The Worst Thing You Can Possibly Imagine
On the surprising relief of following a thought through.
A note for you if you’re having a bad day
Hi My Friend,
I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a great storyteller. Primarily, my audience is myself. For example: if my partner is 10 minutes late, but is usually on time, and hasn’t texted me all day, and isn’t responding right now, THEY ARE DEFINITELY DEAD. I can come up with a thousand ways that they could be dead, and then I can come up with a thousand ways I would need to react when the guy at the coffee shop gently approaches my table to tell me he’s just received a telegram explaining that my partner had been killed in some kind of a battle. (My imagination relies heavily on thematic tropes from war movies). When my partner shows up five minutes later, apologizing because he hadn’t realized it was going to take so long to bike to the coffee shop, I am shocked first and relieved second.
But more, I’m talking about this kind of story (which I will write in second person, as a good storyteller occasionally does, as a kind of device): You sent an email to your boss at work, telling them that you will have to take a few days off in four weeks because you’ll be traveling to New York for your sister’s wedding. You were going to lie to your boss and say that it was surgery, because who can argue with surgery, but you decided there were too many ways you might get caught, so you decided to go with the truth. And you were going to ASK if it was OK for you to take a few days off, but you’ve been trying to be more assertive, and anyway, you already have the plane tickets. But it’s been four days, and your boss has not responded to the email. And so you grow sure that your boss is PISSED. She hates you. She sees you as ungrateful and bothersome. She is, right now, talking to HER boss about what steps she might be able to take to expeditiously fire you. And bosses talk to other bosses, so once you’ve been humiliated and booted, you’ll never work in this here town again. (Your imagination relies heavily on thematic tropes from tales of the Old West.) As you tell yourself this story, you can identify it as a story. You know, intellectually, that it’s probably not what’s actually going on. But until you hear back from your boss, you feel unable to seriously entertain other possibilities.
Tara Brach1 (soothing meditation coach to many millennial Buddhist-adjacents) often says this (and recommends repeating it to yourself): “That’s a story you’re telling yourself. The feelings you’re having are real, but the story isn’t true.” I’ve repeated it to myself like a broken record, and I’ve parroted it too to my storytelling friends. I just wish it felt more accessible to my brain. My brain knows the words, but they don’t particularly soothe my inner storyteller.
A few years ago, I got a new therapist. I am the kind of client that Stephanie Foo says most therapists want: Western, employed, educated, and self-taught on many of the therapeutic practices that are commonly used in sessions. I am a good client because I want to be a good client: I want the therapist to praise me and tell me that I am so smart and worldly that maybe I should consider becoming a therapist myself! And for the most part, my (also white, also AFAB, also politically-to-the-left) former therapists have given me exactly what I’ve wanted. I would go to therapy, I’d self-analyze, and my therapist would praise me. These sessions were pleasing, but they didn’t particularly foster growth.
Once, early on, I told my new therapist one of my amazing stories. I’d been busy all day long, and hadn’t had a chance to text my best friend. (“The Mindy Project,” which we are re-watching right now, reminded me that “best friend isn’t a person, it’s a tier.”) At the end of the day, I texted her to apologize for my absence and tell her that I hoped she’d had a good day. It was only 7:30, so she was definitely still awake, but she didn’t text back. She didn’t text me back that night, and she didn’t text me back the next morning, either. “She hates me,” I told my therapist. “I neglected her and now she’s furious at me. She is seething. She thinks I’m selfish and evil and she won’t be able to forgive me for this.” Then, after a somewhat theatrical deep breath, I said, “But I know that’s a story and it isn’t true.”
“Well, maybe it IS true,” my therapist said. It was like I had just closed the bedroom door of a child who was ALMOST ASLEEP, and my therapist pushed past me, slammed the door wide open and blasted a tuba right in the child’s face.
She continued: “Follow that through,” she said. “Let’s say you’re right, and she IS furious at you. Maybe she does think you’re selfish and evil. Maybe she hates you. THEN what would happen?”
“… Uhhhh, MY BEST FRIEND WOULD HATE ME IS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN??!”
“Sure. But then what?”
As I’d come to learn, this therapist does this a lot. I tell her the story, and she asks me what would happen if the story were true. After all, stories don’t end with the best friend being mad at you, or the boss firing you for taking a vacation. They don’t end in the middle of the conflict. The conflict is, in fact, a good indicator that the story has a ways to go before it’s over.
