The cormorant

Yesterday, in the course of wrapping up my law business, someone said something unkind. Not to put too fine a point on it, but they called me a bitch and hung up the phone. I ran it by a few trusted people, two of whom also practice law, and the consensus was the same: I did nothing wrong, and the individual in question clearly had something else going on. Paulo Coelho astutely observed that "[h]ow people treat other people is a direct reflection of how they feel about themselves."

I'm interested in why some folks - those unicorns among us, the emotionally healthy - let mean comments roll off their backs. Not mean comments from people they love, but mean comments from a stranger or someone with whom they have no lasting connection. Is it resiliency born of healthy self-esteem? I need to work on my resiliency, because a mean comment from a near-stranger doesn't just throw me off, it absolutely crushes me. I am debilitated, in some fashion, for the remainder of the day (at minimum).

In practicing resiliency, one thing that works for me is expression: To articulate the story through words and to squeeze out the feelings through exercise. Then, to rest and recover by reading a book or poem or taking a photograph or working in the garden.

I think I'm like a cormorant. Cormorants, according to Wikipedia, "are excellent divers, and under water they propel themselves with their feet with help from their wings; some cormorant species have been found to dive as deep as 45 metres (150 ft). [However], [t]hey have relatively short wings due to their need for economical movement underwater, and consequently have among the highest flight costs of any flying bird."

So, they're really good at swimming deep under the surface but recovery and subsequent flying take a lot of time and effort. Bird Academy says:

For most birds, wet feathers are highly undesirable because they impede their ability to fly and don’t provide insulation. But cormorants dive underwater to catch food. They have feathers that become easily waterlogged, which allows them to dive deeper by preventing air bubbles from getting trapped underneath their feathers. This is one reason you often see cormorants standing with their wings spread, drying their wet wings after diving.

https://academy.allaboutbirds.org/double-crested-cormorant-dries-its-feathers/#:~:text=But%20cormorants%20dive%20underwater%20to,their%20wet%20wings%20after%20diving.

My emotional feathers become deeply waterlogged as I go through life. My lack of thick skin, like those cushioning air bubbles, allows me to develop deep connections and experience life intensely. I love the question prompt that asks whether one would choose to swim under water like a fish or fly through the air like a bird. My experience is that most people say bird. I always choose fish. It feels safer, steadier, and less exposed in the background or underwater. But maybe, instead of fish, I should choose aquatic bird. I'm able to go out into the world and spread my wings, but it takes a heck of a lot of recovery time. Was I a cormorant in a prior life?

As with most things, I believe it's part nature and part nurture. Yesterday's comment, in addition to hurting my feelings, was also triggering. The individual called me arrogant and condescending. All of the words, from bitch to arrogant to condescending, were words I heard before as a child. They were weapons meant to put me in my place.

For a long time, I perseverated over the exchange. I felt freezing cold on the walk to borrow my in-laws' car, and as I drove my son to and from equine therapy I thought about my role and how I could have done things differently. I felt angry, too, and a desire to justify myself, but mostly I felt bad about how I handled the situation. At one point, though, I realized -- like an epiphany -- that regardless of whether or not I was perfect, I didn't deserve to be called names or yelled at. It wasn't my fault. I was victim-blaming myself. After my due diligence in reviewing the interaction with other trusted adults, the matter was closed and I did not need to carry the emotional burden any longer. But what to do about the memories that were triggered from the exchange, memories that made me want to curl up in the fetal position? Last night, again and again, I asked my husband if the phone call was my fault. And what about my childhood memories -- was I blowing them out of proportion? Am I too sensitive? Why can't I just let it go? I'm afraid of not being believed and of being dismissed. But shouldn't I have the right to my feelings, my own reality, as long as I don't hurt anyone else? I can categorize my experiences as normal or not normal, but I still feel what I feel. I don't always trust my own reality, though, and that's scary.

I've downloaded a new self-help book. I told my husband this morning that I'm going to therapize the shit out of myself so I don't pass this particular baggage on to my kids. I hope to find another therapist someday, but in the meantime I capable of reading a book and listening to podcasts and talking with trusted friends. I can talk about it in an age appropriate way with my children, too. Actually, while we were in the car yesterday, I shared with my son that I was feeling a little off because someone said something mean earlier that hurt my feelings. I didn't share this to make him feel bad for me, but instead as an attempt to acknowledge my mood and to hopefully model how to process it. Kids are sharp, and they know when the adults around them are feeling off. Yet again, my son blew me away. "Mama," he said, "when someone says something that hurts your feelings, you can tell them, 'That wasn't nice, please don't do that.' And you can say this to yourself: 'You are kind, you are funny, you are a good friend.' And also you can practice Ninja breaths..." and he proceeded to show me how to do said Ninja breaths. Two days ago, at his monthly IEP team meeting, his teacher and counselor told me that he often meditates, sometimes in the cozy corner, sometimes at recess on the hot top while others are playing basketball. My response was in the realm of, holy shit, that's amazing, he has more self-soothing skills than I do! I just eat too many Oreos and obsess.

My son still feels things incredibly deeply and anticipates other's needs (he brough his umbrella the other day in case his best friend didn't have hers again and he could keep her dry), but he's rapidly learning how to recover and, separately, to ask for what he wants. He inherited my genes and may never have thick skin -- not that I'd want him too -- but maybe he's a loon instead of a cormorant: able to dive deep emotionally but also capable of soaring through the air at 70 mph.