Guilt and graciousness
The insidious way survivors guilt can manifest, and a loving angle on deep fear
“In this moment I am near to myself. Open, loving, grateful, full of awe. This true self, this disillusioned oneness is always near, though I haven’t yet fully experienced it in life. But whenever I inch closer, deeper, stiller, I feel (still recognizing the egoic “I”) like my favorite version of myself.
In this moment I am imperfect. Still impatient, prodded by judgments and fears.
But here I am in nature. Loving the sounds. Loving the feeling of sun and cool, wet leaves. Loving the land, reading the landscape. Loving everyone I see. Loving myself.”
This entry is from New Years’ day, as I sat on the mountainside beyond Southern Dharma Retreat Center.
That moment of grace didn’t come easily; that feeling of closeness came with its shadow, the reality of how chronically disjointed I can be from my “true nature,” the boundles self, God.
Survivor’s guilt, according to Merriam-Webster, is “a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress experienced by someone who has survived an incident in which others died.”
Distorted feelings of guilt and negative thoughts of self are the rough outlines of the experience.
When Quentin died, I was certain I handled his suicide very well.
I had just finished my first semester of university with a 4.0 GPA, I was an editor of the school newspaper with sights set on becoming the one-day Editor in Chief. I was cast in the theater department’s fall show, I had done everything I set out to, and perfectly.
That being said, I was blind to how miserable I was. I was fixated on climbing some sort of academic ladder, driven by ambitions of accolades to make me feel worthy. Beyond my then-partner, I had little to no social life. No going out to parties on weekends or getting to know my classmates—I’d work in the library or I’d play hours on hours of Skyrim in my boyfriend’s bed.
Quentin died that winter break. Going back to school in January, I gave up each of those goals. I dropped to the lowest possible class load, I left the school paper, I didn’t audition for anything. I had looked forward to rushing a sorority but missed the rush meeting as I drove back from Quentin’s funeral. I didn’t care, anyway. None of those things, none of the dreamed-of accolades or greek letters, seemed relevant anymore. I was 18 and felt 80.
I gave myself a lot of grace. I got an emotional support animal. I was easy with myself. Each weekly therapy session, I’d go in and walk my therapist through the step-by-step of my grief processing. I’d tell him what specific ways I'd snagged and analyzed some subtler layer of grief or psycho-drama-narrative that was hurting me. I was trying to ‘stay on top of it’ with my mental health as nit-pickingly as I’d stayed on top of my grades the semester before.
What I was most watchful for, most frightened by, and most hyper-sensitive to any and all signs of was survivor’s guilt.
My soul is worthy and has always been worthy.
I am a child of God.
I am loveable, loved, and capable of loving others.
This was one of the Vipassana retreat teacher’s personal mantras, given to him by his own teacher. When he said it, my ears rang. My soul is worthy.
The first day or so of meditation was difficult. Part of it is simple body adjustment—I’m too darn used to chairs. Sitting upright with a straight back on a stiff pillow takes some getting used to. The larger hurdle was the “monkey mind” familiar to all meditators.
I would try one focus point, like my breath, then get restless and lost in thought. I’d abandon that object of focus, dismissing it as “not working for me” in that sit, then shift attention to my body. Or to the light in the room. Or sounds. Every few minutes I’d squint at the clock, shocked by how much time was left, before skipping around to some different meditation technique, only feeding my restlessness and impatience.
I rambled out my slew of issues to one of the dharma teachers during a group discussion. Yes, I’m impatient and restless and uncomfortable. But also my thoughts are spinning—I’m wondering if my intentions really are pure, and if I actually am bad, and what if for my whole life long I am impeded by fear?
“It sounds like Doubting Mind,” she responded. She gave me the personal assignment of grounding myself at the beginning of meditation, fixating on the weight of gravity on my body or the touch of my skin to the ground. Any time I got lost in the head-clouds of doubt, ground again. Then, she prescribed me metta meditation.
Metta, or loving-kindness meditation, is beautiful. I wrote about it previously in describing my fierce love for my grandmother. It’s akin to loving, Christian prayer.
