competition of suffering

My therapist at the time recommended this group to me. I’ve probably gone through five or six therapy sessions in my life, and each time I’ve gotten a little closer to myself. If it were up to me, psychotherapy would be part of the basic training.

At the time, I was struggling with my rift between devotion to Victor, who was getting worse and worse, and love for family and friends in Switzerland, and a job that also required a regular presence. The therapist called me “koda,” short for “codependent.” I only knew the term for relatives of drug addicts. It turns out that it describes any relationship in which one person defines himself primarily through the needs of another. Which is simply inevitable when that other person is seriously ill. The trick is not to lose yourself completely. I thought I succeeded. My therapist was of a different opinion. And my eldest son pointed out to me several times that when I was asked how I felt, I automatically answered only with a summary of Victor’s state of health. Like I wouldn’t exist without him. Where is the line between unconditional love and addiction?

When I first sat down in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs in the little conference room and listened to the others, I really wondered what I was doing here. Victor used me as a guardian only from time to time, not always. I had much more freedom, much more time for myself and my work than anyone else present. The American health system knows no Spitex. Delicate or even dangerous aspects of care are also, of course, entrusted to relatives. No wonder I felt out of my element. When it was my turn to tell something about myself, I said that I did not belong here, that I did not suffer enough to justify my place here. “I’m sorry!” That’s how I got my nickname.

“There is no competition of suffering,” Ronnie explained to me at the time. “There is no hierarchy of needs.” The thought that haunts me to this day, which comes to my mind again and again. How often do we downplay our problems and fears because others are worse off? How often are we ashamed of our pain? How often are we told that our concerns are insignificant in the face of the suffering of the world and not worth mentioning? However, victims like Ronnie never rubbed such a thing on my face. I often think about it too.

Ronnie and I drink coffee and sit on one of the benches in front of the supermarket where we happened to meet after so many years. When she informs me (most of the group members have by now lost their partners), the old guilt comes back to me. Victor is not only alive, he is even better than then. Ronnie looks at what’s going on inside me and raises his index finger in warning. “Don’t apologize, I’m sorry!” Then she gets serious. “Don’t you understand? We’re addicted to happy stories.”

Source: Blick