news.
(Aleksander Hemon. "The Aquarium: a child's isolating illness." The New Yorker, June 13, 2011.)
After the earthquake and tsunami in Japan hit, I plunged into news overload. For days I read articles, watched videos and scanned pictures - the same ones over and over. The horror of it was not simply gripping ... it was paralyzing. I didn't know how to balance the seemingly trivial existence of my every day with the overwhelming tragedy of this disaster. The same thing happened when I recently lost an old friend. Thanks to the Internet, I could read and re-read blog entries about her progress, read and re-read her online obituary, read and re-read news articles from the DC area to report that "the pedestrian" had succumbed to her injuries.
My access to and fascination with the nonstop images, reporting and details of tragedy worried me. My id told me to learn more, read more, see more (after all, I'm a curious person - if there's something to learn, I'm going to learn it). My superego told me to block these sites from my computer so I would be able to focus on my tasks at hand, the tasks that reminded me I am accountable to and responsible for the life I'm still living. My ego was nowhere to be found. I think she was shell-shocked, too.
***
I read the above quote in The New Yorker earlier this month, in Hemon's personal account of dealing with his child's rare and threatening illness. I was struck by the necessity to "manage our knowledge and our imaginations if we were not to lose our minds." Never before would I have agreed that managing knowledge and imagination was a wise move ... but for this man and his wife, it was necessary for emotional, mental and psychological survival.
Unfortunately, we can't always choose what we see and what we don't. Even signing into an email account is a bombardment of headlines, images and pop-ups that are seemingly impossible to close (could they make that "X" in the corner any tinier?). But we can choose how frequently we return to these channels. How many times we Google a story, a person, an image. How deep we will allow ourselves to go. With massive wide-world tragedy, it seems like the safest solution may be to read what has happened, and limit the details. Our brains have trouble processing crises that we can't control, solve or even affect in any way. So in desperation, it spurs us to keep reading, keep reading, keep reading ... thinking surely we'll stumble upon a way to undo all the wrong.
***
This week, unprompted, I learned sad news of friends. A relationship broken, two people damaged, old sores re-opened and new scars forming. As a friend, as a woman, as a sensitive person, I always take this kind of news hard. I want to scream at our shocking ability as humans to hurt each other deeply, cry for our tendency to let past hurts disable us, question the disrespect we show each other simply because we don't respect ourselves enough. As humans. As souls. I want to know why we walk into situations knowing we'll get hurt, why we let people get close knowing we won't be able to care enough to keep them safe, why we don't say the things we desperately want to say until it's too late. I love you. I'm sorry. I want to know why the legacy of hurt, abuse, disrespect, and betrayal exists. The laws of natural selection should dictate that a legacy of damage doesn't - and maybe can't - produce strong, healthy runners of the human race, and so the legacy dies out. But instead, courage, hope and the tiniest specks of trust keep people moving forward, trying again to form meaningful, lasting relationships. Sometimes, it works. Often, it doesn't. Simply can't.
With this news came the natural temptation to know all. What did he say? What did you say? What time did he call? How long have you loved her? Who cried? For how long? My temptation might admittedly stem from my writer's interest in detail, dialogue and the human condition. But when it comes to a friend, my interest comes from a desire to say the right thing. I want to know the facts before I know how to respond. I need to know the depth of hurt and volume of pain before we can talk about an exit strategy, a coping mechanism, a plan to make the next day better than this one.
But in this week of heaviness, carrying around the emotional weight of hurting people, I've come to two important realizations.
1. I don't need to know.
2. I don't want to know.
The first means that as a friend, I can be as supportive knowing nothing as I can knowing everything. Really, what friends want is an ear, a shoulder and some company. If they want real treatment, they can talk to a licensed therapist. If they want the counsel and comfort of a friend, they have the right to share or withhold whatever information they choose. And as the friend being asked to share the burden, I have the right to refuse some of the weight.
The second means that, as Hemon discovered, managing knowledge and imagination is a safety measure. Information can be intriguing and powerful, but it can be damaging. I ache for hurting people, but my heart and mind need to be strong for my life, my marriage, my relationships. I can't bring the weight of the world into my home. Nor should I feel like it's my duty as a friend, as a citizen of a broken world.
***
The news is a powerful, wonderful connector. We need it. We live by it. But without balance, we'll die by it. Just as we can't ignore the news, we can't carry the weight of every problem, every scandal, every natural disaster, every pop star's mental breakdown. We can grieve for the people in Joplin, Missouri, and give money, relief efforts, and prayers. We can pity the devastated marriages that make headlines in Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., and we can learn to be grateful that while the flawed people we love may irk us, they don't betray us. And then we need to close the computer, put down the paper. We need to live life by the people and situations that confront us, challenge us, demand our attention, care and input. We need to reach out to people without jumping into the currents with both feet. We need to keep ourselves safe for the people in our own relationships.
In an age where information is rampant, heavy and draining, we need to be careful. By managing and protecting information and imagination, we keep them both strong. And the stronger we are, the more we have to give in the times we're truly needed.