I didn’t see it coming. Around the time of my fortieth birthday, reality was treating me so well, I thought, ‘Maybe life really does begin at forty!’ Everything seemed to be going my way. After twenty years of writing and five unpublished novels, my first book was finally about to be published. I loved my work as a therapist and life coach, and my career was heading off in new and exciting directions. I had excellent health, a strong marriage and wonderful friends. But all of that paled in comparison to the greatest joy in my life: my beautiful baby boy, who was then eleven months old. I have never known anything like those overwhelming feelings of love, joy and tenderness that a parent feels towards a child.
Like most new parents, I thought my son was the most beautiful, intelligent baby in the whole wide world — and I often fantasised about his future life. He would be so much smarter than me in every way — and unlike me, he would excel at sport, be super popular with all his schoolmates, and be a big hit with the girls when he got older. Then he would naturally go on to university and develop some high-power career. Ahh, the wonders of ‘fantasy land’.
By the time our son was eighteen months old, my wife and I were concerned that he was lagging behind in his developmental milestones. Among other things, he wasn’t walking, and he had very few words. So we took him to a paediatrician and had him assessed. The paediatrician checked him out thoroughly and assured us he was just ‘slow’ to develop, as ‘boys often are’. He told us not to worry and to come back and see him if we had any more concerns.
Well, three months later, our concerns had grown significantly. Our son still had very few words, still wasn’t walking, and seemed to understand very little of what we said to him. So we took him back to the specialist. More tests followed: two hours of intensive assessment. And again the specialist told us there was nothing wrong: our little boy was just slow to develop; he would soon catch up; nothing to worry about.
Over the next two months, we became increasingly worried. Our son often seemed ‘spaced out’ in his own private world. He was almost two years old now and still not walking. He was getting around by shuffling on his bum; it looked cute and funny, but it troubled us. And he had started some odd behaviours, such as rolling his eyeballs, grinding his teeth and staring out of the corner of his eyes at parallel lines on walls and floors. He was still hardly speaking and he did not even seem to know his own name.
So we went for a second opinion. The new paediatrician was very concerned and immediately arranged for a thorough assessment, which included a speech therapist and a psychologist. And just five days before my beautiful baby boy turned two, he was diagnosed with autism.
My world crumbled. I have never felt such pain in all of my life.
‘Autism’ is one of those words like ‘cancer’ or ‘AIDS’: when you hear it in everyday conversation, you can’t help but shudder. And when you hear it as a diagnosis applied to your own child, it’s like someone sticking a knife into your gut and twisting it around, and then slowly pulling your intestines out through the wound.
I cried, I sobbed, I howled. I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so much. I’ve broken bones, been seriously ill, and witnessed loved ones die, but the pain of those events was miniscule compared to this.
* * *
Dr Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously described the ‘five stages of grief’ as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Although she was specifically referring to death and dying, these stages also apply to all types of loss, shock, crisis and trauma. However, they are not discrete and well-defined stages, and many people don’t experience all of them. Also, there is no fixed order in which these stages occur. They frequently happen simultaneously; they tend to ebb and flow and blend into one another; and often they seem to ‘end’ and then ‘start again’.
For reality slaps of a less violent or dramatic nature, you might not experience any grief, but for major crises and losses, you almost certainly will go through at least some of these stages, so let’s briefly discuss them.
‘Denial’ refers to a conscious or unconscious refusal or inability to acknowledge the reality of the situation. This could manifest as unwillingness to talk about it or think about it; or as trying hard to pretend that it’s not happening; or as a pervasive sense of unreality — walking around in a daze, feeling as if it’s all just a bad dream.
In the ‘anger’ stage, you might get angry with yourself, or others, or life itself. And, of course, anger has many close relatives that frequently drop in: resentment, indignation, fury, outrage, or a strong sense of unfairness, injustice or betrayal.
‘Bargaining’ means attempting to strike deals that will alter the reality; this might include anything from asking God for a reprieve, to asking a surgeon to guarantee the operation will be successful. It frequently involves lots of wishful thinking and fantasising about alternative realities: ‘If only this had happened’, ‘If only that hadn’t happened’.
Unfortunately, the ‘depression’ stage is misnamed. It does not mean experiencing the common clinical disorder known as ‘depression’. Rather it refers to the normal emotions of sadness, sorrow, regret, fear, anxiety and uncertainty, which are natural human reactions to loss and trauma.
Finally, the ‘acceptance’ stage refers to making peace with the reality gap, instead of struggling with it or avoiding it.
In the months that followed my son’s diagnosis, I found I went through all of these ‘stages’ many times over. At the time of writing this book, it has been more than three years since that reality slap, and I have learned and grown much during that time. And although the slap is now a distant memory, the reality gap it unveiled still remains open. Therefore, as we go through this book, I will share with you my journey, to illustrate many of the principles within these pages. I have to say, at risk of it being a cliché, that although my journey has been long and hard and painful, it’s also been incredibly rewarding. Along the way, there’s been a huge amount of sadness, fear and anger, but there’s also been plenty of joy, love and wonder, and I fully expect that you will find the same on your own journey.
