You Don’t Need to Understand To Be Able to Move On

Posted on by stilllearning2b
understand divorce

“I just don’t understand how he could do that to his wife and kids…”

“Her words and actions are so cold. I just don’t get it…”

“How can someone have so little regard for others?”

 

I’ve been seeing questions like this with ever-increasing frequency, their authors pleading for answers. For some sort of sudden and maybe-even-magical insight that brings clarity to the situation.

It’s natural that we want to understand. From the time we were first learning which sounds out of our mother’s mouth meant that we were being attended to, we have placed an inordinate amount of importance on understanding the world around us. And when the words and actions originate from our chosen life-partner, finding understanding becomes a given, an assumption.

Until suddenly it isn’t.

When one day, that person that you thought you knew so well suddenly seems to act out of character and without consideration for others. The shock reverberates through your body as you stumble through your memories, trying to make sense of this new information. You’re disoriented. Confused.

And consumed with an overwhelming need to understand both why and how this is happening.

 

Searching for the “lightbulb” moment…

As a teacher, I live for the “lightbulb” moments, those times when the math that was a struggle suddenly becomes clear and comprehensible to a student. Those moments are magical, where confusion and frustration are instantly transformed into mastery and appreciation.

When my first husband disappeared, I expected, that with enough effort and practice, I would experience my own “lightbulb” moment, where my shock and bewilderment would be replaced with understanding and I would be able to see and comprehend how he could have made the choices he did.

I believed that reaching this understanding was crucial for me to move on, much like my students have to demonstrate mastery in order to advance to the next level. I expected this understanding to place the event within a larger context, to provide meaning for the pain and motivation for the cause of it.

But no matter how hard I tried, understanding remained elusive. I knew much of the “what,” but little of the “why,” much like a student that simply memories material for the exam without fully comprehending any of it. I finally reached two realizations:

1 – I was attempting to apply rational thought to irrational actions. I simply wouldn’t be able to understand because there wasn’t a logical motivation or explanation for what had occurred. It is simply not possible to make sense of the senseless.

2 – Part of my struggle to understand originated from the fact that I couldn’t fathom, no matter the circumstances, making the same decisions he did. My brain couldn’t go there, even as a purely cognitive exercise. You cannot understand what you cannot even imagine and sometimes an inability to comprehend is a reflection of your character.

 

 

There is the person and there is the perspective…

“Who was I married to?” I questioned myself endlessly after his double life was revealed. Suddenly I felt violated, like I had been assaulted by this stranger masquerading as a loving husband. I wondered if he had always been this way or if he had undergone some dark metamorphosis. Obsessed, I turned the options over and over again in my mind until the edges of him grew soft like a stone polished in a tumbler.

I simply couldn’t reconcile the view I had of him with the person he now appeared to be. And without a doubt, he held much of the responsibility for that disconnect. He deliberately and consistently hid behind the persona he had constructed for himself.

But I also had manufactured an image of him and allowed cognitive bias to filter out information that didn’t match my viewpoint. Part of my drive for understanding arose from the dissonance between my construct of him and the reality that had burst through the projection. Yet what was needed was less comprehension and more assimilation between the person and the outside perspective.

Strangely, it became more about understanding my motivations and choices than about wrapping my brain around his. After all, your own mind is the only one that you can observe from within. You may as well take the time to get to know it.

 

Assimilating the new information into your story…

It felt like walking into the movie theater as the film reached its climactic scene. I saw the explosions, felt the vibrations of the aftermath, but had no knowledge of what had advanced the story to that point. Even worse, I thought I had signed up for a romance flick only to discover that it was actually a crime drama.

At first, my energy went into trying to piece together the parts of the narrative that I had missed. What caused the conflict? What incited the destruction? The action without the background felt meaningless, a sucker punch out of nowhere.

Part of the need for understanding was driven by a desire to have the story make sense, to have defined antecedents for each behavior and to have clear consequences for every wrongdoing. I wanted the “bad guy” to pay and the “good guy” to come out ahead.

