I sat in stunned silence on the couch opposite Fay. Absorbing the warmth of our large fireplace, she sat on the raised hearth, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were heavy with the weight of this decision and its impact on her children. The light from the fireplace accentuated the stress creasing her forehead. Tippy lay curled at her side; Fay absently pet the dog’s silky fur. Occasional pops and cracks from the fire emphasized the silence.
Thoughts bombarded my mind, but I could only focus on the superficial ones. If their marriage could fail, then mine unquestionably faced a death knell. And even more selfishly, how would we celebrate holidays? With whom would we do fun things? How would our children maintain their friendships?
“Are you sure?”
“You love each other. You just renewed your vows.”
“Think about your kids.”
My mouth kept moving despite my brain’s admonition to stop. That last statement hit a nerve.
Fay deliberately turned to me with tears in her eyes and said, “Do you understand what we are about to do? Do you know how painful it will be to tell our children that we are getting a divorce?”
Truthfully, at that moment, I didn’t. And I didn’t want to spend even a second of time contemplating it. My compassion utterly abandoned me in those moments with Fay. Subsequently, I abandoned her. Focused on my worries amid the imminent dissolution of their marriage, I put a ‘closed’ sign on my heart.
What I hadn’t understood then, but see all too plainly now, is that I had abandoned myself throughout my marriage. Over the years, I smiled when things felt overwhelming. I smiled when my needs weren’t met. I smiled when I was told my expectations were too high. I channeled my energy into my children, into my home, into my community. Slowly, insidiously, I subscribed to the notion that my feelings, my commitments, and my sacrifices to the relationship were irrelevant. Perhaps Fay, like me, had hoped, worked, focused, and communicated with no tangible outcome for improvement inside of her relationship. After years of this effort, I became almost totally dissociated from my feelings in and out of my marriage. My friends couldn’t lean on me because I couldn’t even lean on myself.
In an environment that is permeated by toxic positivity, everything is fine, because superficial appearances are all that matter. Toxic positivity is when we move beyond just looking at things from a ‘glass half full’ perspective. Toxic positivity occurs when we actively ignore our own or another person’s pain and suffering. Even worse is when we rationalize another person’s feelings away. Perhaps because those feelings, or that experience of pain, are inconvenient to us, maybe because we are too self-absorbed or focused on external appearances. More likely, we don’t have the strength to accept reality or face our truth.
When we tell people to look on the bright side in moments when they’re clearly in pain, that’s toxic positivity.
When we pretend everything is fine in our lives when we feel overwhelmed and anxious, that’s toxic positivity.
When we try to convince someone that their ‘negative’ emotions are not valid or try to steer them away from their actual feelings, that is toxic positivity.
It is good to hold in our hearts the beauty of the world, keep a positive outlook, and exude gratitude. But to do so in the space of our pain and suffering, or that of others is neglectful. It’s punitive and harmful. In some cases, it constitutes abuse. And that, my friends, is not looking at the glass as half full. It is toxic positivity. We imbue it in ourselves, and we foist it upon others. There are many things to be grateful for in this world—the gift of life itself. But we ignore pain and suffering at our peril. We get caught up in our need to appear competent, fit in, play by societal rules, focus on symbol and status, and forget to tend to our pain, let alone the pain of the ones we love. We create toxic positivity across our lives in and outside of social media. And we wonder why people suffer anxiety and depression.
But when Fay no longer subscribed to these sacrifices of the self, it highlighted mine. When she decided that her needs and feelings mattered, it permitted me to allow my needs, thoughts, and feelings to count. Her actions moved my pain from shadow to light. When Fay decided to drop toxic positivity like the radioactive substance that it is, it empowered me to open my heart to take a peek inside.
Layers of toxic positivity require slow-peeling. I have engaged more intimately with my pain throughout the past few years in slow, steady increments. The task of accepting what is, what I had done, what I had allowed into my heart required immense courage, unflinching perception, and a steely will. Overcoming toxic positivity requires radical acceptance, patience, and copious amounts of gentle, self-compassion. And forgiveness.
For years, Fay and I rarely spoke or saw each other. Over time, we’ve embarked on a new course of friendship. We engage in healthy reality, fed by the wisdom of experience, mutual respect, and honesty.
We exist in an imperfect world,
stardust made human,
Light-freckled darkness.
Flawed.
Magnificent.
