My only ever gratitude journal entry but it's important so let's get it over with

 28th March, 2020.

Fucking gratitude.

For a long time I have thought the gratitude idea is naff. Normally naff things aren’t too bad – they can usually be ignored, or enjoyed. But this gratitude thing just came too close. Everyone was talking about it. Research has shown. Research has shown. What did it show?

Gratitude is the key to happiness. That is what it showed. Be grateful. Make lists. It will fix everything.

Through pain – be grateful. Try. Try harder.

Be grateful.

Why do I hate this? Because it's naff. And, like any lifehack for human suffering, it's not meaningless. It's dangerous.

*****

Many of us from the leafier suburbs of the world know exactly what it's like to have our expressions of suffering repurposed as ingratitude. 

I was fed messages, which I dutifully swallowed, about how much money and time was invested in my upbringing. On how much was spent on our house, on our various sailboats, on our holidays, on our schooling, on our exchange trips, on our university books. Everything was accounted for.

Don’t complain. Don’t squander your opportunities. Don’t expect any more. Others are suffering more than you. Be thankful. Be quiet. And above all, don’t question those who gave you everything you have.

Above all, do not tell us we harmed you, ever.

Altar boys, told repeatedly what a privilege it was to be chosen. Olympic gymnasts, children all of them - so lucky.

My mother, a generous soul who grew up poor, told us how she never had a doll, or only got one pair of shoes a year. We were very lucky. Mum's story mattered - we needed to understand how much it meant to her that we would not grow up like that. Mum never asked us to be grateful for Dad, but perhaps she thought gratitude would at least mitigate the harm of Dad's explosions.

University didn't help. Discussions of class and privilege constantly reminded me of my power, rank, and privilege. Be grateful. Stay quiet.

*****

Don't get me wrong: gratitude works. I went and worked with the poor and vulnerable. It reminded me to be happy that I had enough, and disrupted the restless materialism of my upbringing. This is important.

I still laugh at a story that came back to me when my daughter was in primary school. She was chatting with a friend who went overseas every year. When she told him she'd never been out of Australia, he blanched (genuinely concerned) and said "What, are you poor?" She responded, "I have two houses - Mum's and Dad's - and I have food every day and a comfy bed and we go camping every year with all our friends. I'm not poor, mate - YOU'RE JUST RICH."

So it matters to know what it enough. But admonitions to be grateful can be harmful. It was a double-edged sword, pointed in my direction. 

Desire causes suffering. But what if you desire to let go of suffering? This crushing insistence on gratitude stopped me getting the help I needed, and speaking the truth I needed to speak about the violence I experienced. It fuelled the cover-ups and the deadening silence when I tried to speak up. 

But you kids had everything: why aren't you grateful?

I should just be more grateful. Then all the pain will disappear.

I had to work really hard on that one.

*****

So when the gratitude fad took hold, it got a pretty rough ride from my unconscious. It rubbed me like slime, catching at my hairs. I was a bit mean about it, to be honest. I was scared.

*****

Three weeks ago – seriously, THREE WEEKS AGO – I was at one of my favourite places in the whole world, where I have been migrating once or twice a year to dance on the earth with my favourite people in a circle of lights. Young and old, we head down the Geelong road with cars piled with mattresses and tents, and soundtracks urgently blaring to work out who we’ll look forward to, who we’ll stay up for.

In that three weeks, the world has quickly, quietly, folded itself into a tiny scared box on a tiny patch of grass. I am viewing life through a strange microscope – fascinating in its minuteness, but inconceivably small. I have counted the pumpkins on my vine and examine their stalks, agonising over their ripeness. I lost no tomatoes to rot before the passata – they were picked and collected, cooked and milled. Chutney is next, from the bad apples. Then feijoa jam. My life is small.

And we peer at each other through these lenses, hoping to see if each other is ok, hoping someone will see how each of us are, and how each of us are not.

After three or four days, I finally slept last night. The anxiety waves are not dumping me so hard. Breathing is working today. Good – the children are here on Sunday.

And, with some sleep, came the ability to make decisions, to fight the vortex. After work, a drawer was sorted. And I put on some music, rather than news. And I let the flood begin.

Three weeks ago – THREE WEEKS AGO – I disappeared into a pile of cuddles on an old couch on a hill. Three weeks ago, I camped with friends under crooked eucalypts to the beat of a distant bass. Three weeks ago, I had too much to drink and started on my usual speech about how amazing each and every person I know is, and how much they mean to me.

And now I am thinking about life without being in their presence. And suddenly, here it is. Gratitude.

Gratitude like I have never felt it before – gratitude that creeps up my spine and makes my head tingle. Gratitude like you feel when you just avoid a car accident. That makes you look to the sky and wonder.

That sort of gratitude. The one that comes with loss. The loss that comes with love.

Making lists of things to be thankful for has its place. But it is not this deep, suffering, beautiful gratitude that I feel today.

To my friends: I love you. I am so grateful that you are in my life.

To my children: sometimes when you’re away I miss you like someone’s ripped out my bones. Right now I treasure every minute, and I couldn’t care less if you don’t do your maths but please unstack the dishwasher.

To my mother: I never realised how much I would miss your touch, until you stood in the driveway today, 2 metres away, because you wanted to bring me fried rice for lunch. I am grateful that I have a loving and devoted mother. Because otherwise I would not have survived.

I long for the day when we hold each other again, and there will be slobbery, snotty tears. And we might all be better. We might.

There is no gratitude without loss. And there is no loss without love.

Gratitude comes from love.

And tonight, that makes me truly, deeply, happy.