Everyday Pain

I’ve known a lot of people who have lived painful, tragic lives. When I was young, I assumed these people were abnormal. Their suffering was the exception that proved the rule that a well-lived life is a pleasant life. 

People close to me went hungry and lived in filth. 

Some were addicted to alcohol, meth, cocaine, and God knows what else. They were willing to do almost anything to feel alive—even overdose. Others were orphaned, abandoned, neglected, and later imprisoned. 

Some were molested, raped, and beaten by parents, spouses, and family friends. They all lived hard, hard lives where their daily experiences were either acute suffering or prolonged numbness. And these horrors were passed down to their children and their grandchildren. I don’t know where it will end.

But as a child I assumed that these tragedies were outliers. I assumed that outside of my circle I would discover that most adults lived fairly pleasant and safe lives. Not perfect lives—not without difficulties and accidents—but generally pleasant, comfortable lives. A good job. A fulfilling marriage. An exciting sex life. A photogenic family. A sense of accomplishment. A new phone. Not too much debt. Reasonably good health. An abiding sense of happiness. Solidly middle class. Very Christian. A pleasant life. A normal life. A life I could have.

As I grew older, my experiences mostly confirmed my expectations of what a normal life looked like. I met more people and they mostly seemed to be pretty happy. They would greet me with warm smiles and interesting conversations. They had nice things. They enjoyed themselves. 

Life came easy to them. Life was pleasant and safe. The few people I met who had difficult lives seemed to choose their suffering. I could trace their problems back to a flaw in their character or intelligence. They also tended not to be Christians, or at least not good Christians. From what I could see, they had decided to be miserable or depressed or a failure or whatever. And I would think, You know, if they just made better choices, if disciplined and stopped making excuses, they wouldn’t have to suffer this way. 

You can walk around for a long time thinking nonsense like this—that most adults have it together and live safe, pleasant lives, and that the ones who don’t only have themselves to blame. It’s easy to think like Job’s friends.

In fact, it’s hard not to think like this, even when you grow up around tragedy and trauma, as I did. It’s hard not to think like this because almost no one wants to tell you otherwise. 

There’s a kind of unspoken conspiracy to ignore how difficult life is, or to reframe it as something romantic—a heroic challenge we overcome on our way to the good life. In this conspiracy we each try to hide our scars, even from those closest to us and sometimes even from ourselves. 

Almost every cultural institution, church, government, or corporation promises you a good life if you just do what they ask. Make the right life choices. Marry the right person. Go to the right church. Get the right education. Work the right job. Buy the right products. And you’ll be fine. 

Whatever challenges we face can be solved. That’s society’s promise. Whatever problem you have, someone has developed a method for overcoming it. A pill. A treatment. A mindset. Which means that if you don’t overcome your problems, it’s your own fault. You really should have tried harder. You should have shown more initiative. You should have chosen the right technique. Because the normal life is a pleasant life for those who merit it.

I believed all this, and I was wrong. The people close to me weren’t anomalies, they were the norm.