On World Mental Health Day, read today's blog on hope or scroll to the end to listen.
I remember reading the poem “I dwell in possibility” by Emily Dickinson when I was 13. I couldn’t quite make my way around the metaphors then but somehow felt a connection with its meaning. Emily Dickinson wrote the poem about her life; how she came to a realisation that the only place for her to live was in the realms of possibility because material possessions and the metrics of life that we use as judgement on ourselves and our actions don’t and can’t bring us the kind of peace we seek. So dwelling in possibility became a way that I lived my whole life.
Now please, don’t stop reading! This isn’t going to be a piece about American poets of the 19th century. I wanted to share Emily’s perspective with you because I believe it’s a powerful reinforcement for the argument that hope can exist whatever we are facing. So, if you’re a parent struggling to make sense of what is going on in your family, read on…
Let me take you back to a day in November 2015.
It was an unseasonably warm day, with the most cobalt of blue skies and an out of place sense of spring. Yet, I was not optimistic. A week before, my daughter had attempted suicide and I was dwelling in doom. I felt no hope at all.
In fact, I’m not sure I felt anything. Empty and numb were more than I actually felt at that time. I was existing; floating through the moments trying so desperately hard to find some kind of truth or reason that I could hold onto.
With my daughter safe at home, I’d gone out for a walk and found myself alone in the middle of a field. As the thoughts raced and the emotions flooded me, I couldn’t stop myself from screaming out loud until my voice crackled and my throat hurt. Why us? Why now? What next? What did I do, not do, think I did, should have done? What was happening to us?
At that moment, there was no space for hope, or optimism, or possibility; all the things we’re told to hold onto in times of deep distress; all the things I’d held onto through past challenges. I had no capacity to hold onto hope and process what we faced and be on a code red alert for what might come next. The pain and demands of our current reality were too urgent for me to look beyond them.
By the time spring did finally come the following year, I’d spent many days and nights sitting with the grief, guilt and sheer hard work of keeping Issy alive, making sense of our new normal, and trying to maintain my optimism. And I didn’t always succeed. Each night, I’d go to bed thanking the day for allowing us to get through it, and hoping we’d be gifted a chance to get back on track with the life we’d left behind.
One day, I came upon Emily Dickinson’s poem for the first time in at least a decade. As the words appeared like old, familiar friends, they gently reminded me that I was hoping for something that wasn’t possible. While I was intent on trying to meet the measurements of life that were no longer relevant or possible, there was no hope of me or us dwelling in possibility. And if we weren’t open to what might be possible now, there was no hope of change or connection. We would continually disappoint ourselves.
Charles R. Snyder, PhD was a psychologist and pioneer of research into hope. He believed that hope has 3 parts to it:
- Goals - what we want
- Agency - our ability to make change happen
- Pathways - the ways we get to our goals
When your child’s mental health means they can’t live the life they - or you - expected, the way we hold onto hope in the dark and difficult moments has to change. We can’t be all toxically positive because that denies our child’s reality and keeps us from our true feelings. We have to shift our perspective.
Before we can get to hope, or possibility, or even to a space where we aren’t consumed and all chewed up, we have to realign our goals.
My goals for Issy had been more assumptions than conscious choices.
I hadn’t really considered what she’d do in life but I naturally wanted her to be happy and fulfil her potential. Attempting suicide, being out of school for 2 years, our whole life changing… these definitely weren’t on the wish list. But if this is what we faced, how could I get used to this new normal? How could I let go of the desire to get back to the life we had had? You know, the one that made her unwell, the one where she felt unsafe, the one where I was unconsciously going through the motions? Do I really want to go back there?
It took quite some time for me to see that within the pain, the isolation, the distress, and the fear, there was an opportunity in this adversity. If I could realign my goals, I could dwell in possibility.
But the realignment of my goals meant letting go. Letting go of the life I expected and the uncertain future that I’d turned into an obvious outcome that would happen, confronting my grief for Issy and for me, and honouring all we’d lost.
Realigning my goals helped me to regain a sense of agency. I’d tell myself, “If all I need to do today is keep her alive and make dinner, I am #winning.” When my goals were smaller, simpler and less demanding on her, me and the future, I began to feel a burgeoning sense of empowerment over what came next. No, the goals weren’t most people’s ideas of #winning but they weren’t #livingourlife.
Along with the reduction of obligation and pressure on Issy and on me, I started to Step Down from my emotion, experience, judgement and authority - the first stage of Partnering not Parenting that changed the way I approached what we faced and helped me and Issy to get through. And we gained space. Not much at first, but enough for me to settle the fears and begin to gain a foothold on possibility. And over time, I started to see what we were gaining. Deeper connection, closeness and understanding and time and space to decide what we needed, not what was expected.
But what about pathways, Suzanne? Aren’t you going to give me a little blueprint to hope? Can’t you make it easy for me?
While I definitely wish I could, pathways are where we make our own unique sense of this experience and how we define, nurture and grow our hope. The pathways Dr Charles talked about are personal to us all.
And like an obstacle course, we have to overcome our expectations, our judgements, and our beliefs if we’re going to continue on this pathway. Battling systems and services that appear to do their damndest to challenge, befuddle and delay connection, support and change are serious blockers to hope. There will be days when it all feels futile, and days when change feels possible. These days come to us all on the journey to dwelling in possibility.
And I’m delighted to say that, unlike me, you don’t have to go on this journey alone. Parenting Mental Health is your village. Seek out success stories, wins, and aha moments. Connect with others who can lift you up when your screaming inside or out. It will be your turn to lift them soon. Believe in your child’s bright, brilliant future, even if the pathway isn’t clear and your sense agency is wobbly. Seek out hope from others while you grow your own. Even if you can’t see it, hope is out there in abundance.