If my best friend had hated me forever for not texting her enough on one given day, she would have been a terrible best friend, so it would have been a good thing we didn’t get much deeper into the friendship. If she hated me forever, I’d lose her, and I’m terrified of losing the people I love — but also, eventually, I’d be OK. I’d talk to my other best friends about it, and they’d listen and hold space and give feedback. I’d find new people to love and I’d learn something about my own breadth. I might develop stronger boundaries. Following the ugliest fear through — finishing the story — ended up being much more soothing than telling myself that it wasn’t true. Sometimes, the worst thing DOES happen. You don’t want to lull that child to sleep, only to have her wake up inside her worst nightmare.
Usually, the story IS NOT TRUE. But living with the fact that the story MIGHT be true is strangely liberating. Since my new therapist started asking me what would happen if my fears came true, I’ve been able to adopt two new policies.
This is a policy we named at The Office of Modern Composition, and it’s been awesome for us. The policy is: if you want something, ask for it! And then maybe someone will say no. But maybe they’ll say yes! The OMC rule is, if you asked for something scary, you get to come to our weekly meeting and tell us all about how you asked for the scary thing, and then we reply, “YAY, ASKING!” One of us got a teaching position we’d been coveting; one of us got bird celebrity David Sibley to agree to be interviewed for their podcast; and there are more and more and more examples. The thing that gets in the way of asking for something is fear of the word “no.” Maybe someone WILL tell you no! Then what would happen?
If you’re going to live in a world where you’re “yay” about asking, you also have to be “yay” about boundaries! Before you say yes reflexively, follow yourself to the end of the road of the worst-case scenario of your “no.” Someone asks for your help on a project they’re working on that you really believe in. You’re incredibly busy, so you say no. Worst case: they think you’re selfish and arrogant and that you don’t care about the important cause, and they tell their friends you’re selfish and arrogant and that you don’t care about the important cause, and everyone who has anything to do with the project rolls their eyes about you behind your back. And then what would happen? You’d be sad for a while, if you found out. Is it bearable? Is it safe? Ultimately, it probably is.
You might say, “Yeah, this would all be great, if we lived in a world where everyone was emotionally literate and had generosity of spirit and told the truth and wasn’t playing games with everyone else all the time.” And you’re right. That WOULD be great! The best way to begin to live in that great world is to live this way yourself, when you can, when it’s safe to do so.
So go ahead and follow your worst-case-scenarios to the end. Don’t interrupt yourself with your typical, “But that probably won’t happen.” Get all the way to the part where the conflict subsides. My partner was killed in battle; I am told by the barista; I scream; I am heartbroken; I feel can’t live; I call all the people I love; I gather them around me; I grieve; it takes years; I ask for what I need; I never fully heal; I age; the children around me age; the tree we planted together becomes big enough that apples grow on it; and then one day, I am laughing at someone’s bad joke, I am enjoying food, I am thinking about the people I love and have loved, and am feeling grateful.
Or something like that.
Nevertheless, I wish only best-case-scenarios for you, as much as possible, so that you’re always pleasantly surprised by what the world has to offer.
Love,
Sophie
Parenting Paragraph
New and hot this week with my 15-month-old: cuddling and singing. Every week, it feels like she couldn’t possibly be any cuter, and then she becomes cuter. But there’s a picture I love of her sitting on the grass looking out at the ocean at the Oregon Coast, and Luke is sitting there too, and they’re both eating pizza; I remember that moment going, “Oh! I’m content! Better take nine trillion photographs!”, and now I have one that pops up as a phone background for me from time to time. When I look at it, I’m amazed at how small and round she was, just a few months ago. And it’s just setting in that she won’t be that shape ever again, and that the thing is happening that the people said would happen, where the time goes faster than you can believe. The secret to that, I read, is to be OK with it. Which is easier when I have the picture on my phone to remind me that such a moment as the pizza-on-the-beach moment happened, and that whatever flash of contentment I felt then has altered my chemistry forever, in a way that has made me more whole.
It’s Raining
Hello, it’s raining. So let’s have a sale on paid subscriptions! Paid subscribers get a weekly thread email, where I ask a question and we all chat with each other about our answers (recently: unpopular opinions and ways to combat loneliness); and also seven additional recommended things (to eat, buy, read, listen to, etc.) in my Friday missive. I just sent out a batch of prints and t-shirts in the mail for people who subscribe at the Over-$50-a-Year level — which can be you! All memberships are 20 percent off this week. (For the “Founding Member” tier — which includes snail mail — you don’t need to pay $250; you can change that number to anything over $50 and receive the same benefits.)
I basically worship Tara Brach, and this newsletter should not be interpreted as a snub to her in any way. Her mantras, including this one, have been very helpful to me and have probably saved my life multiple times. Please don’t @ me for hating Tara Brach. I love her.
I love your emails and especially this one!
Catastrophizing (sp) and finding you’d still be ok!
The dead husband story is hilarious. Thanks.