The Peril of Positive Thinking

I was, once, dumped by an entire group of women because I was "too negative."

(You're scratching your heads. Too negative? Didn't I just write about how Frances is nearly perfect? Didn't I write earlier in the year about how I was determined not to wallow in self-pity because of the separation? That I was lucky to live in a time and place where I had the legal ability and financial resources to be able to leave? Too negative? Am I sure it wasn't because I was too treacly? Yep. I'm positive.)

See, there once was a place called Fertility Friend, which might or might not still exist, I don't know. And on this site there was a forum, and in this forum there was a group for Canadian women who were trying to get pregnant. And in this group there was bonding; unfortunately, the bonding was unequal, and cliques did develop, as they have a tendency to do.

The shit eventually hit the fan, as shit manages to do, and one of the little bits of shit flung here and there was an email (sent by someone I thought was a friend), enumerating in great detail my faults without any attempt to talk to me first about what I thought had happened, and sent not only to me, but to several of my close friends and many of the women who most disliked me--this, Dear Readers, is not an effective conflict management strategy. Should you ever be tempted to try such a thing, might I advise you to first, for the love of god, talk to the scoldee privately and get your story straight. At some point near the end of this particular email chain was an exhortation from the author that perhaps, if I had only been more positive and worked harder on my attitude, the first year of motherhood would not have been so hard for me.

Consider: I had given birth one month early to a child who might or might not have a genetic disorder, who had numerous feeding problems, did not grow, had reflux and so needed to be kept upright for 24 hours a day, refused bottles, and would only sleep if in physical contact with me. The advice came from a woman who'd given birth to a healthy full-term son who grew at the appropriate rate, slept well, had access to a free in-house babysitting service, and still had not managed to be happy during her first year of motherhood. I was Not Amused--especially as I'd done my very best to be as positive as I could be, under the circumstances.

The thing is, there are times when Positive Thinking does not and cannot make you happy. It can only make you less unhappy. This is what irritates me about the hardcore Positive Thinking/The Secret crowd: Jesus Murphy, if someone is down in a pit and crying for help, if you can't manage to throw them a rope, at least you can avoid spitting on them!

The worst of Frances's first year I kept to myself, until it was well over with--how terrified I was that maybe she was sick, and might die; that I might be starving her, and maybe that's why she wasn't growing, that I might be killing my baby; that this undiagnosable genetic syndrome might carry horrible health risks; the weeks I could not bring myself to leave the house because I was so sick and sore from hearing the things people said about her, or looked at her. How I'd lost weight below where I was when I got pregnant because I spent all day walking walking walking my sick and in-pain baby across the floor, never able to put her down, and never able to eat anything I couldn't grab with one hand. What I shared, instead, was what seemed to me the typical difficulties of new motherhood: getting so tired from a baby who won't sleep days on end that, eventually, you lose it and yell at them, even though you take it back right away; fights with partners about childcare and housework that you've never had before; trying to find the time to do the things you used to do that make you you. Gods know such stories are all over the momosphere, interspersed with the first smiles and milestones and adorable photographs.

That first year was a deep black hole, in many ways; and hold that lantern as high as I could, crane my neck back as far as I could, I still could not see the surface world. I could only see a shallower hole. I did my best, but I defy anyone in similar circumstances to spend time like that in a maternal glow, positive attitude or no.

I think it's probably obvious from the bulk of what I write that I do try very hard to keep myself on the upside of an even keel. My happiness is my job, not anyone else's, certainly not the world's. No one can count on having ideal circumstances every moment of every day (or any moment of any day); therefore, any real and lasting happiness will depend on how I manage adversity and difficulty (keeping in mind that these difficulties are of a pretty minor sort, globally speaking), not how successfully I chase the things or situations I think might make me happy. Things and situations never make happiness, not for long; there are always better things and better situations to long for; we make happiness for ourselves. (Which is not an excuse for not trying to better one's situation, or I'd never bother to try to publish; only a reminder that whatever one wants and is working for in the future, one needs to pay attention to one's happiness now, in the present moment, or happiness will always be out there somewhere.)

And so, yes, there are times when it seems that someone is unhappy out of all proportion to what I know of their circumstances; but that is the key, what I know. Which isn't going to be perfect or complete; how can what I know of someone else's life compare to what they know of their own? If they tell me they're doing the best they can, then who am I, standing on the surface of the world with the sun shining on my face, to wag my finger at them and tell them they could leave that hole if they really tried? If I care about them, then surely it's my job to throw them a rope, or a ladder, or a brighter lantern, or at least a paperback novel and a tin of cookies to pass the time. Not a derisive lecture.

There are times in the years that have passed since then--since Frances learned to sleep in her crib and overnight became a joyful, smiling creature; since we learned to live with the permanent undiagnosis; since I acclimatized to the stares and comments and questions we still sometimes get--that I worry that this blog of mine might hurt someone who is sitting in that hole. That my focus on using my thought patterns to manage my moods (it's a conscious thing, Dear Readers; I work at this) might be construed as a direction for you to do the same. I hope not, though. I hope it's clear that while I believe in this for myself, I don't believe in this for you.

Posted by Andrea at December 10, 2007 6:02 AM under Friends and Others , Me , Web

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