I’ve heard that there are two types of people in the world, those who experience pain and do everything in their power to prevent it from happening to anyone else, and those who try to make others understand it.
Lately I’ve been thinking about Harry Potter. Yeah yeah, JK Rowling sucks, I hate that she’s even attached to him and that he came out of her brain (well maybe…there was a story a few years back about the possible real creator of the series, but at this point, it’s taken flight and JK has created what it is now…surprise gay Dumbledore and regret for Harry and Hermione not getting on…oops)
Harry Potter makes me so nostalgic for my middle school self. I loved middle school me. She was free. She wore stupid clothes and didn’t wear make-up or do her hair. She didn’t bother to stuff her bra. She was confused about why everyone had thrown away their favorite toys to fill their room with perfume and adult things. She was too busy reading Harry Potter and listening to Cuban, Hawaiian, and jazz music to give two shits about any of it.
Meanwhile, Harry’s parents died when he was baby, he was emotionally and physically abused and neglected, and some spooky, no-nosed fuck was stalking him and trying to murder him for most of his education. So, not great. Yet, people put him on this pedestal all the time. Most people were either angry or jealous, so they never got close to him. Adults, students, enemies…they just didn’t quite get it. And hearing how lucky he was when he needed to break down wasn’t helpful. He was just trying to survive, literally.
I am not Harry Potter, not even close. No one is trying to murder me…I think. Ok, I do have a list of people who might try. My close friends know who’s on it if anything goes down. But I can relate to having an ocean forged between myself and the people around me, making it impossible to connect. Just having a loving relationship with my parents has been enough to ensue an absolute fiery level of anger and jealousy in the people I meet. To have familial support marked me as someone special and blessed, unworthy of having pain. I had a friend yell at me until I cried and tell me that maybe I should cry. “Maybe you should feel pain, because the only pain you have ever felt in your life has been a heartbreak.”
It wasn’t the first time I had the love and happiness in my life seethed at me with hatred, as if it was wrong. At the time, I was 22 and I had lived a mostly nice life, outside of losing my first love. But, a break-up at a young age from the first person you share intimacy, love, or sex with is a loss worthy of grieving. Maybe now at 32, wandering through hell for a while has earned me the right to finally say I am a human and I can feel pain and experience grief. I know I didn’t have to “earn it.” No one should have to account for their pain, but #blessed feels a bit like a role I’ve fallen into that I can’t quite shake.
This became obvious to me when I played a card game with friends a couple years ago. We each had to choose someone else who we could trade spaces with for a day. Someone chose me and said that I was “so lucky.” At the time, I had just been diagnosed with 8 chronic conditions, a dog had attacked me, I almost died in a treatment, I was facing multiple surgeries, I could hardly get out of bed, I couldn’t eat solid foods, and I had just moved back in my parents for help. Yet, somehow the people in my life still saw me as lucky.
Once you’re up on that pedestal, you’re one of the “lucky ones.” No matter how messed up things get, people can’t really see it. Margot Robbie is a perfect example. She’s waaaay up there on that pedestal. I read that she gets migraines, and as someone who also gets migraines, I feel for her. She has to film movies in noisy, fast and bright conditions. But no one wants to hear Margot Robbie complain about a migraine. Most people have disconnected themselves too much from Margot to empathize with her. In their minds, no matter how how painful it gets, she is still better off in her multi-million dollar home, sick in silk pajamas.
I would argue that money does make it easier to get better care, but at the end of the day, we are all human. We all live. we hurt, we grieve, we smile, we cry, we poop, and we die. Even Margot.
So, all you Margots, Harrys, Rons, even the Voldys: You are allowed to grieve freely in front of the world, for everything you’ve been through, no matter how small.