But, Dr. Ham told me, these negative emotions are not simply something to endure and erase. They are purposeful. Beneficial. They tell us what we need. Anger inspires action. Sadness is necessary to process grief. Fear helps keep us safe. Completely eradicating these emotions is not just impossible—it’s unhealthy.
These negative emotions only become toxic when they block out all the other emotions. When we feel so much sadness that we can’t let any joy in. When we feel so much anger that we cannot soften around others. True mental health looks like a balance of these good and bad feelings. As Lori Gottlieb says in her book Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, “Many people come to therapy seeking closure. Help me not to feel. What they eventually discover is that you can’t mute one emotion without muting the others. You want to mute the pain? You’ll also mute the joy.”[1]
* * *
—
I sat with this knowledge for a week. When a bad driver suddenly cut us off and Joey yelled out the window that he was going to beat him so thoroughly his mother wouldn’t recognize him, I let myself feel stressed and anxious for a minute. Because this was a stressful situation. Then when the bad driver accelerated away, I let my anxiety go with him. When I received bad news about a sick family member, I took time and space to mourn it. For once, I did not feel bad about taking that space. I watched TV without guilt. I ate cookies without guilt. And a kind of miraculous thing happened. I felt better the next day. Way better. I still felt sadness about my family member. But also available to me: joy.
These moments seemed so small. Negligible, even. But some larger change had occurred. It was like every negative emotion I had was lighter. The duration of my suffering was shortened. A negative emotion would arise, and after a while, it ebbed. It didn’t feel as intense or crippling as before. Then it flowed out to sea. Every emotion felt…appropriate. At last, it seemed I had conquered the deadly triad of P’s—personal, pervasive, and permanent.
The next week, I told Dr. Ham, “A lot of what’s helpful is you essentially giving me permission for things and telling me things are normal. Because I’ve assigned trauma to every element of my life to the point where everything I do seems freakish. Pathologizing everything. So it’s nice to differentiate what parts of the trauma are things that are human and normal, and which parts are actual problems.”
“You’re allowed to have these feelings. Do you know the difference between pain and suffering?”
“Um…I don’t know. Do I?”
“Pain is about feeling real, appropriate, and valid hurt when something bad happens. Suffering is when you add extra dollops to that pain. You’re feeling bad about feeling bad.”
“Double punishment,” I clarify.
“Yes. So getting rid of suffering means you’re not adding to the pain. You appropriately felt awkward and uncomfortable and regretful that that dinner party didn’t go well. You appropriately feel annoyed and angry at one of your friends who is being prissy. You’re just accepting of it all. And if the feeling stays, you ask, okay, why is this feeling still in me? And then, assume that there’s incredible wisdom in your intuitions and just start listening to them. What is this? What is this thing in my body right now? What are you trying to teach me?”
* * *
—
I am not a girl. I am a sword, I used to tell myself. Hacking and slashing, I refused to succumb to belts or golf clubs or gatekeepers saying no. I would stay alive. I would get what I wanted.
But the thing about being a sword is that you can never lay your weapon down. You never get to experience the ecstasy of surrender.
* * *
—
Dr. Ham, in some ways, became my anti-mother—a caring parental figure (it helped that he was naggy and accidentally harsh and Asian) who could skillfully counter my parents’ voices in my head. My mother had created boundaries in my brain, rules for acceptable ways of being and thinking that forced my consciousness to walk a narrow, treacherous corridor. I swung my sword at the walls, trying to force an inch to breathe.
But Dr. Ham lifted those barriers entirely by demolishing the rules. You are allowed. You can do that. That would not make you a bad person. Go ahead. Surrender.
Dr. Ham gave me permission to feel irritated when a friend didn’t text back. One morning, I watched a woman try to jump in front of the A train (another woman pulled her back at the last minute). I called him all triggered and weepy, and he gave me permission to take the rest of the day off and watch television. “You’re done today,” he said. “You’re going home. Relax.” He gave me permission to treat myself to dessert. No longer did I have to hack and slash at myself on the road to betterment: But what about calories? But what about carbs? But what about inflammation? Instead, I surrendered to my basest instincts. But what if I want to? But what if this feels right for me, right now? I ate the cookie. I ate two. I went to bed and cried for an hour at three p.m. I held a grudge for a week before I was ready to let it go. I did all the bad things. I didn’t feel bad about them.
And the world didn’t collapse. In fact, the opposite happened.
I was still productive. Maybe even more productive than before because my brain felt freer. I was still healthy. I still nurtured my friendships. Nobody died.
And the corridor widened. My life gained spaciousness. The circle grew. The circle contained everything.
* * *
—
It took about fifteen weeks—a little more than three months—for Dr. Ham to change my inner narrative from a hateful whip-bearing tyrant to a chill(er) surfer dude. Like love and bankruptcy, it happened slowly, then all at once. Right now, I’m making breakfast. I woke up late, I accidentally missed a call this morning, it’s eleven a.m., and I have work to do. But I’m not rushing. I’m sautéing potatoes and onions and peppers together and frying eggs and chopping cilantro for some breakfast tacos. I assemble them carefully and then crumble cotija on top. They are delicious. I decide I’ll get to washing up when I get to it. I’ll get to everything when I get to it. The world will keep turning. The tacos are delicious, and I take my time eating them. And then I’m marveling: Oh, wow. Maybe this life I’ve got is going to be spectacular, after all.
CHAPTER 42