Allowing Feelings
When I was 20, someone close to me had a fatal accident. In wishing me condolences, several people told me, “I know how you feel,” shared, “I know how you feel, I [insert example of loss from their life]” or, blathered my (not) favourite, “I know exactly how you feel.”
It was their way of empathizing and relating. I understand that now, and I understood it then. Still, each time I wanted to respond to their politeness with an impolite two-word expletive that ends in “you.”
[I’ll let you think about that for a moment.]
I wouldn’t do it, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to.
I’d silently think, “No, you don’t know how I feel. You didn’t have a relationship with [this person].
Even if you did, no one else who knew him knows how the others feel. I don’t know how his parents feel because I can’t know what it’s like to lose a son. I don’t know how his brother feels or the friend who saw him last. Each of his friends is grieving differently because they experienced their relationship with him differently. No, you don’t know, [insert name] “ — But I didn’t say any of it. That would be impolite and awkward, and grief is awkward enough.
Because of this experience — my knowing only that I don’t know how anyone feels, I don’t try to empathize with others in similar situations. I share…
