
“If our guess is right that she’s caught in some kind of bad childhood tangle, I’m offering her a way out. And I might be the only person offering her that.”
“What if she never takes you up on the offer?”
“I’m still offering it.”
“A virtual offer?”
“Yes. But wait, it’s not virtual, is it? It’s a real offer. That makes it tangible. So I’m doing something real even if she never takes me up on what I’m offering.”
“Something gutsy?”
“Actually, yes. I can feel that it’s taking some serious emotional effort for me to quit being pissed and shift into blessing mode. I want to do that, but it’s not automatic or easy.”
“What if you run into Ellen at an event three months from now?”
“I’ll be happy to see her because now I won’t be carrying a burden of distress about her. There used to be this legislative aide, Gloria, who treated us with contempt and tried to get the City to cut our contract. One evening, I was here at this café with a friend and as we were walking out, Gloria walked in. My mind was a million miles away from work. All I saw was a familiar face, so I smiled a big smile and gave her a big ‘Hi!’ before I registered who she was. Her look of shock was priceless.”
“What did you like about that encounter?”
“That I was surprised into my reaction. I didn’t have to strategize it. She didn’t see me cringe. I wasn’t controlled by her hate. In that moment I was immune to it.”
“And for her?”
“It was a moment of possibility. I was free of her hate, so she had a chance to free herself, too. She didn’t, but she had that chance.”
“And with Ellen? What if you run into her?”
“I would hope to be in my blessing mood so I could give her a big smile and a big ‘Hi!’ and mean it. And if she snubs me, well that’s on her, not me. Or maybe she’ll be ready to open up. Or maybe she won’t ever. But at least I’ll keep on being an exit person for her. That doesn’t cost me anything. In fact, it blesses me like it blesses her. And now I’m ready for Monday. And thank you.”
We humans are in terminal trouble. We’re not fighting for ourselves like we need to. We’ve tried figuring out what’s blocking us. We’ve tried talking ourselves into better behavior. We’ve made grand resolutions. But none of those things are working. We’re being impossible. We’re a dead-end species.
And how do we, each of us, relate to this fact? Personally, I get a little crazy. In the morning, I might watch the news and wander around my apartment saying, “Poor babies, poor, poor babies,” crooning it like a lullaby, taking pity on us. Then that night I watch the news again, and get so distressed I pace in circles and sputter, “Stupid humans, stupid, stupid humans.”
But what I need to do is mourn for us. Except I’m really bad with loss and I don’t do mourning well. I’d rather not do it at all. Which makes me think about those TV programs where the homicide detective tells the family of the victim, “I’m sorry for your loss.” One short sentence and that’s enough of that. Of course I understand how a murder drama works. The mystery has to get solved and the criminal has to be caught and there have to be a lot of plot twists before the climax so there’s no time for extended mourning. And I understand a detective can’t feel deeply for all the victims and loved ones he encounters because he couldn’t do his job if he took it all personally. And I understand that those of us at home, witnessing three or four murders in an evening, can’t afford to feel for all those victims and loved ones, either. It would be too much. I get the appeal of that ritual sentence. It lets us skip across the surface of tragedy like a stone instead of sinking into it. But night after night, as we’re learning so much about murder, we’re learning next to nothing about mourning.
The five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—are supposed to be the answer. They’re supposed to guide us through wrenching feelings. But when I read On Death and Dying, the Kübler-Ross book, I repurposed it. I decided maybe I could use those stages to control mourning so it wouldn’t really get to me. Maybe I could hopscotch quickly from one stage to the next until I got to acceptance, and once there, I’d graduate from grief.
In reality, though, I take losses hard. Eventually they catch up with me and then I crash down into some place deeper than where the stages can go.
There are therapists who push people to “get over it and move on.” They insist that mourning should be time-limited. They want to give it an expiration date, and if you go beyond that date, they get to diagnose you.
I understand mourning can go wrong, sometimes really wrong. Freud said melancholia, in contrast to mourning, is when you let yourself die inside in response to the death of a loved one. And certainly it’s not a good thing when people freeze into grief and shut their lives down. Nothing to argue with there.
But aren’t there people you want to keep in your heart forever? Aren’t there losses you learn to live with but never really get over and don’t want to? And doesn’t holding onto someone in this way honor how much that person meant to you, how deeply they were, and still are, woven into your life? So even though they’ve passed on, you’re keeping your relationship with them alive, even deepening it. And maybe we could call this generative mourning.
And who says that acceptance is the ultimate in grief anyway? Doesn’t it depend? And what exactly are we supposed to accept? When my dad died, people commiserated, telling me, “You must be so sad to lose him. You must be going through such a hard time.” But it wasn’t a hard time. Sad, yes, but not hard. My dad lived to the age of eighty-nine and twice in the two years before he died he told me in a mood of contentment, “I’ve had a good life and a long life.” Since he was at peace, I could accept his passing. I didn’t mourn his death.
But I did mourn his life, and still do. When he was eighty-seven, we had a conversation about belly laughs. He wanted more of those. I wish he could have had them. I wish he could have had more fun. And maybe a wild streak. And a bigger measure of passion. Certainly a stronger sense of himself. And I wish we could have been best friends.
After his death, I thought he’d fade into a receding memory, light and easy to carry. But he was my father and he remains a very real presence in my life, and I’m still working out my relationship with him, so I keep him in my heart, wrapped in sadness.
When I think about us humans as a species, when I think back over everything I know about our past, when I look around the world at everything I know about our present, I feel so much sadder about our life than I do about our coming death.
Happiness is supposed to be the goal of life. We’re all supposed to want it. I like happiness well enough, and I’ll take it when I can get it, but I need my sadness. Happiness buoys me up, but sadness takes me deep.
