The Feral Truth: Toxic Positivity Is Exhausting

I would like to formally resign from being positive all the time.

Thank you for the opportunity.

It's been terrible.

Please forward my final paycheck.

Somewhere along the way, serious illness acquired a very strange public-relations department.

Everything has to be inspirational.

Stay positive!

Everything happens for a reason!

You've got this!

God only gives us what we can handle!

Don't think negatively!

Meanwhile, I'm standing there thinking:

Ma'am, I have slept four hours, somebody's scan results just posted to MyChart, insurance denied something important, and I have no idea what we're having for dinner.

Could I perhaps just be pissed off for fifteen minutes?

I understand why people do it.

Truly.

When someone you love is going through something awful, you desperately want to say something that makes it less awful.

The problem is...

Sometimes there isn't anything.

Sometimes cancer is scary.

Sometimes treatment sucks.

Sometimes the scan isn't good.

Sometimes the caregiver is exhausted.

Sometimes everybody is doing their absolute best and the situation is still complete bullshit.

Putting a motivational quote over it doesn't change that.

It just gives the bullshit a prettier font.

And I actually am a hopeful person.

That's the part people misunderstand.

Hope and positivity aren't the same thing.

I can hope the treatment works...

and still be terrified that it won't.

I can believe we're going to get through today...

and still think today absolutely sucks.

I can laugh with Paul in a hospital room...

and cry in the car later.

I can be grateful for good doctors...

and furious that we need them.

I can believe something good is coming...

while acknowledging that what's happening right now is really fucking hard.

Those things can exist together.

Human beings are complicated like that.

What becomes exhausting is feeling like we have to perform optimism for everyone else.

Someone asks:

"How are things?"

And sometimes I can practically feel myself choosing between the real answer and the answer that won't make the other person uncomfortable.

Because the real answer might be:

"We're scared. We're tired. We don't know what's next."

And that's apparently a conversation killer.

So instead:

"We're staying positive!"

Look at me.

Making everybody comfortable.

You're welcome.

There's also this weird idea that attitude somehow determines outcome.

And I hate that one.

Because what does that say about the people whose cancer progresses?

They weren't positive enough?

Didn't manifest hard enough?

Forgot to visualize remission before breakfast?

Absolutely not.

A person can fight like hell and still have cancer progress.

A caregiver can believe with everything they've got that things will get better and still receive devastating news.

Hope can make an unbearable day easier to carry.

It is not a medical treatment.

And nobody should ever be made to feel like fear, sadness, anger, or grief means they're somehow failing at being sick—or failing at loving someone who is.

Sometimes the most comforting thing anyone has said to me wasn't:

"Everything is going to be okay."

Because sometimes nobody knows that.

It's:

"This really sucks."

That's it.

No silver lining.

No inspirational speech.

No attempt to fix something that can't be fixed.

Just another human being willing to sit beside you in the truth.

There is something incredibly comforting about that.

Because now I don't have to pretend.

That doesn't mean I want everyone walking around like Eeyore either.

There is a middle ground.

Bring me hope.

Please.

Bring me laughter.

Bring me ridiculous memes.

Tell me something good.

Celebrate every win with me.

Remind me that we've survived hard things before.

Just don't require me to turn every terrible thing into a life lesson while I'm still living through it.

Maybe I'll find meaning later.

Maybe I won't.

Right now I might just need to say:

This fucking sucks.

And have someone answer:

Yeah. It really does.

Then hand me an iced coffee.

Honestly?

That's support.

I've learned that real hope has room for the truth.

It doesn't require pretending.

It doesn't disappear because someone cries.

It doesn't crumble because someone admits they're scared.

Real hope can sit right beside fear.

It can sit beside anger.

It can even sit beside grief.

Sometimes hope isn't:

"Everything is going to be okay."

Sometimes it's:

"I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen, but I'm still here."

I can live with that kind of positivity.

The Feral Truth: I don't need someone to convince me everything will be okay. I need people who can sit with me when it isn't—and still help me believe there might be something worth hoping for tomorrow.