Taking on Nastiness, With Grace
Dealing with a difficult person in a sensitive space
Have you ever been force-fed rotten fruit?
Have you ever thanked the feeder for what they forced on you?
To start my day, I was beaming—the best I’ve felt in days. I had pages of notes on the chapters I wanted to write, ready to go. I had energy, a drive for the day. And then, I was confronted with nastiness.
I closed my computer, only slightly annoyed that I couldn’t finish the paragraph I was working on because I knew exactly where it was going. But it was time for therapy, so I had to put it away for an hour.
As something new, I decided it was time to do a therapy session while doing an exposure outside of the house. With my therapist on the other end of my phone line, I walked to the end of my block and started the session out of the comfort of my home.
It felt a little uncomfortable just standing, pacing every now and again as I talked, but the anxiety wasn't really there. There were no indications that a panic attack was coming on. As far as I was concerned, I was soaring through the whole experience.
About twenty minutes into our conversation, an older woman emerged from the last house on the block. She held a cane and a sour expression on her face. "Are you alright?” she asked without a lick of concern in her tone. It was accusatory and severe.
Playing it cool, I chuckled a bit and said, “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, another accusation.
“I’m just on the phone,” I said, maintaining a pleasant, chipper attitude. Fight negativity with kindness, right?
She scowled and said, “Well do you mind moving from in front of my fucking house?”
Like an obedient dog, I started to cross the street and said to my therapist on the other end of the call, “Do you see why I don’t want to leave my house?”
Every muscle in my body tensed as I fought the urge to break down and cry at her nastiness. That familiar, cruel voice in my head criticized my fragility. All sense of accomplishment that I’d done an exposure while having a therapy session was gone. I slunk back to my house, filled with an elevated sense of sorrow and irritation.
Why had she been allowed to talk to me like that?
Why are people so nasty? What gives them the right?
What had I done that was so wrong, other than just existing outside of my house?
My therapist, having heard the whole interaction, was quick to check on me. She reassured me that it was a nasty interaction and one I didn’t deserve.
One of my hang-ups about being out in the world with my panic disorder is the fear of criticism I could receive if I experience a panic attack in front of others. I usually imagine a lack of understanding and even rudeness. Instances like this fuel this fear/belief. I often wonder, do we live in a society that is capable of being compassionate when it comes to mental illness?
In this example, I wasn’t panicking. If I were experiencing high anxiety, I could have been shaking, crying, clutching my chest and breathing heavily, acting jittery or uneasy, and more. If there isn’t kindness when I stand at the end of my block on a public sidewalk, how will it find me when I’m acting in a way that isn’t always understood or easily identifiable?
As I returned back to my house, my therapist told me “to hand it back to her"—a technique we’ve been working with to deal with difficult people. The idea of it is that it’s not my responsibility to take on others’ negativity. Her rudeness is her problem, not mine. Easier said than done.
She told me to imagine a basket filled with her shit that I just hand right back to her. “Do it as many times as you need,” she said. “Visualize giving it back to her.”
I wish it were that simple. For the rest of the day, I did this exercise and couldn’t help but throw some of what I wish I’d said into that basket. In hindsight, I wish I had rolled my eyes and said I was on a public sidewalk with every right to be there. I wish her negativity had rolled off me, and I could have laughed at such a disagreeable person.
I discussed the situation with a friend, and she gave me the advice to not let it affect the rest of my day. “Hurt people, hurt people,” she said. This idea is just something I refuse to subscribe to. I know countless people who have been hurt plenty, and they don’t take it out on strangers in the street. However, I do agree that I need to do something about how interactions like this affect me. I don’t want to give nasty interactions the power to derail my whole day.
That imaginary basket kept being placed back in the hands of that woman. I did it so many times that my mental hands grew tired. By the end of the day, my thoughts about the incident had stopped racing, and my mood had evened out.
The following day, I didn’t leave my house beyond my backyard.
Then, the next day, it felt like spring. The air was warm, and I was struck with the need to reclaim my neighborhood. With my dog, Louie, I walked past her house and down our usual route for his walks. It was uncomfortable, and despite the knowledge that I had every right to belong in my neighborhood, I still felt a twinge of my presence being unwanted.
On the last stretch of our walk, I spotted two of my neighbors laughing and chatting away. One stood on her porch in a long Terry cloth robe and a cup of coffee in hand, while the other was packing up her car. They were talking about the stray cats that are always around.
The scope of my negativity shrank from viewing this interaction. This observation between two strangers reminded me that I’ve had similar experiences with some of my neighbors.
I think of that basket, and conclude that when confronted with nastiness, that basket is filled with rotten fruit. It may be placed in my hand, but I don’t have to consume the fruit. I don’t have to keep the unwanted gift. I can return it and say, “No, thank you.”
More importantly, there are many more times when baskets of kindness are handed to me. It may be as simple as a neighbor smiling at me as I pass by with Louie. It may look like that one stranger who asked me if I was okay when I was experiencing a panic attack, and then provided words of encouragement. It may be a friend who tells me their experience with someone who was rude to them, helping me feel less alone.
I receive many baskets throughout the day, and some I just don’t need to keep. Some will be going right back to the person if I find a spot on their fruit.