You send a list of well-wishes out into the universe. First to yourself, then to someone you love dearly, then to a mentor or supporter in your life, then to a stranger, then to someone you’ve had difficulty with, then to the whole world. Sometimes I’ll make it globe-focused, working out from the place I am sitting to encompass the whole planet. Sometimes I’ll add in other people, like someone who is physically or mentally suffering.
You set a list of blessings for each of those people. My shortest is usually, “May [I/(s)he/we] be happy, may [I/(s)he/we] be at peace.” My longest list is up to twelve blessings, including a wish for them to know just how loved they are, and to be free from suffering. It was a bit of a shock to realize that I needed those blessings as much as everyone I was saying them for.
According to Psychology Today, around 85% of adults and adolescents worldwide suffer from low-self esteem. I know I’m not alone in my difficulty with self-love.
Consciously, even, I wouldn’t say I have an issue with self-love. The inner critic in my head, when my mental health is good, is quite patient and understanding. I have moments where I laugh at myself with great love. But this retreat allowed negative feelings to surface and unravel themselves, and a broader-arching issue was revealed.
I do not feel that my soul is worthy of love.
I navigated the first year after Quentin’s passing as best I could. With as much self-care and awareness as I could muster. But this core belief of unworthiness guided my hand more than I could recognize.
The relationship I’d so enjoyed before he died, my first experience of love, was too good. I was being offered tenderness and support. Suddenly, after losing Quentin, it felt foreign and wrong in my body. Like my blood itself was rejecting it. How could this person love me, when I am fundamentally bad?
Perhaps it struck so deeply because I had more than Quentin’s incident of loss to cope with. He’d been disabled all his life, all my life. I should have done better, I thought. I should have been more supportive and less judgmental. I shouldn’t have enabled him. I should have let him know how much I loved him. I should have taken care of him.
He was never going to live alone. He would always need care. And I’d known for years that I would one day be giving it to him. I thought of my adult life in that context—I’d have a farm. He was a good worker. We’d build him a tiny home for some privacy. We’d garden, he’d chop wood, and he’d help me milk goats. If he could keep his cool, maybe he could smoke a little weed.
Instead, I lost him. And every moment that I’d “failed” him bubbled darkly in my mind like gas gurgling up from the depths of some quagmire. I told myself I was a bad sister. I told myself I was a bad person.
So I avoided the gaze of people who believed I was good. I ruined the relationship I had, turning from their offering of love and support. I found myself drawn to new people, people who agreed with my summation of self. Yes, you are a bad person, those connections seemed to impress, let me fix you.
In the last few years, I figured I had my head on straighter. I could look back and see that survivor’s guilt manifesting.
But sitting in contemplation, that core belief reared its head. I do not feel my soul is worthy of love.
In psychosocial terms, this could be seen as a learned thought pattern in response to traumatic losses. But it’s not so much a thought as it is a deeply held doubt. A fear of unworthiness that feels older and shadowier than the losses I’ve sustained. A “karmic habit pattern,” I’ve heard it called. A sickness of the soul, I suppose.
I know I’m not alone in this unfathomable fear. And though it was difficult and powerful to face again, I am endlessly grateful to see it once more. To not assume I’m rid of it, to know that my actions can sometimes be guided by this broken compass of doubt within my being. Awareness is the first step.
The second is love. Love as an intentional practice, one that is protective from fear. Daily metta meditation, extending my love that so easily flows outward into the world, while redirecting some back to myself. The self-soothing repetition of mantras. The reminder, daily, that:
My soul is worthy and has always been worthy.
I am a child of God.
I am loveable, loved, and capable of loving others.
If you’ve enjoyed this piece especially and are interested in what other courses and retreats Southern Dharma Retreat Center has to offer, check them out here.
Want to try out metta meditation for yourself and see how your heart feels? Ronya Bank was one instructor from the retreat and has recorded meditations worth perusing.
🤎 My favorite loving kindness blessing is
“May I/they be safe. May I/they be healthy.
May I/they experience joy and wonder in the world just as it is.” 🤎
Vanessa, just listen to this this morning with my girlfriend and once again, I'm struck by the ability of your thoughts and words to resonate personally. As always, much gratitude to you and love and peace to you and your journey. Heal well, dear one. You are loved.