Tag Archive for: self-acceptance

Wherever You Go …

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long, sandy beach with sandstone bluffs on the left side

there you are.

Years ago, I wrote a piece for ParentMap that included this sentiment. It was aimed at parents who were paralyzed by helping their adolescent choose the right school for them, but for the last few days, that phrase has been appearing in my head when things are quiet, this time for a very different reason.

Wherever you go, there you are

A few days ago, I woke up with a horrible thought: what if my youngest and her boyfriend decide to move back to Seattle from LA? Some of you know that their move to Los Angeles was what prompted me to start thinking about relocating away from Seattle – the notion that none of my kids would likely choose to (or be able to afford to) live in Seattle, and my absolute refusal to be a plane ride away from all of them. I didn’t uproot myself to follow them, but I did feel as though this new town was close enough to them and also had many of the characteristics I wanted in a new home that it was the right thing to do.

Best laid plans and all that….

It’s not unusual that I’d be taking some time to find my footing here. I want to create strong, foundational relationships and a community for myself that feels nurturing and vibrant and rooted in my values and passions and I know that will take time. And I also know it’s terribly unlikely that the kids will decide to leave LA for somewhere a plane-ride’s distance from me. But it got me thinking about where I am mentally and emotionally and my conclusion seems to be (at least the phrase that is emerging over and over again is):

wherever you go, there you are

This morning, the emergent wisdom that accompanied that phrase was that my work right now is to really get to know and like myself. Not just get comfortable in my own skin, but celebrate it, revel in it, make no apologies for it. My work is to become so clear on who I am that when I am complimented for it, I don’t shrink back or demur, I expand into it and embrace it.

So how does one go about learning to like themselves?

I don’t know, which is why I make a better writer than a lawyer. Lawyers are taught to never ask questions they don’t already know the answer to. Writers are the ones who ask all sorts of questions they don’t know the answers to. My friend Susan calls me a “seeker,” and she’s quite right. I always have more questions than answers and the good news is that I am very comfortable in that space.

If I figure out how to do this, you can be sure I’ll share. For now, I’ll sit in the sunshine watching the hummingbirds and chickadees feed and listen for guidance. Because here is where I am at the moment.

The Challenge of the Shoulds*

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An active mind and time alone are not a good
combination for me.  Ironic, considering how much of my time I spend
alone, writing from home during the day (or not) and alone in the evenings as
often as not with my husband’s travel schedule.
I have known for a long time that going for
stretches without social interaction does something to me. It pushes me somehow
in ways that are uncomfortable.  And while I know that this discomfort is
a sign of something I need to examine more closely, my methods of examination
push me in to a darker place from time to time.  
I am very good at telling myself what I Should Be
Doing.  Years of being directed by my parents, a Marine Corps father and a
mother who was desperate to be in control of her own destiny, to go here and do this and prioritize that
taught me that inactivity was to be avoided.  It also taught me that
service to others and their priorities was of paramount importance.  So I
often find myself struggling to prioritize tasks in such a way that it becomes
eminently clear which things deserve doing first, second, and on down the line.
 Struggling because there is no way to do that. There is no universally
accepted rubric that says this book review is more important than that load of
laundry or taking the dog for a walk as he whines and follows me from room to
room.  
I tend to give precedence to those things that
serve others – laundry, cooking, shopping for household necessities,
straightening up – and push off others that seem more nebulous.  I have,
over the years, figured out that the dog only really needs to be
walked every other day (please don’t tell Cesar Milan), that if I make it to
yoga or the gym twice a week I am really doing well, and that I can crank out a
good book review in an hour.  
I know that the best thing I can do is banish
“Shoulds” from my vocabulary.  And I’ve come a long way in that
regard.  But I became aware today that I do it in so many other ways, I’m
not sure I’ve really come as far as I thought.  Every time I catch that
inner voice berating myself for wanting to do something more than
another thing that is probably more productive or helpful, I am
“shoulding” myself.  If I have the urge to lie down on the couch
and take a cozy nap with the cat instead of folding that load of laundry or
going to get Bubba’s contact lens solution, the nap is vetoed even before it
was fully realized as an option in my mind.  If, instead of reorganizing
that closet of Lola’s that disgorges random items every time you open the door,
I would rather sit down and read for an hour (who wouldn’t?), I hear this
sweet, condescending voice in my head that says, “You can read on your own
time, dear. That closet isn’t getting any cleaner while you sit there, and
you’ll feel guilty the whole time you’re on the couch, so you won’t focus on
the story, anyway.”  
I have even become so sophisticated at this
little game that the notion of spending an entire day rewriting a chapter of
the book I’m currently working on becomes physically repugnant.  Not
because I don’t want to write, but because I have so thoroughly convinced
myself that my writing serves nobody but myself (at least until I sell
something), that every word I type is a piece of laundry left unfolded or six
steps fewer with the dog this afternoon.  I have associated things that
give me joy with guilt and feelings of laziness in an effort to convince myself
to be more productive in the service of others.  
The truth is, I spend more time performing mental
calculations in an effort to decide how to structure my day than I do actually
performing the acts themselves.  It is as though I envision some stern
judge and jury I will face at the end of the day as I justify the things I
decided to spend time on.  And for what? There is no gold star that goes
on my permanent record.  There is no jail time for dishes left undone.
 From time to time there is an extremely hyper retriever in my face if I
neglected to walk him, and almost always there is remorse that I didn’t write more
(or at all) today.
So the question remains, what am I avoiding by
continuing to deny myself the freedom to choose things that please me each and
every day?  What would happen if, for some portion of every day I sat down
and did something that speaks to my soul? Something whose only purpose is to
make me happy?  As I write this and envision myself doing it, the
grounded, heavy feeling in my core is enough to convince me that I’ve been
looking at this the wrong way.  The simple act of imagining that I have
given myself permission to indulge my desires regardless of what anyone else
may think warms me from the inside out.  Calms me. Settles me.  

