“Are you turning on yourself, sweetheart?”
My right foot had been broken for 48 hours. I’d been on crutches and in a boot for 24. We were 1200 miles from home, staying with our niece and nephew, reorienting ourselves after this inconvenient, downright rude change of plans. I’d canceled all my classes and our family had gone home.
I paused, reeling and untethered. I sent a simple text to a handful of friends:
Bit of a rough go here: Saturday I broke my right 5th metatarsal. 6 weeks non-weight bearing in a boot. I’m heartbroken.
No more than 30 seconds after hitting send, my friend (also a gifted teacher and therapist) Wendy Hubbard , called me.
“Susan,” she said. “How are you?” I told her I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, that I was sad and disappointed and embarrassed.
She paused and gently asked, “Are you turning on yourself?”
My eyes filled. I thought of the storm of self-flagellation ricocheting in my head: what a mess you’ve made, you’re not as strong as you like to think, you have carelessly and foolishly ruined our trip.
“Oh my gosh. Yes. I am. How did you know?”
“Because it’s normal. We all do it. It’s a stress response, a trauma response. We live in a world where random, unexplainable things happen, and our minds want to know why. You are the easiest person to blame. Now that you’ve noticed, keep reminding yourself that this is not your fault.”
For two months, her words have stayed with me. When big emotions come through – and they do – I notice when they curl insidiously inward.
A hand on my heart, a big breath and Wendy’s reminder, “Don’t turn on yourself, sweetheart. This isn’t your fault.”
Recently, when a towering wave of grief and fear rolls through, I catch my “turning on me” tendency and then pause to turn toward the tsunami of sadness. It is my habit to turn on myself. In some ways, it’s easier than not knowing, easier than the groundlessness. It’s all my fault and that’s that. Done and done.
Instead, I ask the bitter disappointment, the festering frustration, the anxiety about the uncertainty, “What do you want me to know? What do you need?” By catching the turning-on-myself tendency and instead turn toward myself, I’ve learned some things:
“I love nature. I want to be out in it. I love sunshine and breezes and water and sand and stones and all of it. I love being part of the world. I’m afraid it’s moving out of my reach.”
“Impermanence makes life precious. Impermanence makes life beautiful. Impermanence makes life terrifying.”
“I love the people in my life. I love my life. I love life. I want to stay present both to its beauty and to the truth that it will someday be over.”
Wendy assures me that “don’t turn on yourself” is not her invention. Buddhist teachings call it “the second arrow.” The first arrow is the inevitable pains and sorrows of living a human life. The second arrow — the often more painful one — is our response, it is when we turn on ourselves. Wendy writes about facets of this principle here, here and here.
And while she may not have originated the “second arrow” idea, her reminder not to turn on myself came just when I needed it and my past two months have been easier because of it.
In scary, traumatic times, our focus narrows and our brains literally can take less in. It is in those times that we need to remember what we know but have forgotten. We can write it on the wall, make it our screensaver, or tattoo it on our arm, but the best way to remember by far is to have a fellow traveler gently and lovingly remind you.
“Don’t turn on yourself, sweetheart. Turn toward yourself.”
The habit of turning on myself hurts. It’s a familiar, safe hurt – and it is a lie. Turning toward myself is unfamiliar and opens me up to an expansive emotional landscape that can be overwhelming. It doesn’t feel safe, especially at the beginning. But it feels true.