Getting Comfortable in the In-Between

Things are a mess. This mess is not new, it is not unique. It may feel extra tortuous and turmoiled in this moment, and my dear—that is the point.

For most people, living in chaos and clutter is intolerable for too long: brains get overloaded, nervous systems fray, breaking points snap and sizzle. We long for a simple fix. The longer and more intense the mayhem, the more vulnerable we can become to accepting mercy in whatever form it presents itself. Living beings are wired to avoid discomfort—this is not a bad thing, and indeed it has kept us alive all these millennia.

When chaos is wielded intentionally as a weapon, the purpose is to overwhelm with the goal of dominating the subject. Anyone who has experienced interpersonal abuse will immediately recognize this tactic; we are in an abusive relationship with these destructive systems wreaking havoc upon our world. For those who have experienced this before, it can reactivate the trauma that lives in our bones, disregulating our responses in ways we may not immediately understand. For those just waking up to this horror, well, it feels very much like the psychic struggle of trying to reconcile the person we thought we knew with the way they are treating us.

Here’s the thing about abusers though: the playbook is always the exact same. The exact same. As an abuse survivor and victim advocate, I have listened to the stories of hundreds of people, and it never ceases to amaze me how the tactics of abusers are so consistent. It really does feel like they’ve all attended the same seminar. And in a way—they have. The dominant culture teaches, reinforces, and frequently rewards these methods of oppression. We are all swimming in this toxic stew, and we all absorb its messages.

But the paradox of the abuser is that the chaos is predictable. This is one key to our survival. If we can pause for a moment to zoom out to the big picture, disentangle ourselves from the poisonous vines twining up our legs, we can look for the patterns. I am thinking of Westley in The Princess Bride, calming Buttercup’s fears that they will not survive the Fire Swamp: he points out that they have learned the warning signs of the terrors they face, and can therefore plan for them. (Of course as he’s saying this, he’s trying to distract her from an impending R.O.U.S. attack—there’s probably a lesson in there about not shielding people from reality, but handing them something useful they can use. I mean dang, Westley, give her an extra dagger or SOMETHING.)

Another key, perhaps the most important one, is learning to get comfortable with discomfort. As Westley says (sorry, not done with my Princess Bride bullshit) before being captured by Prince Humperdinck, “Ah, but how will you capture us? We know the secrets of the fire swamp. We can live there quite happily for some time, so whenever you feel like dying, feel free to visit.” You use the chaos against the aggressor. You find the secret warrens and tunnels through the wreckage. You cloak yourself in twilight and make your bed in the unknown.

Getting comfortable in—or at least increasing tolerance for—the in-between spaces is how we fight the fires swirling around us. They intend to burn us out, to make us so uncomfortable that we accept their treacherous deal in exchange for a sort of peace. I’ll say it bluntly: fascism demands purity. It unfurls a mirage of simplicity, offering a seductive ease as a respite from the very horrors it has created. Everything neatly in boxes, the thinking already done for you, the decisions made. Easy. Simple. Pure. Sterile.

The messiness is where humanity lives. Heart-bursting love, shattering grief, defiant hope, snotty tears, snorting laughter—these are not able to be captured and confined in their clean white boxes. The complications of human existence defy the barren austerity of fascism. Let us not seek to simplify our complexities—choosing to feel and feel extravagantly is an antidote.

It is important also to define where the rough edges of discomfort sharpen into harm. It is easy to confuse the two; with our propensity to avoid any discomfort, we can too quickly categorize it as harm. On the flip side, if one has experienced so much harm that it becomes a baseline, we may think we are great at tolerating discomfort when we have actually become numb to the knife that is cutting us.

Last November, I went outside to look at the lovely full moon. It was crisp out, and I sat in a metal chair. I found myself fidgeting and feeling like I should go back inside to escape the creep of the cold metal seeping into my thighs. The chill felt like an annoying distraction from what I was trying to do—just hang out with the moon! I took the opportunity to get out of my head and sink into my body—feel the cold, ask myself if it was intolerable, or merely uncomfortable? I decided it was the latter. Now—I HATE being cold. Hate it. But, it is a sensation that is unique to having a body on this earth. I wondered if I would miss being able to feel cold when I’m a ghost.

We can capture the oppressor’s weapons of discomfort, take them in like mistreated animals: tending to them with compassion until they eat from our hands and become loyal allies in the fight. Fascist mentality fears discomfort; use it against them. There are some studies on how long people can tolerate silence in a conversation. English-speaking people start to get antsy after an average of a mere four seconds. Something here is connected: the ability to tolerate socialized discomfort creates a space of freedom, a moment to respond instead of react.

Am I a monster? Yes, love, I am. I am a monster because I contain too much…What is a monster but someone who can see the world from both sides?…What is a monster if not someone, some thing, caught between?…The people, they want to be either here or there. Feet firmly on one shore of another. For in the middle of two shores is the sea, and the sea is unknowable, and inconstant, and cannot be controlled. - Gennarose Nethercott, “The Plums at the End of the World”, Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart

Embrace the in-between, the liminal, the unknowable and uncontrollable. As proclaimed by bumper stickers across The South, bless this mess.