The Strong Seek Comfort
My whole life I have been seeking comfort without ever knowing it. Comfort in a cup of coffee, in TV, smoking cigarettes, pot, sugar, all of it. I treated them all as addictions— weak-willed habits—and I hated myself for my lack of control. We’re taught that control equals strength. The strong control their emotions, they push through, they man-up.
What I hadn’t realized until recently, was that control doesn’t mean strength, and escape doesn’t mean weakness, they were both simply strategies in avoidance. The truth was that I was suffering and I didn’t even know it. I didn’t need to toughen-up any more than I needed to numb out. What I needed was comfort to help me through.
Let me explain.
A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday night, I casually decided to watch the first episode of a Netflix series. It was 8pm and I was planning on going to bed around 11, but when 11 came, I kept watching. Nothing strange here. I’d done the same thing countless times before, but this time, I couldn’t stop. I watched episode after episode. 8 hours later, 4AM, and I finally went to bed.
The next morning, an irresistible sadness welled up in me. Grief and despair over past mistakes flooded my mind. I was struck so hard by it, I spent the next three days grieving and feeling awful, the only respite coming from the TV I watched near the end of the day.
During this bout of grief, I happened upon a podcast where a man was talking about his heroin addiction. He had suffered severe trauma as a child, and unable to process the pain, he eventually turned to heroin. But the way he framed it resonated with me so deeply that I couldn’t let it go. He said that heroin was the first time he had ever felt comfort. Wow, that hit me right in the chest. Personally, I’ve never done heroin, but I have most definitely numbed myself out.
Over the next few days, I was obsessed. It seemed like there was some truth for me in the word ‘comfort.’ Trying to understand, I looked up its root: comfortare—to strengthen. This seemed completely counter intuitive. I would have never linked comfort and strength. But when I looked deeper, I found one definition that struck a chord—comfort strengthens by inspiring hope. Now, this made sense.
This made sense because when I think of comfort I don’t see a beach resort in the middle of December. I see a warm blanket on a cold night. And this is telling, because it shows that real comfort, the comfort that strengthens, isn’t a blindfold to suffering or a method of escape. It is a hand that holds and helps you witness what seems unbearable.
This has been my misunderstanding my whole life. All the numbing out—TV, pot, mindless scrolling, coffee, alcohol, nicotine—was me in search of comfort from a suffering I didn’t even know existed. Grief, sadness, discontent, meaninglessness, loneliness—they were all knocking at my door and I was unable to meet them, so I numbed.
None of this was conscious. Shit, I was so excellent at keeping it all buried beneath the surface, before I even got to the point of feeling, I had alread indulged in some numbing agent and pushed it down. This is exactly what happened on that Tuesday night a couple of weeks ago. Some part of me knew that a wave of grief was welling up within, and to keep it down I turned on a series and numbed out without even knowing what I was doing. But, it wasn’t some inherent weakness. It was a coping mechanism developed in the void of adequate emotional intelligence.
I never learned how to recognize my pain, let alone deal with it. I learned to be ‘strong’ and push it away and when I couldn’t do that, I numbed. Never processing, never feeling. But it wasn’t weakness. It was just me unable to deal.
No guilt, no shame. Should that heroin addict be demonized when no one showed him a better way to deal with an untouchable trauma? I knew a man in Nicaragua and the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning was the promise of cheap cocaine. I knew a teenage boy who lived on the street and the only thing that got him through his days was huffing shoe glue. I have a friend who lives in extreme pain, and the only way to tolerate life is with pain killers. Sometimes, the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is a snus and a cup of coffee. Different levels, but we’ve all had to numb.
Really it’s a natural thing taken to an extreme. When we’re kids we bank whatever we’re unable to deal with for a later date. In life threatening situations, we put off feeling because in the moment it could endanger our lives. The problem is it doesn’t go away by itself. It just waits for the day when we can process it. and it keeps accumulating until that day comes.
Maybe that day is today for me. The pressure has built to a point where I can’t keep it down any more. All this loneliness, sadness, unprocessed grief—I want to see it—fuck, I have to see it because if I don’t I’ll be perpetually running away, and it will keep growing.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not vilifying comfort—I need it’s support, but what gets me through the night cannot keep avoiding the darkness or I will forever fear what hides in the shadows. I need something that gives me the strength to go beyond despair, but does not pretend that suffering does not exist. I need the comfort that strengthens against hopelessness.
The comfort of compassion and unconditional love. Comfort in connection and remembering that being alive can be enough. The comfort of someone caring, someone listening, the hand of a non-judgmental friend, appreciating good food, a warm bed. Comfort—a loving embrace that says, yes, it all exists, all the pain exists, but there is still joy, gentleness and understanding.
I wonder, can give this to myself? Not always, nothing can replace a friend. But on those nights, when the silence grows thick, and the grief swells, what if instead of pushing it away, I noticed? What if I caught myself before turning on the TV, and met the suffering with kindness? Took good care of it, as Thich Nhat Hanh might say. Not pushing, not forcing myself to feel, but allowing whatever comes to com—“Just this much,” to quote Stephen Levine. Just feeling as much as I can right now. Just as much as I can is enough. Is the beginning, Is the first step.
Now that takes strength—to feel suffering without being overwhelmed by it. Comfort can help—but it has to be the type that strengthens. The type that builds hope. The type that allows me to witness without being crushed. If overwhelm comes, I can turn on the TV. I can binge however I need. There’s no shame in it. But little by little, maybe I could turn towards my suffering and say, “yes, ok, what is it that you want me to see?”
Think of the possibilities! If I really go through it, if I really see what’s going on within, when I come out on the other side, I will be stronger and I will not have sacrificed my ability to feel—strong but not callous, resilient and feeling! Holding it all together—finally, whole.
