Karma, fate or own fault? Just tell me

‘He still hasn’t healed his mother’s wound. And because he is still dealing with unprocessed things from a previous life and is not dealing with them, our relationship was completely impossible. At the gym I often hear conversations I don’t want to hear. From talks about how to keep your shoulders from getting mushy – a dream for many women – to talks about c-sections and miscarriages. And now this conversation between these two women, one of whom was recently abandoned by a man who was “not quite ready.” The word ‘world’ is also mentioned.

Someone gave this woman a story. I can’t tell who it is from the conversation. He is indeed a ‘karmic coach’. (I don’t know what that is and maybe the reader doesn’t either, but that’s no reason to think there’s no such thing.) This woman is now relieved of her burden. He was abandoned, but it turned out that there was a good reason for it, which relieved him and his ex-partner of responsibility and thought (in this life, anyway). “How can one find comfort in such an unprecedented story?” “He sounds very excited! I wish I could believe things like this.”

That desire is sincere. Because I was left too. My ex gave little explanation for his decision and stopped communicating, which left me guessing for months about where things had gone wrong, what was going on with him, what wrong move I had made.

Like the woman at the gym, I was looking for a story. I did not look in the Universe, but I looked for recent and distant triggers and causes. In family dynamics, attachment styles, fear of commitment and separation and neurotic predictors. From time to time I arranged all these elements in a new collage with slightly different accents. And again and again I got disappointing results. Each story seemed to be somewhat accurate, but never enough or conclusive.

A garment

“If he won’t give an explanation, you can fill in the story in a way that will be useful to you,” my therapist said when I shared my problem with him for the umpteenth time. I nodded and immediately doubted if that was really allowed. In seeking comfort, can we just choose which stories we believe?

“If someone asked me what tragedy happened in my life, I would ask if they wanted the story or the truth,” writes de Britse author Rachel Cusk in Later on (2012), an essay about his divorce. He is angered by the anger of his ex, who sincerely believes his story about their relationship – and his own abuse.

According to Cusk, you can’t just tell a story. “Fiction must obey the truth, represent it, as clothes represent the body. Almost cut, the most beautiful effect. Without clothes, the truth can be vulnerable, inappropriate, shocking. Overdressed, it becomes a lie.” A story is like a piece of clothing: the better it fits, the better. But the truth becomes a lie if you wear it too well.

That’s why my expert’s suggestion sounds dangerous. What if the story I’m telling doesn’t represent the truth and I’m living a lie? I don’t want to comfort myself with lies.

“Lately I’ve been hating stories,” writes Cusk. Now I share that sentiment. Because his metaphor also shows that there is always and without a doubt a space between truth and fiction. And a careful and caring person can continue to worry endlessly about how much space he can afford, without violating reality – and someone else in that reality.

The attraction of a karmic story in the gym, but also a story about the fear of commitment and abandonment from a love expert like Hannah Cuppen, the best-selling author. Fear of love (2018) what I have come across in my search is that they can provide a satisfactory explanation and in that sense a general comfort (as long as you don’t ask for an explanation). For Cuppen, every relationship can ultimately be reduced to the fear of commitment/abandonment, or as he calls ‘the fear of the dance of love’. That is, not if both partners are very securely connected, of course. But hey, who are these unicorns? Cuppen’s story is final – though not foolproof. The annoying thing of course is that the truth is often messy and meaningless and therefore cannot be fully interpreted.

Win from the right

Recently the newspapers have been filled with details of the great success of justice. About how people voted for Trump out of loneliness or how the working class across Europe was abandoned by the left and therefore sought refuge elsewhere. But on the night of the election, when a NOS reporter asked a woman in a restaurant what was the reason for her vote, she said: “It is the only party that opposes the war.” Of course that went nowhere. “I don’t think any party wants war,” the reporter even complained to no avail.

What should we do with these types of errors in light of our stories? Should we attribute false consciousness to this woman? So: ‘No, this worker thinks that’s his reason, but he actually feels left out’? If we revealed all the silly reasons people have for making certain choices, would they still be flawed, or would we have to adjust our stories, or more often refrain from telling the big story?

‘Otherwise it is very easy to believe the stories that you it is not help,” says another friend. We are standing in my kitchen, I tell him about my doubts about my therapist’s suggestion. I can’t argue with this. Why don’t I have the same doubts about the stories that beat themselves up and give all the blame?

My selective skepticism reflects something else entirely: I prefer stories that allow me to do something to do. Which gives me a view of the action. I seem to get the idea that I had no influence over something, or that I can no longer do anything about it, other than to accept the guilt. Because you can correct mistakes. Or at least you can try. I see the feelings of powerlessness that loss inevitably brings.

Attachment styles

Perhaps this is also what troubled Frans Timmermans, leader of GroenLinks/PvdA, when he recently said in an interview following the left’s electoral defeat: “I also do it very quickly: where have I failed?” I feel you French, but is this the most important story you can tell yourself?

When it comes to big stories about attachment styles or karmic obstacles, my main problem is the fatalism that comes out when they are used as absolute explanations. What is comforting about the idea that you have little influence over your destiny? That since birth you can’t do much more than let things happen to you voluntarily. Or that you are more or less stuck in the ‘fear-of-love’ roles dictated by some kind of original psychological sin in the attachment realm. My attachment style was determined by my parents, which was determined by their parents, which was determined by their parents, which was determined … and so on.

You have some influence within these stories, but in the jargon of the general story it is often not quite clear what it is about – and often expensive courses are involved, so anyone with little financial resources is lost: you have to do it. you have to ‘work on it’, you have to ‘look it in the eye’, you have to ‘let yourself go’, you have to heal your ‘pain piece’. Of course you should also sit in a circle with your fellow patients.

Excorcisme

Call me a skeptic, but repairing a karmic or paternal wound to me sounds like something only for the gods or the Universe, not for mortals like me – or my ex. (I believe in healing, but not in exorcism.) And I don’t mind being shortchanged, but it’s not like it’s written in the stars like that.

Perhaps the opposite is true for most people. The idea that you don’t have too much to worry about gives them relief and thus comforts them: ‘It seems it wasn’t meant to be and there is another plan.’

Recently someone said something along these lines to comfort me. I would accept such a comment gently, like a piece of sweet store-bought cake that I knew I wouldn’t like. (I would like this!)

Finally, the trick is to make your story big enough. The stories of karmic coaches and love are, in Cusk’s words, ‘over-worn’. They want to say and explain a lot. And like people who are overdressed, these stories take on something disgusting and therefore offer little comfort to the analytical mind. On the other hand, telling stories about one’s own guilt elicits perceptions of action, but scores lower in terms of comfort. In addition, such a story probably overestimates its own influence, which also reduces its explanatory value. Perhaps the best stories are ultimately the ones that leave room for responsibility and less depravity. These provide explanations based on heritable tendencies and psychological processes, but leave room for context, coincidence and individual differences. The downside is that stories like these are less satisfying or comforting than you’d like in times of crisis – and that you can always tell a different story. Because the poor conclusion is: it was partly your fault and partly someone else’s fault and, no, you didn’t have time. And then? Then you only get losses.

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