That is not to say that the notion of
implementing it doesn’t frighten me a bit.  It is counter to everything I
was taught and every example set for me by adults in my life.  But if I
close the door on that chatter and sit in the space and stillness of the other
imagining it feels possible.  

*This essay is one of several that originally appeared in BuddhaChick Life Magazine. As the magazine is no longer available, I have reposted it here so that readers can find it. 

Replacing Fear*

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I love yoga. Not only for the sweating, quiet
determination, sore muscles and peace I gain from it, but because it is where I
hear that strong, inner voice most clearly. Without fail, as soon as I let my
guard down and begin my physical practice, words come to my head. Simple words
that don’t necessarily strike me as being important at the time, but they
resonate for days afterward. Last week’s epiphany was no exception. It didn’t
knock me over with a shout inside my head or jolt me into instant clarity. It
fell like a raindrop in a deep pool. It was quiet, melted into my brain without
a trace, and rippled. And rippled. And rippled.
What would this look like if it didn’t come from
a place of fear?
Throughout the week I continued to examine that
thought. Throughout the week I found myself amazed at how often my reactions
originate in fear and how fear is responsible for outlining the space in which
I act. When I recognize the source for what it is and consciously move from
fear to acceptance or love, everything changes. I can feel a shift in my body
as I relax into groundedness and space. My mind becomes open and possibilities
expand forward. The walls around begin to dissolve.
When I operate from a place of fear, my options
are restricted and I begin to make connections that aren’t necessarily related.
If this happens, next comes this and then it swells into that and…Oh, No!
Spiraling anxiety as the fear feeds on the tightly coiled energy inside my body
and brain and I’m locked inside with it.
When my responses originate from love or
acceptance or groundedness there are no boundaries. In fact, once I make that
subtle course change, I no longer feel the need to drive any agenda. Whereas
with fear, I’m compelled to either stick to the course my anxiety has laid out
or fight to alter it in some way, when I let go of fear, I am more likely to
sit back and see where things go next. I don’t need to act within any
particular moment to make something happen or prevent it from happening. I am
able to temper my responses and, very often, the next step reveals itself or
negates any action on my part at all.
In the last several days I have been able to
watch myself and come to realize just how often angry or frustrated or anxious
feelings arise from my fears. When Eve and Lola begin bickering, it is my fear
that leads me to snap at them to “knock it off!” When I send out yet
another email to a prospective agent or publisher, it is fear that drives me to
downplay my own writing abilities or the importance of this book project to me.
When I get annoyed at being interrupted while I’m mentally planning my day, it
is because I am afraid that I’ll lose the thread of thought and somehow
“fail” to do all of the things I’ve convinced myself I ought to do in
order to be the best mother/writer/wife/friend.

