The Facts of The Mattering

Thank You for Existing

Last week I offered my workshop attendees a writing prompt from which I, myself, recoiled. And yet, for today’s installment, I will see if I can force myself to accept the assignment which is: Write about a time in your life when you truly mattered, a situation in which your presence was pivotal.

But first, let me cite the inspiration for this prompt and dissect my resistance to it.

I am forever devouring articles on psychology. When I research trauma, depression, grief, PTSD, ADHD and sundry other afflictions, I am not searching for crutches and excuses. I am seeking clues and tools. For example, I recently read about how having ADHD can really fuck with one’s money management skills. It took me 57 years to learn that I have ADHD, and another two to stumble upon this information that helps me understand why I am perpetually fucking up my finances. But I don’t stop there by proclaiming, “Welp, I guess I can’t do anything about it.” Instead, I feel relief knowing that a) I am not alone and b) others like me have come up with effective corrective strategies. Thus I can, if I choose, work to make improvements. 

That is precisely what I have been doing recently and, while it’s still going to take me some time to master fiscal intelligence, I’m deriving great satisfaction in using recently acquired tools to make measurable progress in the right direction. 

Recently I read a fantastic NYT article by Gail Cornwall that brought me more relief. Here’s a quote:

Mattering is “a core, universal human need,” a necessary component for well-being, Dr. Flett said. But it’s tricky to define, he added, because people sometimes confuse it with belonging, self-esteem and social connection.

Mattering involves “more than feeling like you belong in a group,” he explained; it’s also being “missed by people in that group if you weren’t there.” When it comes to self-esteem, you can like yourself and feel capable, Dr. Flett said, but “you still won’t be a happy person if no one notices you when you enter a room.”

To matter, people must feel valued — heard, appreciated and cared for — and they must feel like they add value in ways that make them feel capable, important and trusted, said Isaac Prilleltensky, a professor at the University of Miami and a co-author of “How People Matter.” It’s a two-part definition: feeling valued and adding value.

Epiphanies went off in my head like Roman candles. Finally, a major clue to help me better understand my social phobia, why I spend tremendous amounts of time alone, and also why I have made certain career choices. 

I was taught, from the get-go, that I did not matter in my family. Or, more accurately, that I mattered in a terrible way. Another mouth to feed. A troublemaker. A rule breaker. Someone who made the family worse for my presence in it. Not surprisingly, I have carried this horrible feeling throughout my life. My biggest ongoing fear is that I will be kicked out, rejected, be informed by any group I seek to become a part of that I am not worthy enough, that I do not matter enough (or at all) to partake. 

I know with certainty this is why I have emceed so many events, worked extensively as a wedding and funeral celebrant, and led far more workshops than I have “merely” participated in. There are many reasons for the work I do, but near the top of the list is that these particular roles nearly guarantee that I cannot be kicked out, rejected. If I am the host, then I matter. Or at least I can trick my mind into believing I matter enough to give myself permission to show up. 

It might not be a coincidence that I have been so drawn to Buddhist philosophy for decades. In Buddhism, coming to understand that we do not matter is a good thing. Perhaps more precisely, it’s that all sentient beings matter the same amount, regardless of station—garden slugs and billionaires are equal. And, in the grand scheme of things, individuals do not matter because, punch line, there are no individuals. We are one. When the physical matter that is me exits its current manifestation, the center will hold. Life will go on. 

How to reconcile the psychological need to matter with the importance of not mattering in the Buddhist sense? For now, I have decided that if feeling I matter is going to make what remains of my life bearable, then it will best serve me to mashup another Buddhist goal— living in the moment—with psychology’s suggestion that to survive I have to believe I matter. 

From here on out, I will focus on how I can matter in any given moment. Not seek accolades or strive for legacy. Simply be present and of service in ways that matter to The Whole.

In workshop, I offered an example of mattering that I felt okay with sharing, as it did not hinge on ego. I did not learn to swim until I was nearly forty. And yet one time, years before then, I saved a child from drowning. I was sitting poolside when my mom ears discerned among all the happy kid shouting a cry of panic. I saw a child going under. I did not stop to think. I jumped in. I saved the kid. It helped, tremendously, that all this occurred in the shallow end, so all I needed to do was to stay standing. (From this I derived the lesson that anytime I am panicking, it is a good idea—literally or metaphorically—to first see if I can get my feet on the ground.)

I mattered so much in that moment. 

