Capacity for Kindness

This blog is prompted by the words of someone that I once considered an unshakeable, lifelong friend.

In a recent falling out (unpleasant but it happens and I’m generally quite quick to try and fix things and move on) words were written on a page that I don’t know if I can forget. I can forgive because I know they were written in haste and anger and their unkindness and impact was not considered or measured by the writer at the time. But I will struggle to forget. 

I have dealt with sporadic episodes of anxiety and depression for over 20 years. As a teen I was suicidal and have found myself on the edge of that path again subsequently at intervals in the following two decades. Luckily I have incredible friends and family and a strong self preservation instinct in the moment. But this doesn’t change the thoughts that led me to that point. 

The writer expressed their anger over my “misery” and “cry wolf” attitude. They found me boring and a burden. 

Anyone who has EVER contemplated taking their own life knows that these are the precise thoughts that echo around your head as you try to reach for someone, anyone, to help. 

I can’t forget that they have been written down, plainly for me to see. 

What seems like misery, I hope, is curbed by a positivity, generosity and sense of humour that gives back as much as and whenever possible. 

What looks or appears like crying wolf is a struggle between the part of me that fights to be ok. That insists on being strong, getting back up and trying again and the tired, battered little me that has felt this way too often and only need justification and a push to lie down and stop. 

And so I am in a predicament. I understand the reason for the words penned. I can see the frustration and hasty anger behind them. 

But I can’t be kind. Something I never thought I would admit. 

I have reached my capacity for kindness. It feels like a hard, cold block of ice in my stomach and doesn’t sit well with me but politely ignoring is the best I can manage right now. I know I should be checking that the author is ok. I know that there’s so much going on in the world right now and that life is short..... what can I say? I am not as good or kind a person as I thought. I can bring myself to pretend that I’m ok with the words. The physical manifestation of my biggest fear on paper. It can’t be unwritten. 

And I can’t be the bigger person.