A commonly heard complaint brought against the universe at large by those who have suffered pain in the course of life is that “no one understands.”
For some, this wailing chorus of isolating lament is based, in my opinion, in the deeply held belief that we are stronger than others, and a mere mortal would have been crushed under the Atlantean burden life or circumstance has forced us to bear. Or perhaps we doubt our skills as a communicator, feeling that if we only had the words, we could reduce all who come in contact with us to weeping piles of mush, whom we could, in turn, comfort from our limitless pity built up from our long, silent suffering.
There have been times when I have attempted to impress upon my companions the true weight of some horrendous bit of fate that has befallen me. When my little tempest has blown itself out, they offer their few words of consolation or advice. I often recieve their words with gratitude, only to settle deeper into my discomfort, sighing inside at the sadness that—no one understands.
In these moments I used to think I was at fault for not enlightening my would-be-comforters (patient listeners, at the very least) to the great and aweful truths of the universe to which my experience had enlightened me. I would lament that they could not be brought to see this transcendent truth that was so obvious, so powerful. Here I was laying bare the very undergirdings of life, and they just couldn’t see what my pain had helped me realize.
Recently, I have begun to think differently of the matter. It is entirely possible that there are two kinds of inaccesable pain in the world; those too big for some to grasp fully, and those to small for anyone else to even see. (I suppose I am stealing this largely from Lewis; The Great Divorce in particular.)
To be sure, those who have experienced death, debilitating disease, violent crime, etc. at close proximity, or in great and horrific magnatude are likely to have accessed thoughts and feelings that the remainder of humanity has not yet been party to. These thoughts and feelings will not be easy, or even possible to communicate to those who have not experienced traumatic loss or pain. Trying to do so will often end in black looks or uncomprehending pity. It can be an isolating feeling.
There is another kind of pain; one less noble, less full of pathos. It is a pain so small, so shrunken on itself that there is no room for any joy to fit inside. It is not some brooding, mushrooming, oily darkness swallowing up the universe, but a shrunken, airless casket of self-pity. It is not a vast, barren emptiness where joy has been driven away or hidden, but such a shriveled place that no joy could fit inside at all.
In this latter case, there is no realistic way for others to understand what we are feeling, in that we are not transcending their plane of existence, but failing to reach it in the first place. Living in this pain is a reluctance or refusal to engage with life as it should be lived. As such, when others fail to understand or empathize, it is because they are incapable due to a fullness of understanding, rather than a lack of it.
I must admit that I have been guilty of holding a grudge against the world over this smaller kind of pain. It is a point of much reflection for me now, as I consider what this means for me in the future; a future that does not ask me to educate others to the perspective I have gained, but to instead humble myself and be educated in how to live fully and freely, as others do.