Eventually, I realized that my ex was a particularly crappy script writer, since he elected to leave his character’s motivations unclear. I decided to take the matter into my own hands and, picking up where he left off, create meaning from the wreckage. Reaching a conclusion that I may not be able to reach an understanding about his choices, but I could make sure that my decisions were guided by a larger purpose.

I never found understanding; I created understanding. Even though you cannot change what happens to you, you can always adjust your view of it. You may never be able to assemble all of the pieces of your past, but that doesn’t stop you from building your future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who Do You Turn To For Help With Your “Character Building Experiences?”

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I recently read a synopsis of a study that demonstrated that people receive a more empathic response from someone who has not been through a particular difficult experience than from someone who had survived something similar.

photo

At first glance, it seems counterintuitive. After all, who knows how rough it is better than someone who has lived it?

But that’s not the whole story.

Because the people that have experienced the trauma have been changed by it.

And that alters not only their perception, but also their response.

Protective Amnesia vs. Unrestrained Fears

I remember trying on the idea of living without my husband a few years before he left. The exercise wasn’t prompted by anything in the relationship; I was simply reacting to the news of a coworker’s impending split by trying to put myself in her shoes.

And I couldn’t wait to take them off again. My imagination went wild and my pulse followed suit. It was her living nightmare and it was my envisaged one. I responded with nothing but, “I am so sorry” and “That has to be so scary,” using my own unrestrained fears as a bridge to her situation.

It’s different now. I’ve lived those fears. But, to be completely honest, I don’t really remember the pain in the rawest sense. I know I felt it; I can read my journals and emails and see the devastation in the pictures of me from that time. But it’s almost like it happened to someone else.

My brain has slid a protective cloth over the worst of it, softening the pain like the sun’s harsh rays through a gauzy curtain. The protective amnesia allows me to function without the sharp memory of the pain. And it also means I can easily underestimate how bad it really was and how horrible it is for someone else in a similar position.

Known Present vs. Imagined Future

When we haven’t experienced something, we have no benchmarks. No reality checks. It’s all imagination and prediction. When somebody’s character is being tested, it’s easy to use their current situation as a template for their future, assuming that the way it is is the way it will be. Face to the tree and blind to the forest.

But once we’ve been there, we see the larger picture from our vantage point above the woodland. We appreciate the struggle and yet we know that it is able to be mastered.

But when someone still has the imprint of the bark on their flesh, the last thing they want to hear is about the view from the top. And yet sometimes the message they need to hear is that there is a top somewhere above the trees.

Progression vs. Isolation of Thought

It you want a hug and commiseration, you may be better off turning to somebody who has never been through your trial. They will view your situation as it is. Isolated. You will be nurtured and they will cry along with you.

If you want reassurance that it can get better along with a kick in the pants, talk to someone who has been there. They know the progression of effort that it takes to climb out. And in many cases, they appreciate the gifts hidden within their struggle It may not feel as nice to hear their perspective, but sometimes a dose of tough love is needed.

They were once in a position where they didn’t know if they would survive.

And yet they did.

And they know you can too.

The Limitations of Empathy

Posted on by stilllearning2b

“Put yourself in his or her shoes,” I often find myself saying to my students in order to encourage them to respond kindly and with compassion. And in some cases, that works, especially when the recipient of my advice has had a similar experience to that of the student in question. If I’m asking a kid to empathize with the disappointment of a failing grade or the misery of the flu, they will come through with greater understanding and tolerance.

But what if I ask them to empathize with something they’ve never experienced?

Sure, they can try to imagine what it would be like to be Anne Frank trembling in the attic with Nazi soldiers below as they read her story. They can write letters from the perspective of Civil War soldiers, relating their experiences to their families back at home. Or, much more recently, they can listen to the adults in their lives tell the story of 9/11 and they can follow along and perhaps name emotions felt on that day.

But they can’t truly emphasize because they lack the underlying experiences.

With kids, I’m aware of and (usually) patient of their limitations in empathy. With adults? It’s harder.I sometimes forget that not everyone has had similar experiences. Not everyone has the background to be able to slip into another’s shoes.

