Am I resilient, or just not not coping?
If a lot of shitty things happen to you, and you're not buried under a duvet, does your DNA read bulletproof?
Two and a half weeks a go I moved to New York - 3,461 miles across the world from my hometown of London, and the people I know and love.
I’ve moved for a once in a lifetime work opportunity but also to get away from my past life - at least for a bit. This time last year I was married - and expecting to be expecting any minute.
Next week I’ll receive the paperwork that will confirm the first stage of my divorce.
And so, I’ve done what any emotionally avoidant millenial would do and put the untangling of my married life on the back burner, swapping it for concerns about the extortionate price of New York bagels.
Since I’ve arrived and blurted out my story to lovely people who may or may not have wanted to listen, I’ve noticed a curious pattern. Apparently, I’m brave. Strong. Resilient. These are all words I’ve heard other people use to describe me throughout my life. But I’ve never identified with them.
Five days before my 13th birthday, my dad died from cancer. When I eventually plucked up the courage to tell girls at school who asked if I’d had a ‘lovely holiday’, they offered condolences along with a version of; ‘oh my god! You’re so strong!’
Eight years a go, when I was diagnosed with anorexia - the deadliest of all mental illnesses - and I’d express my overwhelming fear to friends and colleagues that perhaps I couldn’t ever recover (only a third of people do), I’d be greeted with: ‘But you will - you’re stronger than most people.’
Am I?
I don’t feel it. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve just been very, very fucking unlucky, and had little option but to carry on and pretend I feel fine until, one morning when I least expect it, I wake up and find I’m sort of happy. Or at least happy enough.
Interestingly, studies seem to suggest that traumatic events don’t necessarily lead to a mental health disorder. The way we react to difficult life stuff is said to be a greater predictor. It’s worth noting that post traumatic stress disorder affects around two per cent of the population, while it’s estimated that around 70 per cent of all adults have been privy to a traumatic experience of some sort.
Genetics might play a part in how we respond to major challenges, according to studies, but experts don’t have conclusive proof - and it’s almost impossible to untangle potentially impactful experiences from biology.
Some research has suggested differences in thinking patterns might by at play. In the late 80s, American psychologist Emma Werner published results of a longitudinal study of more than 600 children in Kauai Hawaii. Results showed that a major predictor of emotional resilience after a difficult life event was the childs’ belief that they were in control of their own destiny. Werner called this ‘internal locus of control’: You tend to think your behaviour affects your achievements, not your circumstances.
Related to this is the protective effect of using a shitty experience for good, or fulfilment. Yale psychiatrist Steven Southwick studied prisoners of war and found those who used their experience to educate others and campaign on humanitarian issues were somewhat safeguarded from long-lasting emotional problems.
I can defintely relate. I have said many times that writing about my eating disorder most probably saved me from a lifetime of osteoporosis and hospital admissions. Not only did it offer a supportive community, it gave me a newfound sense of purpose - and kept me accountable.
There’s also evidence that early attachments with primary caregivers (aka parents/guardians) has some impact on how we deal. When children are lucky enough to be gifted unconditional love and acceptance, they are more likely to grow up as adults who are confident in their ability to overcome challenges, as you might expect.
But the research seems to suggest that there’s one gigantic factor that can easily trump protective ones: loneliness. Having no mates, or very few, at the time of aforementioned catastrophe can leave you, for want of a better word, fucked.
Brain imaging studies increasingly show that social isolation exacebates activity in areas responsible for ‘you’re in danger’ signals: the amygdala, dorsal anterior cingulate, dorsal medial prefrontal cortex, sympathetic nervous system, and HPA axis. Social support, meanwhile, helps to supress the neural pathways that trigger these alarms.
In the late 60s, a New York-based social scientist named Enrico Quarantelli sought to understand how humans behave in a real-life disaster. He spent years following communities in the immediate aftermath of earthquakes and remained fascinated by such situations until the age of 76 - when he rushed down to the scene of the 9/11 terror attacks to ‘observe’.
His early reports were characterised by surprise. The scenes were not ones of sheer panic, victims fleeing as fast as possible out of fear for their lives, as he’d expected. Instead, large groups welded together almost instantly, showing remarkable concern for each other.
Maybe this is unique to a one-in-a-lifetime natural disaster, and the same pattern can’t technically be applied to a divorce or relatively rare mental illness.
But I like to think the same logic applies. I have been uniquely lucky with the calibre of people who have entered my life over the last 20 years.
Oddly, my 13th birthday - the day after my dad’s Shiva - was pretty sick. For the first time ever on my birthday I was surrounded by a house full of people, showering me with bath bombs etc and sitting round my kitchen table telling stories about my dad until the early hours. My dad’s best mates took me to TGI Fridays for a birthday meal, stood me on a table, sang to me, and bought me one of those multi-coloured mocktail things that mum never let me drink. My best friend posted a card through the door to tell me she was there if I wanted to talk. She remains my best friend and is still there to talk, even from the other side of the world, all these years later.
The girls came to see me in hospital at the height of my eating disorder. It was fucking horrible for everyone involved. I think I spent the majority of the visit in tears. We spoke most days and, during my long, drawn-out recovery, they supplied copious high-calorie snacks and set an excellent example by ordering several desserts after dinner. I’d go on and on about my fears of never menstruating again (I did…I do) and they’d reassure me - never without faith that I’d be healthy again sometime soon.
And, the night after my husband decided he didn’t want to be my husband anymore, there we all were, huddled on my mum’s couch surrounded by North London’s entire supply of cupcakes.
Within a couple of months, more exceptional people, one in particular, ended up beside me, bringing me back to myself.
So, am I resilient? Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just got really, really great mates.
References
https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/10463283.2020.1711628
https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/1619095/
https://www.jaacap.org/article/S0002-7138(09)61044-X/fulltext
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4780285/#wps20282-bib-0003
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4185134/