A Poignant Question and An Honest Answer

A Poignant Question and An Honest Answer

John Paul Derryberry

I was standing in a lobby talking with an acquaintance the other day. Nothing too serious, just your common daily lobby dialogue. They know me well enough to know a little about my struggles, job, and storytelling but do not have the whole backstory. And do we really ever have the entire backstory on anyone? We all contain a level of hidden identity from people we know. The best of us drop this act as much as possible for the people we love, and the worst of us hide as much as possible. Finally, the acquaintance throws out the poignant question: I've got a nephew who can't shake his struggles. You have been there. Does anyone really ever shake it off? 

It's a question begging for an answer filled with hope. You can see the love of the nephew in the flecks of his eyes; love for his sibling, a parent trying to figure out the mess created by the struggle. The sibling and nephew are trying to figure out how to live a life they never imagined they would have to walk. The family member is standing in a lobby with a guy who has been there, hoping for a glimmer that, an ounce of this will eventually be all right. 

How my answer lands on people is based on where they feel hope starts. And does hope start with a lie to ourselves that we eventually make happen through determination? Or does hope begin with the truth and acceptance that allows us to move in a way to add hope to our lives? It's truly a fascinating discussion. I know plenty of people, myself included, who lied to me to give me hope for better days, and it came true. But I also know that to create space for hope to grow, I had to be honest with myself and loved ones because white lies to ourselves might inspire determination. Big lies to ourselves and loved ones corrode everything from the inside out. 

I take a big breath and begin to answer: the trick is realizing that you never shake it off thoroughly. It's a part of you and always will be. We have to decide how much a part of us we want it to be compared to the other parts of our personality. And that also ebbs and flows based on our support system, the stress we are experiencing, and a bunch of other factors: from the trauma we haven't processed to the state of the world. Like, are we in a freaking pandemic, and not a single leader has uttered the phrase: I've never been a leader in the pandemic before, so stuff might change a lot, and I'm not 100% sure what I'm doing. Wouldn't it have been nice to year that 3 years ago? 

He said; you seem like you got it figured out. I said; I decided I wanted my compassionate side to outweigh the anger I carry with me. But it's still there, smaller than it ever was before, but there. It scares me that all these years later, with all the healing I've done for some, for it to still be sitting there. Sometimes I think, why is it still there? It shouldn't be. I've done the work, and then I struggle for a few days with this tiny thimble of anger in my heart. I do not focus on the fact that I did the work to remove 98% of the bitterness. Our emotions and mind play many tricks on us; I'm always proud of everyone who heals even a little. It's hard. And there are a million words someone can elegantly write to explain how hard it is, but no one can ever fully immerse in that struggle with just words. 

He paused and asked so what do we do? I smiled and said, struggle. Struggle as long as it takes to have a good day. And then enjoy the excellent day. Hopefully, it turns into lots of good days. But then, when the struggle returns, smile and struggle. It's really the only way to get through it. Yes, please go to therapy, exercise, eat healthier, make better friends, improve relationships, reflect, learn, move, and make more money. 

All that is about the struggle, but it doesn't mean you still won't struggle. Wrestling with the bad parts of us gives us something we need. An appreciation for the moments we rise above our stuff and be that person we want to be for a day, a month, a year, and a decade. It gives us an anchor point of knowing we can be that person. And that's real hope, shaking off trauma and actual problems. Saying for a day, I'm happy, I love, I live, even though I still have this piece of me struggling. So no, we never shake it off but learn how to carry it. And that 2% I still carry is a beautiful reminder of who I was, who I don't want to be, and how, despite that 2%, I remain hopeful I can cut it down to 1%.