In times of deep grief, of trauma, of upheaval, there seems to be a period of time when people go into “survival mode.” In survival mode, there’s no thought of “the future.” No long-term goals. Very little beyond the day-to-day. You divide your day into hours. “Today I will go to work. Then I’ll do homework. Then I’ll watch this TV show. Then I’ll eat dinner. Then I’ll go to rehearsal. Then I’ll go to bed.”
And you’ve made it through another day. One more down.
Someone may ask you, “How was your day?” And you won’t be able to answer. There isn’t room in survival mode for measuring days that way. You got through the day. Good days or bad days are sort of beyond that baseline of just…getting through days.
I don’t know that you can choose survival mode. I think that just sort of happens when you’re in chaotic circumstances, or when everything’s been turned upside down. (Motherhood actually comes to mind as a time of survival mode. There seems to be this period of time when children are young, when women are just “in the trenches” of motherhood. You’re just trying to make it from breakfast to naptime to dinner to bedtime.)
It’s not a comfortable place to be, in survival mode. But it’s the psyche’s way to protect itself, I think. A sort of gift.
I read once that when burn victims are going through the initial stages of healing, doctors will sometimes induce a coma to allow them to “sleep” through the worst of the pain. It’s medically convenient—a patient in a coma won’t thrash around in their bed, causing further injury and delaying healing. But there’s mercy in it, too. It’s a gift.
I spent the months after Jacob and I separated in a kind of self-induced coma. I think I sensed that there was only so much I could do to heal, and that some of the hurt just needed time. I needed to find some way to numb myself while my psyche worked through what it had to work through.
I remember intentionally distracting myself, during those first spring months. I felt like I was facing and sorting through all of the issues that I could, and what remained was just plain hurt. Hurt that was just going to be there until enough time passed to heal it. So did whatever I could to metaphorically induce that coma. I filled the time with Black-ish, The Handmaid’s Tale, Madmen, The Wire, Dear White People, Atlanta, Broad City, High Maintenance. With podcasts and art journaling. With memorizing and rehearsing and performing and designing whatever I could find. Sometimes something would come along that was a blessed time-filler. A visit from a friend or family member. A trip out of town. Some project around the house.
There are obvious downsides to this. I did a lot of sitting during my survival mode coma, and subsequently got pretty unhealthy. All of my long-term goals were put on hold. I wasn’t really able to reach out to other people in kindness very often or very well—I was too busy trying to keep my sh*t together to help anyone else carry theirs.
But here’s the thing. It kind of worked. My self-induced coma really did keep me from causing further injury to myself or delaying healing. It helped me survive the time that had to pass in order to heal the hurts.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately because I still do it—the self-induced coma thing. Out of habit. I do it even though I don’t have the same need for healing nowadays. Granted, I do still have hurts to work through, some small and some not-so-small, but none are big enough to warrant a self-induced metaphorical coma.
And it’s strange. It’s strange to not need the coma anymore. I’ve spent the last year trying so desperately to fill my days that an afternoon of free time initially gives me a vague sense of panic. I have to remind myself that it’s okay. There isn’t some monster of un-process-able hurt I have to guard myself against anymore.
I think the self-induced metaphorical coma can be easily abused. It can be used to avoid things that actually need to be worked through. But it’s like…it’s like you’re on this boat in the middle of the ocean, and there’s a huge storm. You’ve got to take in the sails and batten down the hatches and secure all the valuables while the hurricane rages. But after you’ve done that, you’ve just kind of got to get through it. You should tune in to the storm now and then to make sure everything’s basically safe, but otherwise, best just pass the time with stories or songs or whatever. Spending all of your time staring into the hurricane won’t actually do anything to the hurricane, and it won’t actually help you. After the storm is passed, then you can try to sail your boat again.
It’s not a perfect metaphor. But whatever. I was on a stormy sea for a while, and I got used to distracting myself from the rage and bluster outside. So sometimes I still cling to the stories and songs that filled my time. But now, spring is slipping towards the warmth of summer, and the skies are calm, and hands are reaching for mine and I’m stepping into the sunshine.
And if the storms rage again, I’ll know what to do.
painting: Snow Storm by Joseph Turner
No comments:
Post a Comment