When I sit back and ask myself the question,
“What would this look like if it weren’t coming from a place of
fear?” I am astonished at the possibilities. What if I trust my own
abilities as a mother/writer/wife/friend and simply act out of love and the
understanding that I have enough. I am good enough. There is an abundance of
love/compassion/intelligence/patience/money/whatever I need. When I source my
feelings and thoughts and actions from that well, life looks pretty damned
amazing.

*This essay is one of several that originally appeared in BuddhaChick Life Magazine. As the magazine is no longer available, I have reposted it here so that readers can find it. 

Please Pass the Wabi Sabi

The above image is a traditional wabi sabi tea bowl, designed to have unique, “flawed” features. 

Wabi sabi is a concept I only recently learned about from a friend at a yoga retreat and, I’ll admit, I didn’t remember what it was called at first so I had to search online to figure it out.  Here is the official Wikipedia definition:

a comprehensive Japanese world view or aesthetic centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. Wabi-sabi is the most conspicuous and characteristic feature of traditional Japanese beauty and it occupies roughly the same position in the Japanese pantheon of aesthetic values as do the Greek ideals of beauty and perfection in the West.”[1] “if an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi.”[2] “[Wabi-sabi] nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.


I can’t yet decide which part of this I like the best. The fact that it is a world view (ie. pervasive and holistic in Japanese culture), or the notion that it is how something makes us feel that defines its worth.  


I spent far too many years of my life fully buying in to the notion that there was some ideal state that was attainable and achievable if I could just work hard enough. That the way things looked was of integral importance. That perfection was real.  This was not a difficult thing to imagine given my Marine Corps father’s attention to detail and willingness to teach me how to do things the “Right” way. We spent hours on everything from making beds with hospital corners to the proper way to wax a car and I was steeped in the tradition of the Platonic Ideal.  


Thankfully, having children and suffering from deep depression helped me to understand that there is another way to live and that, no, Virginia, there is no such thing as perfect.  


The more I learn about wabi sabi the more I begin to realize how many of the things I truly treasure because of the grounded, calm way they make me feel.  These things, experiences, people are all linked by the common thread of me not giving a damn that they are imperfect.  I know my children are flawed and yet there is nothing more peaceful and fulfilling than stretching out next to one of them in the hammock for a snuggle or reaching over to brush my hand across the smooth surface of Eve’s hair.  My favorite coffee mug has a chip in the handle and was once part of a set of four (it now stands alone), but I still feel better when I drink my morning latte out of it.  Our new house has a leaky laundry room sink, warped hardwood flooring in a few places that would make a terrific roller coaster for Hot Wheels cars and weeds sprouting between the deck slats but the smile that creeps across my face every time I walk up the sidewalk and catch sight of the front door erases all that.  


There is a Native American folk tale that someone once told me about that expresses this notion of imperfections as perfect. I will continue to look for it, but the upshot is that there was a weaver who purposely added one strand of mismatched thread to each of her rugs in order to make them more beautiful.  Nobody would buy her work if it were too perfect because they couldn’t believe that she had made them without the help of the spirits and to have a rug made by a spirit could be hazardous, so she was forced to give them the look of a human-crafted object by adding some special flaw.  Her work became revered throughout her community and the society eventually learned to value sincere effort and hard work over perfection.  


I hope that one day our culture will also come to understand that there is beauty in all expression regardless of our expectations or preconceived notions of what something ought to look like.  It takes more time and effort to understand the virtues of something or someone because of who or what they are than it does to measure them up against our ideals, but I honestly believe it leads to a richer, fuller, more satisfying life.  

Guilt and Judgment and Shame, Oh My!

Why is it so easy for me to talk someone else down from the ledge when they are feeling judged or shamed and so difficult to avoid internalizing those negative messages when they are aimed at me?