Of course, your reality gap may seem very different to mine — and also to those of other people you know. Divorce, death or disability; illness, injury or infirmity; depression, anxiety or addiction: they all seem to be very different from one another but, beneath the surface, they are all very similar. In each case, we face a big gap between the reality that we’ve got and the reality that we want. And the bigger that gap is, the bigger the pain. And the bigger the pain, the less effectively we cope. So in this book, I’m going to outline a strategy that will help you deal with any sort of reality gap, no matter how great or small, and no matter whether it’s temporary or permanent. This strategy will help you to close that gap, if and when it can be closed, and to find inner fulfilment when it can’t be closed (either temporarily or permanently).
Basically, this strategy involves four steps:
• Hold yourself kindly.
• Drop the anchor.
• Take a stand.
• Find the treasure.
Let’s take a quick look at these now.
When we’re hurting, we need to be kind to ourselves. Unfortunately, this is easier said than done. For most of us, the default setting of our mind is to be harsh, judgemental, uncaring or self-critical (this is especially likely if you believe that you created your own reality gap).
We all know self-criticism doesn’t help us, but that doesn’t stop it from happening. And popular self-help approaches, such as challenging our negative thoughts, or repeating positive affirmations, or practising self-hypnosis, do not work for most of us in the long term; our minds continue to be harsh, judgemental and self-critical. So we need to learn the art of self-compassion: how to hold ourselves kindly and gently. We need to learn how to support and comfort ourselves, and how to handle our painful thoughts and feelings effectively, so they have less impact and influence over our lives.
The larger the reality gap, the greater the emotional storm it unleashes within. Waves of painful feelings crash through our bodies and painful thoughts blow wildly through our heads. When we get carried away by this storm of thoughts and feelings, we are helpless; there is nothing we can do but desperately try to save ourselves from drowning. So when that storm hits us, we must drop anchor and ground ourselves, so we can take effective action. Dropping anchor doesn’t get rid of the storm; it just holds us steady until the storm passes.
Whenever we encounter a reality gap, it helps to ask ourselves this question: ‘What do I want to stand for in the face of this?’ We can stand for giving up on life, or we can stand for something far more meaningful. We can stand for something that matters, deep in our heart: something that dignifies our suffering and gives us the will and the courage to carry on.
Obviously, we can’t turn back time. We can’t undo whatever it is that has happened. But we can choose the attitude we take towards it. Sometimes when we take a stand, we can close the gap, and at other times, obviously we can’t. But the moment we take a stand, we experience vitality; we may not have the reality we want, but we do have the satisfaction of living with purpose.
Once we have put the first three steps into practice, we will be in a very different space mentally. And from this space, we will be able to find and appreciate the many treasures life has to offer. This last step may sound impossible, especially if you are currently in the midst of great anxiety, sadness or despair — but it is not. To give you a dramatic example, a few years ago a friend of mine suffered a tragic loss: her three-year-old daughter died suddenly from septicaemia. It was the most heartbreaking funeral I’d ever attended: an outpouring of grief without end.
What amazed and inspired me over the ensuing months was the way my friend continued to find fulfilment. In the midst of her unimaginable sorrow, tormented and shattered by her loss, she did not lose touch with all that remained in her life. At the same time as making room for her grief, she reached out and connected with her family and friends, her work, her religion and her creativity. And, in doing so, she found love, joy and comfort. Her pain did not disappear; I doubt it ever will. Her reality gap did not close; how on earth could it? But she was able to appreciate the reality around that gap; to appreciate how much life still had to offer.
If you don’t have children yourself, you may not realise just how remarkable this is. Personally, I can’t think of anything worse than losing a child. Many parents become severely depressed or suicidal under these circumstances. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We do have a choice, even though our minds often say that we don’t.
This then, is the final step of our journey: to find the treasure buried beneath all our pain. That doesn’t mean we deny the pain is there, or we try to pretend that it doesn’t hurt. Rather, it means we acknowledge the pain is there and we also appreciate all that life has to offer.
At this point, you may notice your mind protesting. It may insist that your case is different to everyone else’s; that your life will remain pointless, empty, miserable or unbearable unless your reality gap is closed. If so, rest assured: those are perfectly natural thoughts that many people have when they’re new to this approach. And if I try to convince your mind that its comments are wrong, I will almost certainly lose. For example, I could start quoting the vast amount of research on ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy), much of it published in leading psychological journals, which shows it is effective with everything from depression and addiction, to reducing stress at work and dealing with a terminal diagnosis of cancer. But your mind could easily dismiss all this with one comment: ‘That doesn’t mean it will work for me.’ And I can’t argue with that. There’s a very good chance this approach will help you, but I can’t guarantee it. However, I can guarantee that if you stop reading simply because your mind says, ‘This won’t work’, then you definitely won’t get any benefit from this book!
So, how about we just let your mind have its say? Let it tell you whatever it wants, but don’t let it stop you. Let it chatter away like a radio playing in the background while you keep on reading, and see if you can be curious about where this leads you. Because although our minds like to think they can predict the future, really . . . who knows what might happen?