There’s a Dirty Word For It: Trauma Envy

Have you ever read a compelling story? So compelling that you feel breathless when you finish. You can’t believe you read all 8,000 words of it, but there you go. You stayed till the end. I just read a personal essay from a woman who lost her mother to cancer and fell into a spiral of depression and affairs. I was captivated but honestly, also felt strangely envious. Why isn’t my life that interesting? My parents are still alive and well. No one close to me has crossed the rainbow bridge. I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’m in a loving, serious relationship. We’ve already purchased our wedding rings. And yet I feel inadequate because my sad story isn’t as sad as that author’s.

As I sat grappling with my complicated feelings of discontent, my mind stumbled across two words that explained it: “Trauma Envy”.

I Want Your Bad… Experiences

I’m not the only one who feels this way — inadequate in the face of someone else’s trauma. This strange and unhealthy envy of pain that we should not crave. I might not have lost a parent or been through a divorce, but I was in a four-year relationship and two-year engagement that ended badly. I’ve been propositioned by a married man expecting his first child and had relationships with people I knew were going to break my heart. In my path of healing and my struggles with anxiety and suicidal thoughts, I’ve accumulated experiences that bizarrely became the envy of the people around me.

Several times I’ve had someone tell me “I wish I had that experience”. What they mean when they say that is it sounds like a good story to tell their friends. It sounds dramatic. It sounds like an exciting experience. They believe it will make them look “cool”. What they do not mean is “I want to experience the trauma you went through. I want to cry myself to sleep every night as you did for months on end. I want to keep a stash of sleeping pills next to my pillow so that I don’t have to fight my demons.” Because none of that sounds “cool”.

No one envies the process, we just want the bragging rights. “I survived that. Yay me.”

We Live in An Era of Trauma Envy

Society has devolved to a state where when we hear a sad story, we want to be able to top it. Or at least have a similar tale. We listen to respond; we don’t listen to be compassionate. Empathy is only a front for “I can do one better”. It is a sad state of affairs when someone with a string of happy romances and amicable splits is envious of someone with a series of heartbreaks followed by expensive therapy.

When someone tells me “You have led such an interesting life. My life is so dull.” I automatically soothe them. Tell them their lives are interesting too. They have experiences worth sharing as well and I would love to hear about them. But that is my genuine belief. Those who have spoken to me about having dull lives have colourful, vibrant threads in their history. But the grass is greener on the other side. My experiences from my sojourns with emotional upheaval have a greater pop of colour.

I used to be an avid dragon boater. The sport came at a time when I was trying hard to heal from a painful breakup. The physical aspects of the sport commanded my full attention and quieted the demons. Teammates shared a strong sense of camaraderie. We screamed with effort together on the boat and compared bruises. We had meals in a group and bonded over proper stroke technique. After training, I would go home and sit at the foot of my bed for hours in a daze, still in my wet clothes. I was fitter than I ever was and complimented for it. They wished they could be as disciplined as I was, as active as I was, as “happy” as I was.

Very few people know they almost lost me to the sea. They saw the photos of me in a diving suit, living it out at the beach while the waves lapped at my ankles. They didn’t know I had packed well and with sharp intention. They didn’t know I didn’t plan to return. They wished they could be as brave as me, travelling to an island by myself.

When I read the story about the woman who lost her mother and finally lost her husband, I was captivated by her pain. I had nothing to compare it to. My pain has been smudged and diluted by a kind soul who as you read this, is dropping hints about proposing. I no longer sit on the edge of my bed in a daze for hours on end. The cat I’ve always wanted forbids me from doing that.

Time and love have obscured my pain and I don’t have ready access to it anymore. It sits a few waves reach in the sea of my heart, undoubtedly waiting to strike, but being effectively kept at bay. I am at a loved and emotionally stable stage of my life which oddly makes me vulnerable to trauma envy. I have nothing to compare to the woman who lost her mother, as the people who want my experiences have nothing to compare to me. And I think both you and I should count our lucky stars for that.

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This post was previously published on Change Becomes You.

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