Why is it when we find the courage to open up about our insecurities and question our own motives publicly certain individuals see that as an invitation to skewer us with judgment and hatred?

How long will I have to work on my own resilience, reminding myself that nasty comments speak volumes about the person uttering them and not much truth about me?

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog post that exposed some of my own issues around guilt.  The folks who commented here on my blog were supportive and loving and read my words in the spirit in which they were written.  Then BlogHer decided to feature the post in their “Money” section and all hell broke loose.  With a couple of exceptions, most of the comments on the BlogHer site were supportive and insightful.  The theme of the comments on BlogHer’s Facebook link to my post, however, was decidedly more nasty.  It affected me physically.  My stomach twisted, my cheeks flushed, and my heart rate sped up.  My mind instantly went in two directions at once: 1. defend, and 2. what portion of what these people are saying about me is accurate?

I have learned enough in my 40 years on this planet to know that going through and rebutting each nasty comment line by line is useless.  While I could defend myself, chances were those people who reacted negatively would just read some nuance into what I wrote in defense that would lead them to attack on another front.  After an hour of sitting with the discomfort that these strangers’ words brought up for me, I decided that, for whatever reason, certain people (strangers, all)  had already made up their minds about who I am and weren’t likely to be swayed.  I will confess to writing a couple of responses (BlogHer likes its writers to engage with commenters, you know) in which I may have attempted to clarify a couple of points, and others where I thanked those who liked my post.

Yeah, I could have done some more editing before I posted that piece. I could probably have clarified a couple of things or said them in a different way. I could even go back and do that now – changing the original post on my site.  But even if I did, there would be someone out there who could potentially misconstrue.  Even if 99% of the readers agree on what my message was, there could possibly be someone out there who reads something entirely different between the lines.  There is no way to be all things to all people and if that is my goal, I’m going to make myself crazy trying to reach it.  So I have decided to leave it as an example of raw, honest writing that came from my gut,  knowing that it could still get backlash.

To be honest, I was shocked at the way I felt.  I have been blogging long enough to have gotten some unpleasant feedback on my writing, although not much of it attacking me personally.  Bubba reminded me that if I am going to put myself out there in my writing, I have to develop a thicker skin and know that what I see as far as comments comprise both ends of the spectrum and very little in the middle.  Those individuals who chose to comment did so because my message either resonated with them in a strongly positive way or because it really rubbed them the wrong way.  In both cases, their responses have much more to do with them and what is going on in their lives than they do with me and who I am.  The fact is, there are a few people who read and comment on my blog who truly know who I am as a person and the rest are there for other reasons entirely.

It was days before I stopped mining my past for other examples of bad behavior that might bolster the arguments of those who were angered by my post.  It took a long time for me to stop feeling defensive. It helped me to go to the Facebook links for some other featured BlogHer posts and recognize that other writers are getting this same treatment.  In one case, I even felt compelled to write a supportive comment of my own, letting the author know that the snarky comments came from a place of judgment and fear within the commenters that had nothing to do with her.  And when I was done, I pretended that I was that author and I read the message, part of which said, “…so long as you know who you are and you are true to yourself and your intentions, it doesn’t matter whether everyone else ‘gets it.’ And they won’t. Some will, but what really matters is that you feel good about you.”

And I do.

It’s Time to Stop Judging My Life On Someone Else’s Values


Over my lifetime, I have often found myself looking at my house through a different lens.

As a teenager, the hold-over gold velour couches and brown shag rug in the living room were generally ignored by me until the occasion arrived to invite a school friend inside. They became mortifying, shameful objects that mocked me as a poor kid whose parents had no style. Not that most of the families in town were better off, but, still, I wished for something classier at those times.

As a college student, I rarely considered my surroundings more than to discern whether or not there were enough clean bowls for a rapid-fire breakfast before my first class or if the sheets smelled sour. Until Dad came to visit, and then it was a race to clear the kitchen of the silverfish that were constantly scurrying through the cupboards and wash every stitch of clothing and vacuum the cat hair up as best I could so it wouldn’t coat his white athletic socks. Nobody but him ever took their shoes off to come in my apartment.