I am less inclined to contemplate, let alone list, other times I have mattered. It feels wrong, it feels like bragging, it feels self-centered. And yet, if this study about feeling we matter is accurate, then self-acknowledgment of mattering seems to, well, matter.

Yesterday, as I was mulling all of this, in a moment of wonderful serendipity I received an email from a stranger who said they’d just read a piece I wrote a gazillion years ago about depression for the Elephant Journal, and that the piece really mattered to them. They felt understood. My words brought relief. 

As with the near-drowning incident, which I had totally forgotten until the workshop, I had no memory of writing this piece. Being reminded of it got me thinking about how often I have written about trauma and depression. Sometimes I worry that for readers who have not ever met me in real life, that I present as a perpetual mess of a human being. But like the high-functioning alcoholic I used to be, the truth is that, despite my really bad brain wiring, I do okay in the world. I have friends, I have fun, I get shit done, I experience joy. 

When I first started writing about these dark topics, TikTok was not even a twinkle in the eye of the internet. Nowadays you can’t swing a bipolar cat without running into some “expert” influencer tossing around mental health lingo that only very recently was damn near verboten to speak of. With this rush comes the backlash, protestations that those of us who keep shining a light on trauma are a bunch of whiners. (In my head I hear some sarcastic authoritarian voice chastising, “You think you have trauma? Ha. I’ll give you something to have trauma over.”)

Though it might not seem like it, I try to dole out my trauma stories more slowly than I used to. I’m grateful that lots of other people are freely writing about mental illness now, that maybe this indicates some advances are being realized in better coping with and even healing from sundry disorders. 

And it is here, very tentatively, I try to get myself to realize that I matter now, that I have mattered before, that hopefully I will continue to matter. Not that I matter more than anyone else. But that I matter at all. 

So, briefly, I give myself permission to peek with one eye at how my never ending writing on dark topics has made a difference. Toward that end, over forty years being published, I have received hundreds of letters from readers. Not fan mail. Not at all. Peer conversation. So very many notes thanking me for writing viscerally of my pain in a way that the letter writer felt (at least at the time) she/he could not publicly proclaim. For fear of losing a job, a child, a marriage. My favorite letters are the ones in which letter writers inform me they have left a narcissistic abuser or other domestic violence situation, or gotten sober, or got enough of a boost to carry on, to stay alive, that my words offered a nudge.

“You’re so brave!” People say. “I don’t know how you write like that.”

It never felt like bravery to me. Mostly it was catharsis. And I realize now that being taught I did not matter really freed me up to be as blunt as I am in my writing. When my father kicked me out of the family, he lost his only bargaining chip. I could dive deep into how rejection at his hands nearly destroyed me on many occasions, how I have had to fight suicidal ideation my entire life. Because, you know, what was he going to do about it? Disown me?

Too fucking late, asshole.

You may flinch, but now I ask you—do you know you matter? Does the idea make you uncomfortable because you’ve been taught to think the worst of yourself as often as possible? Can you give me an example of a situation in which you know you mattered? Or is it still too painful to acknowledge your worth? 

If you’re feeling hard-pressed to answer the questions, let me lend you an assist. You matter to me. I take such comfort knowing that when I send my words out into the world that someone is out there receiving them, hopefully connecting with them, maybe feeling some comfort, resonance taken, a little peace remembering that other Buddhist reminder that suffering is our common condition, and only in sharing it, in connecting, do we have any hope of alleviating it.

NOTES:

If you dig this substack and are in a mind/body/spirit/wallet position to subscribe for $5 per month or $50 per year, I hope you will meditate on that. If you are not in such a position, please know that sharing this with someone you think will dig it is also so helpful. If you want to toss me a one-time tip, my Venmo: @spike-gillespie. As ever, all financial support helps me keep this ranch running. Maybe I should be more specific—like, if you want to sponsor the septic system, or the cow with the prolapsed uterus, or a pregnant mini goat, just let me know.

I’m so tickled that my little essay in Texas Coop Power Magazine about the Tiny Chapel of Kindness has been seen by so many people. I love receiving letters about kindness you have experienced to hang on the chapel walls. You can mail your tale to: 3409 Caldwell Lane, Garfield, TX 78617. 

I am currently taking on a small number of one-on-one writing coaching clients again. And the next six-week writing workshop for women starts in November. Also my FREE writing workshops at the Hampton Branch Library continue every other Tuesday through December. If you’re interested in any of these things, just shoot me an email for details.

More than anything: Thank you so much for reading, for connecting, and for making me feel I matter, even if that feeling is pretty fucking uncomfortable. I’m grateful.