I’m ashamed of living in survival mode. I know this is irrational, but sometimes the waters rise up so high I can’t “hold kohp” anymore. I lose perspective. Pain sets in and shame makes it about me: I am failing, so I am a failure. I made a mistake, so I am a mistake. I had a weak moment, so I am weak, angry, pathetic, (fill-in-the-blank).
Do you see that little move there, the little self-gaslighting two-step? Shame denies the reality that led to the missed deadline or frazzled morning or blow-up or whatever other way your stress expresses itself, and then instead of acknowledging the reasonable causes of your stress, shame blames you. A momentary error is made out to be your inherent character. (And it even almost rhymes.)
I have really struggled these past endless months since the beginning of the war and the terror and the unimaginable death toll and the international flood of open antisemitism. I have struggled with what feels like a new full-time job. Just like you, I am now a trauma management specialist. This job takes a real chunk out of my schedule. Psychological warfare is real. National PTSD or whatever else you want to call what we are all collectively going through is real. The hours I self-soothe through healthy activities like writing (so much writing) and going to the gym and taking walks and having coffee with friends (so much coffee) are hours I am not being “productive.” The hours I self-soothe through less healthy activities like scrolling through Instagram or…more scrolling through Instagram…are even less “productive.” It’s like my life is on standby. I don’t get as much done, my ability to take initiative comes and goes in fits and spurts, and I sometimes have a really hard time staying attuned and cheerful for my kids – and that can get pretty gritty what with summer vacation, plenty of time on our hands, and the national atmosphere of quite possible impending doom.
I’ve also written before and will probably write again about the massive shadow war being conducted in our own hearts and homes where the so-called “regular” stresses of marriage and parenting and family dynamics and other demanding relationships now weigh many times more heavily upon us all given the fact that they aren’t sleeping, we aren’t sleeping, and we each have our own psychological coping mechanisms for handling what have been some of the gnarliest, historical-grade craziness to go down in our lifetimes since 2020. War doesn’t make anything easier, so besides the actual war itself we are also struggling under the growing weight of the problems we suddenly feel shouldn’t even matter given the national situation. (Ha.) And the shame starts setting in like an infection.
Shame has one agenda. Shame is just self-directed hate. Shame, hate, the yetzer hara – it all has a single endgame in mind and that is to wipe you off the playing field. You must be present to win. And here’s a spiritual insider-trading secret: If you stay present you will always win. Shame’s job is to make sure you just stop trying.
What is the antidote? Rebbetzin Chana Kelemen put it best. She said, “Just don’t rebel.” Usually my association with the notion of rebellion is a good thing, an act and attitude to be encouraged. My kind of rebellion is what spunky creative types do in the face of monotonous, rigid evil. But she meant a different kind of rebellion, a sad rebellion. She meant rebellion against what you know to be true. She meant the kind of rebellion that gives up the fight, that quits the dream, that chooses nihilism over meaning. She meant the kind of rebellion that says, “Who cares if somebody gets hurt? Nothing matters anyway.” Shame says, “Who cares if I am hurt? I don’t matter anyway.”
I think one of the things “Just don’t rebel” means is “Just don’t let shame convince you that you and your values and your dreams are not worth fighting for anymore.” The Beis HaMikdash remains destroyed because of hatred. Hatred that is undeserved. Hatred for people we ought to have compassion and maybe even love for instead. You see where I’m going with all this, yes? I sat with my husband and our nine-year-old son, Ezra, and watched the Aish.com Tisha B’Av film, October 7: Voices of Pain, Hope, and Heroism. Yonasan’s arm wrapped around our little boy’s shoulders as we watched parents on the screen describe how they created meaning and growth in the horrific aftermath of their children’s deaths.
But before that, while the men were out davening Mincha, I skimmed The Times of Israel and came upon an article detailing the academic publication of the first study ever conducted on the long-term effects on children being held hostage by terrorists. Shucky darn, nobody ever had a chance to conduct research on that before! Spoiler alert: Not pretty. I sobbed and cried and pounded pillows. I wept and moaned and felt…everything. It felt like nine months of inchoate agony came out as I looked at the pictures of the dark, scary tunnels where these little boys and girls were kept without light, without much food or water, with blood infections the doctors could only describe as “strange” due to the insects and bacteria eating away at these toddlers and elementary school kids while they literally could not move a muscle down in the dark concrete tunnels that the Palestinians used the world’s goodwill charity contributions to construct instead of, say, better educational infrastructure that didn’t provide terrorist propaganda as textbooks.
I digress. What I mean to say is that I really had a good cry. And I saw something I didn’t see before. Tisha B’Av is always a catharsis for me. I don’t like fasting and feel like I handle it poorly. But what I realized as I sat there weak, head aching, and with tears streaming down my face, to my own numb surprise, is how absurd it is that shame is getting such a hold on me. And maybe on you. It really is a full-time job handling all this. It had somehow slipped my mind that the events of October 7 alone, let alone the entire war, are exacting the highest death toll in Jewish history since the Holocaust. (Yes, that Holocaust.) If there is one mitzvah you try to take on from the crystallizing effect that this national day of mourning has upon all of us, let it be this: Just don’t rebel. Keep going. Keep trying. Keep choosing. Keep picking yourself up, give your kids (and your spouse) a hug (a lot of hugs), and keep moving forward.
There is no failure. There is only the choice to quit or have grit. That’s it. (And that rhymes too.) Ahavas Yisrael starts at home. In order to “love others as you love yourself,” you have to love yourself. I am so worn out and so disappointed in my failure to handle all this better – but for goodness sake, who am I kidding? G-d rolled up and was like, “Honey, here’s your next assignment. I will not be taking any questions at this time.” None of us got any choice in the matter. We are saddled with the collective trauma, the psychological warfare, the personal issues, the burnout, the health scares, and and and… Can we just cut ourselves a break? Can we just offer ourselves some amnesty and keep trying? My mind knows I am doing a really good, decent job even as my heart feels like I’m a big, fat loser. Here’s another cute little aphorism for you: “When you’re tired, don’t quit. Rest.” Every one of us is needed, is gifted, has a unique light shining through, however flickering and shadowed it may be. Don’t rebel against yourself. Don’t rebel against G-d. Keep carrying the Jewish people forward. You’re a Jewish person – keep carrying you forward.
Coming out of this Tisha B’Av, let us try to go easier on everybody, starting with ourselves. Let’s accept the toll this is taking and stop feeling like we are not handling mass national tragedy “well enough.” What does that even mean? Is there a Handling Unprecedented National Tragedy Barbie we could all purchase and try to embody? Is there a Handling the Worst Thing Since the Holocaust Barbie? Shame is nonsense. This stuff is hard. We’re doing so much better than we give ourselves credit for. There is enough love to go around.
May the grace and glory of our persistence against overwhelming odds bring us the redemption we long for so bad we can almost taste it.
