The imperfect way: finding a path through a burning world

There are no easy answers for those of us wondering how to cope with the horrors that seem to multiply daily in world events. But there is solace in relating to others – even if they are sometimes fictional. 

Words: Joy Brooks

What does it feel like to pretend that things are fine, actually, when they’re absolutely not? Many of us are accomplished pretenders, even if we harbour some envy towards the toddler transparently raging in the middle of the Free From aisle. I’m sure I’m not the only one peeking nervously through my fingers as world events unfold, wondering why we’re not collectively throwing ourselves down in a public space, wailing with fury and grief. 

Obviously, we’ve learnt as adults that unfavourable consequences follow that kind of behaviour. In multiple tiny and not so tiny moments, we’ve intuited the expectations of others and adjusted accordingly. Not because we’re manipulative jerks, though some of us might be, but because human survival depends on being part of a herd, belonging to the group. Existing within white, Western, patriarchal society, people of all genders have had to adapt around the expectations of a particular kind of white, cis-het, able-bodied man, with the hope that it will keep us safe.

Whilst frequently necessary, these adjustments are costly. Increasingly, it seems the demands are stretching us beyond our capacity, whilst the ramifications of being unable to keep up can be terrifying. This cost isn’t evenly distributed either. Some are having to pay so much more to make themselves fit. Others are feeling guilty, as they are still, just about, making that stretch, whilst watching individuals, minoritised groups, or entire countries being thrown under the bus. 

And there are days when it looks as if everyone else is OK with it all. It’s business as usual. How do they do it? Why do they do it? Are they also wondering how everyone else is managing it? Perhaps they’re blissfully unaware? Perhaps they’re comforted by the hope of a Reform victory in future elections? Surely not? But what if they are?

This line of thinking can have me actively searching for the next opportunity to join a raging toddler.

But how do we keep going? How do I keep going? And how do I keep on keeping going when there’s always some new injustice or threat being unleashed? At this point I could list my strategies for keeping the show on the road. It’s tempting, but I’m imagining a list that’s either pointlessly generic – go for a walk, get enough sleep, listen to the birds – or incredibly niche – anyone else eagerly anticipating their evening mug of Aldi Wheat Shreds? Worst case scenario, this imaginary list might contribute to someone else’s pressure; why oh why didn’t I rise at dawn to meditate for an hour before mindfully sipping my pre-work kale smoothie? It’s my fault I’m not coping like everyone else.

In the animated series Carol & the End of the World, humanity is facing inevitable extinction as another planet enters a collision course with Earth. “With seven months and thirteen days remaining,” a TV presenter gravely announces, “what will you be doing?”. For our mild-mannered, middle-aged lead, Carol, the answer isn’t clear. All around her, people are seizing the day, throwing caution to the wind and completing their bucket lists. Carol, meanwhile, is uncertain and awkward. When she does give others’ ideas a go, she quickly realises they’re not for her.

I genuinely relate to Carol’s predicament. In theory, we’re all facing similar pressures and existential threats – we should be able to huddle together for safety, collective warmth, and maybe even enjoy ourselves. Surely, we shouldn’t be alone, or worse, lonely? But like Carol, I’m sometimes facing either or both of those things. And attempts to squeeze myself into ill-fitting activity or groups can sometimes intensify that sense of isolation.

What’s remarkable about Carol is that she doesn’t settle for something that isn’t working for her. She chooses the discomfort of being alone, over shapeshifting to blend in. And it’s not that she’s unfamiliar with anxiety. “Do you know what a panic attack is?” she queries, “It’s like, um, if someone took all your candy, and you couldn’t find it, but you had to find it. And then you realize maybe there wasn’t any candy in the first place.”.

I don’t know how many people would choose Carol’s path. Recently an older widow confided to me that she put up with a bit of racist talk, because that’s the price you pay for company at her age. And we might feel a certain response to that, but I was left wondering how often I make similar tradeoffs. For a long time, I remained embedded in a faith community that was harmful to me and others. The thought of all I would lose if I left seemed unthinkable. I hope I won’t repeat that experience, but after a lot of therapy, I also understand why it seemed necessary at the time. I can gently acknowledge that I couldn’t have known then what I’ve subsequently learnt. 

Without spoiling the show, I think it becomes clear that Carol finds her own, somewhat surprising coping methods. There’s nothing that makes everything better or provides tidy answers. The world isn’t saved, existential fear isn’t transcended, nor are life’s secrets unlocked. But she does seem to find her imperfectly authentic way. It remains incredibly difficult and sometimes it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

I love Carol. I can’t imagine her telling anyone she’s figured things out or presenting her seven steps to getting through whatever “this” is. And I can’t do it either, even though I’m the first to click through to that kind of online article. Frustrating as it might be for anyone looking for answers, I find myself only able to offer acknowledgement that satisfactory solutions are vanishingly rare.

If I rummage around a bit more, I can also offer my white-hot rage. There’s plenty of anger triggered by ever increasing inequality, injustice and the hope crushing atrocities taking place. If that resonates with you, I can say yes, I feel it too, unbearably at times, and no, I don’t know what to do with it all. 

I can also sit with anyone feeling an inner wail of grief and despair threatening to take all the air from their lungs, perhaps as they stumble across more video footage they can’t unsee.

And I can share that uneasy recognition when I’ve stopped thinking about it for a while, because otherwise I won’t be able to rest, or show up for my work, or keep paying the bills.

Lastly, I can gesture towards an animated TV series that some might like, and others, I’ll grudgingly concede, could hate. In doing so, my hope is that in some small way, we might find some reassurance, a reminder that it’s OK to be uncertain, to not know how we’re going to do this part of our lives. Carol gives me some hope – not that we can rise above it all, but that we can individually and collectively acknowledge that this path is ridiculously difficult to navigate. I hope too, that with that acknowledgement, we might each find the courage, in this messy struggle, to find our own awkward, imperfect and authentic way. 

 

Joy Brooks is a psychotherapist working for the NHS and in private practice. She’s also a co-host on Nomad Podcast and has facilitated the formation of a network for therapists familiar with working in the area of faith shifts and religious trauma.  nomadpodcast.co.uk/therapy-network