The Brighter the Light, the Darker the Shadow
Or, how my meltdown at the mall led me to embrace the Devil
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In an interview about filming The Devil Wears Prada (which, incidentally, I am trying to work in as the final novel for a Women Writers course I’m slated to teach in the fall), Meryl Streep said that she hardly spoke to, let alone got to know, her costars Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt on set because she was trying to remain in character. In character for this film meant emulating the stand-offish and perpetually foul-mooded magazine editor Miranda Priestly.
When asked if doing so was particularly challenging, Streep said no, not at all: “I’m naturally in a bad mood.”
As if I needed more reasons to love her.
For you see, I, like Meryl, am also naturally in a bad mood. And masking it has pretty much been my life’s work (well, at least since the ninth grade when one of my “best friends” said that although they won’t admit it, nobody likes hanging out with me because I’m always complaining).
As a result, my life nowadays consists of two personas that are the stuff of nineteenth century science fiction. Namely, Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde comes to mind.
My students, for example, in various faculty evaluations and nominations for awards over the years have called me bubbly, optimistic, encouraging, kind, patient, soothing, even “so chill.” One time I even received a glorious combo of a compliment that remains with me to this day: “You’re the most animated and politically correct professor I’ve ever had.” I’ll take both, thank you very much.
And it’s not that I’m not all of those things. I am.
It’s just that I have also had an anxiety disorder for as long as I can remember and have been battling high-functioning clinical depression since my early twenties, which means that much of the time, I am also glaringly and quite unfortunately the opposite of bubbly, optimistic, patient, and soothing. In those moments, I also display absolutely no level of “chill.”
Despite what is simmering underneath, I have gotten quite adept at what various therapists over the years have called “acting as if,” which is the conventional psychological wisdom that if we pretend to be in a good mood, we will trick our brains into thinking we actually are in a good mood and then all our problems will be solved.
(Sorry, that snuck in and even surprised me. Two guesses as to whether today is a Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde day.)
But a meltdown at the mall earlier this month had me questioning the way I mask this shadow aspect of my existence.
I was there to return a pair of shoes and my husband had tagged along so we could pick up a few other things, none of which were there. I was drowning in more work and deadlines than even a team of three or four could comfortably handle, my husband was throwing himself a fortieth birthday party that weekend which would all but ensure that my work would not get done, and my brother-in-law kept calling and texting every five minutes for help planning the baby shower I had already tried to organize for my sister a month ago but none of my choices had been to her liking so now that she had (to absolutely nobody’s surprise) dropped the ball with planning it herself, it was somehow back on my plate but in a very stressful and rushed manner.
On top of all of that, a stomachache attacked me in the middle of Dick’s Sporting Goods - perhaps my body’s way of ridiculing me for having the audacity to check out tennis rackets in hopes that physical activity might help me feel better, my period was just around the corner, and I had once again waited too long to eat.
Welcome to the absolute worst moment to find yourself in a mall food court.
I was over-heating, suffocating, virtually in tears, and whisper-screaming at my husband for not being of any help in this obvious time of utter crisis, lashing out in the worst way possible because at this point a completely haywire fight-or-flight response had taken over and my alter-ego always picks fight in these moments.
Then, my cell phone rang.
It was my brother-in-law, undoubtedly relaying another question from the caterer about when I wanted the cake to be served and would I be needing a cake stand or did I have one of my own.
And do you know what I did?
I took the call and instantly morphed into the most cheerful, resourceful and downright optimistic sister and party planner extraordinaire.
As I proceeded to fake-laugh and fake-patiently listen to the various shapes and quantities of Sugarfina champagne candies my brother-in-law was trying to track down at my sister’s behest, I saw my husband’s face fall. I knew exactly what he was thinking: How come she can bottle it up for everybody but me?
I sheepishly relayed the incident to my therapist.
“I don’t want to be mean and unpleasant to my husband. But nobody can pretend all the time. I have to be able to let it out sometimes! And since he happens to live with me and is always there, he’s bound to be the person who gets the brunt of it.”
My therapist, as she is paid to do, validated my experience. But she also asked what stopped me from lashing out at, say, my friends and colleagues, who had also been texting me all week about grant funding and student events and god knows what else.
“Well,” I responded, “if I act crazy with them, they won’t talk to me. They’ll hang up on me and not want me in their lives.”
“And your husband?”
“He obviously knows how crazy I am and he’s still here.”
“It sounds like he’s a really safe person for you,” my therapist offered.
I thought about it and tears started streaming down my face. He was a safe person. He was the safe person. My favorite person. My most trusted person. And instead of getting the best of me, which is what he deserved, he got the absolute worst. Every day.
I was full of remorse and shame. I hated myself for acting this way. But by sitting with the uncomfortable feelings, I was beginning to understand why I did it. Mental illness is overwhelming and exhausting. And it fills me with rage and resentment. And I repeatedly take that rage and resentment out on my safe person.
What’s more, the guilt from acting in ways that don’t align with our actual values - in my case, showing my loved ones affection and appreciation - further feeds the rage and resentment because now we feel bad about ourselves and it’s always easier to blame someone else for it.
This vicious cycle, this beast I feel chained to, reminds me of the Devil in tarot. And for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to extend compassion toward this Devil and glean some healing insights from this tarot card.
And what I’ve realized is this.
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