I felt this acutely when Brock and I started dating. He didn’t seem to able to grasp the depth of the betrayal and loss I experienced. It made us both frustrated – me because I felt misunderstood and him because he wanted to understand, but couldn’t. It bothered me, but it was never a major issue. After all, I had a support system for dealing with my past and he wasn’t the primary support beam. And even though he didn’t always understand, he always treated me (and my issues!) with respect and concern.

And then, out of the blue, he recently surprised me. He initiated a conversation about how difficult a divorce must be and how it impacts every area of someone’s life. Now that we’ve been married almost a year (how time does fly!) and he has experienced the intimacy and intertwining that comes from allowing oneself to be vulnerable and open, he realizes what can be lost.

And now he can empathize.

I know he still doesn’t understand the extent of my ex’s pathology (whatever it may be) or the brutality of the betrayal, but I hope he never does. Those are experiences I hope he never has.

Even if it means he will never completely understand.

And that’s the thing about empathy. It has its limitations. After all, you can put on someone else’s shoes, but you still won’t have walked in their past steps.

The Four Worst Things to Say to a Friend Who Is Suffering

How to Apply Labels

Posted on by stilllearning2b

As a teacher, I am quite familiar with the application of labels. Each summer, prior to ever meeting my new students, I study the rosters. Many of the names have associated labels next to them: ADHD, learning disability, autistic, ESOL, etc. These labels are helpful when these children are nothing more than a list of names. It is a starting point.

When I learn that hypothetical Johnny has ADHD, I use that information when I create my first seating chart. I know that he might be a good choice to run an errand to the front office or to help me hand out papers. I won’t be surprised at an off-topic outburst and I’ll have strategies at hand for how to handle one if it occurs. Before ever meeting Johnny, I can have an idea of some of his characteristics and I can plan ahead to meet his needs. However, it would be completely inappropriate for me to stop there. Johnny may have ADHD but he is not his label. As I get to know him, the label loses its importance. The diagnosis tells me nothing of Johnny’s strengths and weaknesses, his adaptive behaviors, his likes and dislikes or especially his personality.

A label should be an anchor, not a limitation.

Whenever I plan a lesson that introduces a new math concept, I start by anchoring the new material to prior knowledge. When I tell students that the new concept is like something they have seen before, it gives them a place to start. Then, as they learn the new material, they can adjust the expectations laid out by the early comparison.

Labels work that same way – they initiate expectations that should be tempered with experience.

When I tell you I am a teacher, you have a starting point for understanding me. You know that I’ve been to college. You can assume that I’m a people person. Maybe you think of a particular teacher in your past. Then, I tell you I grew up in the 1980s. Maybe that causes a revision of your earlier expectations or maybe it just allows you to flesh things out, as you make decisions about what music I may listen to or how I wear my hair. We can continue that process, with each label adding more information and more clarification. Eventually, you would know me and those labels would be inconsequential. Until you were trying to describe me to someone else, that is.

Labels can help us find understanding.

When I went through my divorce, I grasped at labels to describe my husband. I realized that he was not all of the things I thought he was. He was a stranger. So, like we all do when first getting to know someone, I turned to labels to try to develop a framework to anchor new understanding. My favorite designation for him was sociopath. It explained the callousness and extreme nature of the betrayal. It was a starting point. But not the end. As with all labels, some parts fit and others didn’t. As I worked to get to “know” him again, I revised my views, adding some terms and removing others, until the labels no longer mattered.

I use labels when I write about my story. I temper the word ‘divorce’ with ‘tsunami’ to capture the suddenness of my experience. I use the label ‘trauma’ to convey the overwhelming loss. I recently introduced the term ‘PTSD,’ not as a diagnosis, but as a framework to discuss the anxiety and flashbacks that permeated my existence. Those single words hold pages of information. It is a kind of shorthand – a broad strokes sketch of the entire story.

Labels are like Cliff Notes. We use them as shortcuts as we develop our own understanding or to help someone else develop theirs. Just like Cliff Notes, they are not the entire story, full of detail and nuance. If we stop at labels, we are limiting ourselves and others. We may be blinded by assumptions as we fill in the gaps in our knowledge automatically.

Don’t be afraid to use labels but also be careful not to apply them with superglue. They should be used to anchor understanding, not to limit understanding.