Cruel to be kind

in the right measure

The Nick Lowe song occupies a strange spot between the literal meaning of its narrative and the wisdom of its famous chorus. The song describes a relationship with a manipulative and cruel girlfriend who engages in narcissistic reversal. When her boyfriend complains that she’s mean, she tells him her meanness shows that she loves him.

Well I do my best to understand dear
But you still mystify and I want to know why
I pick myself up off the ground
To have you knock me back down, again and again
And when I ask you to explain, you say

You've gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure
Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign
Cruel to be kind, means that I love you baby
(You've gotta be cruel)
You gotta be cruel to be kind

Cruelty isn’t kindness, nor is it love. But what kind of “cruelty” are we talking about? Is it actually cruel?

Someone recently remarked that perhaps the egregious updates to the US’ Title IX rules—declaring that gender identity trumps sex, taking away due process from those accused of sexual impropriety—will cause enough pain to everyone that it will accelerate a shift away from gender madness. He may be right. It made me reflect on how often things need to get much worse before they can get better. Sometimes the thing we dread is the only thing that will cure the problem.

Think of it as a principle of the universe or life. It shows up in the public sphere, where we see that social fads or political movements have to become so extreme that they’re intolerable to enough people that we collectively shut them down. It shows up in the personal when we talk about drunks and addicts needing to hit rock bottom before they can build a better life.

Conversations with my therapist often involve this dynamic. On one level, it’s an emotional dilemma for me. Part of me wants to protect people from pain; it’s why I do my weekly show that concentrates on detecting and avoiding pathological narcissistic behavior. Another part of me recognizes that I (or you) cannot “protect” anyone from anything; what many people need is a rock bottom. Only when they hit that can they free themselves from repeating the behaviors that made them miserable.

It shows up in my coaching and consulting work. Many people who talk to me about the problem personalities and behaviors in their family, friends, or colleagues are on the cusp of accepting very unpleasant realities about their lives. They’re almost ready to take the leap; that’s why they booked time with me, I’ve found. Taking that step usually indicates a readiness to confront unpleasant reality, maybe for the first time.

When my clients are in pain, I do feel for them sympathetically. The rescuer part of me wants to soothe them. But the wiser part of me knows that my smoothing their feathers won’t solve their problems (though I do treat clients with understanding). So many people I’ve talked to come to me when they’re in a new stage of bravery. They’re hurting, but they don’t want empty comforting. They want to talk about discerning the truth about themselves and those around them, knowing that that truth may hurt like hell. Hats off to them.

Thinking about this is largely idle vanity, I know. How I feel about people’s problems, and what I internally wish for them won’t affect them. It can’t do anything for them or against them. It’s a narcissistic orientation to the issue; what does it matter how I feel? No one else cares. I continue to ruminate on it because my role as a child was to be the fixer and rescuer in the family, and my emotions about that role and about my mother in particular were closely monitored. Incorrect emotions or “misguided” empathy was punished. I’m still reminding myself that this is useless thinking, and that the actions I take or don’t take are what matter.

Still, it feels “mean” to wish more hardship on someone, yet I do wish that often. If life hadn’t piled more hardship on me than I thought I could bear, I wouldn’t have dealt with two of the worst things in my life that were holding me back.

As most readers here know, those two things were the relationship with my broken mother, and my alcoholism. Taking them in turn:

—My greatest fear, the dread in my soul that haunted my waking and dream life for decades, was discovering that my mother didn’t love me and that she was willing to hurt me to get what she wanted. That fear turned out to be true. I faced it at 41, and the most melodramatic language I could come up with would not convey the existential horror of that realization. For a time it broke me completely. There is a part of me that will remain broken forever; some wounds are too deep to heal completely.

But I did survive this discovery. The shock and anger and horror propelled me to finally sever the relationship with my mother that was making me sick in mind, body, soul, and wallet. Though it was harder and more frightening than my early heart attack at 36, it was what I needed. Because of that, I wouldn’t go back in time and change it even if I could.

—One morning in June, 2020, I woke up with a hangover as usual, but with a sense of shame and humiliation and regret stronger than I’d ever had. That’s saying something, considering how much of that drunks bring on ourselves while continuing to hit the bottle like everything is fine. What I had done to my relationships and to myself was clear and unavoidable. Man, I hated myself so much that morning; I learned what self-loathing really means.

Good. Sitting on the floor with my head in my hands I decided this was the end; I would never take another drink. Thank God or the universe, I haven’t touched a drop since that morning and I pray my resolve stays for the rest of my life.

I wish the same for you, whatever deep problems beset you. I hope that you face whatever circumstances need to occur to shake you into clarity and help you take active control of that problem. If it needs to hurt, I hope it hurts. If it needs to make you scream and cry, I hope it does.

Life has to be cruel to be kind, in the right measure.

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