Hopeful Denial
Read by the author, here
Denial gets a bad rap as the enemy. When sprinkled on in correct dosages, it’s also a friend who provides strength during dark, helpless times. If I wasn’t sure I could pull off this exercise in edifying thinking week after week, despite the reams of discarded words in my wake, I wouldn’t bother to waste your screen time or mine.
So, my audience, have I made you smile? Brought a tear to your eye? Encouraged you to release yourself from previously held tyranny — self generated and otherwise?
Shit yeah, I have. Doesn’t matter if it’s true.
If I didn’t believe it, I would have remained in hiding. So would you. The way I see it, denial is the ultimate expression of hope.
When my mother contracted Alzheimer’s disease, I was sure we’d find a way out. Each time she lost another layer of herself, like basic hygiene, or the ability to walk, I sure it was the last thing that would go. Instead of anticipating the misery, I leaned into her open, cheerful smile and the tension free existence dementia had uncovered. In the end, death pushed past my denial, and I was in abject shock.
Would it have been better to be facing that eventuality all along, turning away from whichever gifts were left, no matter how scant? My denial didn’t keep her alive, but it didn’t kill her either.
We all have a fiction we feed as we land on it. Sometimes we double down, and sometimes we drown inside of it. It’s a way of holding ourselves both accountable and giving ourselves the ultimate pass.
When we moved to the exburbs I told myself I would put my happiness on hold, if it meant that I would be able to love my children better than my parents were able to love me in the wake of everyone’s best intentions.
I wonder if I knew the story I was peddling was an excuse not to put myself on the line. Instead to be secreted away, worshiped inside a bubble I created, one where they relied on me for survival, and wouldn’t shame me like a critic . On the other hand, being a present, loving mom whether working in or out of the house is a lofty goal — self sacrifice not withstanding.
Because neither hope nor denial are a monolith. We choose what mess to look beyond, whether it’s a sink full of dishes or a pile of unpaid bills or one more drink before I go. Hasn’t the last decade taught us, our truths don’t need to line up anyway.
I will live through the day. So will my people. I will get enough sleep. The gas gauge is correct and the electricity will stay on. I’m sticking to this, because I cannot possibly account for contingencies on all these things and make it to the bathroom. I must use my focus wisely!
One blob of willful ignorance I chew on like gum that never loses flavor is that any of us have that much influence in our own story at all — that genetics, space, time and socio economic traits are alterable. Someone has done it, so why not you? But I don’t care how much you think you control. I’m talking to you, my wonderful husband. There is no amount of bandwidth that will survive a nuclear winter.
But there is hope in the human need to work toward something. If I get an education… If I work hard… If I SnapChat my YouTube and TikTok my algorithm — I’ll matter. And maybe make some money. But this is far from guaranteed and the fact that we spend several years trying to believe is among the few hopeful things we have left.
I’m a frequent storm chaser of the denial desert dust devil. This hobby involves turning away from light in a dust storm that swallows you whole, holds you under, fills your nostrils and throat, tells you that while it may hurt, you must keep breathing. Years of my life have gone by gulping virtual black blizzards of bullshit.
Denial is a dangerous line for a compulsive empath like me who inhales and exhales every narrative I hear or make up as face value gospel. It took me years to figure out I could choose the ones I wanted to buy into, and though I spun and absorbed mine early, I held them tightly, so that no one would deny my own personal denial. I alone fill a happy audience of house seats.
My son is moving across the country no matter how hard I wanted his dream job to be here, in my basement. Denial is a useful tool that will blur the glaring focus and diffuse the razor edge truth. Sometimes. I’m still looking into decent flights.
The trick is knowing when to let go, to dig around the dune and find a way to sit up, blink and look around. When I see the storm coming over the horizon, what’s more helpful? To gauge its distance or full speed to my escape? Probably a bit of both.
I thought the truth was unbearable. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying desperately not to look, when all the while I could have been waiting in the oasis coffee shop with some pastry until the train headed into the station.
Letting go of my rigid belief in a story, whether one I made up or was given, has allowed me to enjoy the softening and inspiration some properly placed denial offers at its most useful. It’s an art to learn when to go inside and wait for the storm to pass. The good news is, I’m a fantastic student and willing to do what it takes.
In either case, you can’t prove me wrong. Unless I let you.