After marriage, it was my in-laws who most skewed my lens, giving me the critical eye for dust or crumbs swept into the corners of the kitchen. This intensified more after having children despite the fact that their house is not immaculate, either.

I will occasionally don a new pair of spectacles for gatherings we host – a barbecue helps me scrutinize the weeds growing in the cracks of the deck and the fingerprints on the windows always look worst at night for dinner parties when the light from the kitchen is reflected off of the smudgy panes.

Despite all of that, there is nothing so soul-baring as readying your house to put up for sale. The knicknacks have to be banished and the caulk in the shower – black from years of mold – has to be scraped out and replaced. The carpets need to be shampooed, or replaced altogether, after years of chocolate milk and coffee spills, muddy shoes and dog-treasures dragged across them. I never realized how many doors we have in our house until I had to wipe them all down and touch up the paint where it has chipped off from slamming or furniture dinging into them or canine claws scratching to BE. LET. IN. ALREADY. I also never noticed how tarnished the brass door knocker is or paid much attention to the gap between the washer and dryer that fills up with lint.

After a few weeks of packing things and purging others, culling through what goes and what just goes away, I thought I was ready. I thought I had busted my butt preparing the house. And then my real estate agent came in. And she brought with her all of her “feng shui’ wisdom and years of experience and pared down and shifted and, while I never quite saw things through her lens, I began feeling tired.

Which is how I generally feel when I see parts of my own life through a different set of eyes. Tired. That’s because it usually means I begin making to-do lists for myself and bending over backwards to conform to a standard other than my own and, I’m not sure which of those things is more exhausting – running through a list of new tasks, or running through a list of tasks that didn’t originate with me – but I’m not sure it matters.

In the end I know that, for this one purpose (selling my house as quickly as possible), such a process is necessary. But it has caused me to question whether it was necessary all of those other times I chose to look at my life or my house or my parenting from a viewpoint other than my own. I do think it is important to be able to see things from other perspectives, but when it ends up giving me a different set of values about myself, maybe it is all a bunch of hooey. Especially if it makes me feel judged and defensive and not good enough.

So this one time, I’m going ahead and wearing myself out. Pressure-washing the front walkway to get rid of moss and replacing the front door knob with a new one and packing away all of my favorite photos and mementos. If only so that I can sell this place and settle in to a new house where I can put them all out again and relax into my own point of view again.

Practicing Self-Love


I’ve been asked by BlogHer staff to answer the following question in a blog post.


“How do you practice self-acceptance and find unconditional love for yourself? How does practicing love first help you attract more love and happiness in your life?”


Wow. Tough question. And incredibly timely, given that for the last year I’ve been thinking pretty hard about just how to make this happen in my life. For me, the answer begins with gratitude. Several years ago I noticed that my body was beginning to age more than I thought it would in my 30s. And as I approached 40, I began to realize that it was only going to happen more rapidly in the coming years. As an antidote to dreams of plastic surgery or over-the-top strength training, I began to mentally catalogue the things my body was still capable of and, once I started, I was astonished at the list. All of those things I take for granted like digesting food and pumping blood and repairing cuts and bruises worked just fine. I am lucky not to be an insomniac and, while I have a pretty bad case of dandruff, my hair isn’t falling out and my joints work the way they’re supposed to. I began to realize that the list of things my body accomplishes on a daily basis, mostly without my interference, is truly miraculous.


With this “plentiful” mindset, I began looking at other parts of my life. I thought about the good friends I have and the close family members I love and who love me. I acknowledged that these people see something in me that makes them want to be around me and thought about what those things might be. With some small feelings of guilt, I listed a few of them – sense of humor, open-minded, generous – and was surprised to notice that it felt good to think about traits I possess that other people like. And, within a few days, I began to see my behavior patterns change to emphasize those traits. As soon as I labeled that glass as ‘half full,’ I could only see it that way. It is like that pencil drawing of the old woman/young woman; once you see one of the women, you have a difficult time seeing the other one. Your brain has accepted one image and it doesn’t want to see the other one.


Abundance is like that. You can’t simultaneously hold two opposing thoughts in your head. Something is either black or white, it can’t be both at the same time. Once I trained my brain to notice the things I do that come from love and kindness and generosity, I was more likely to reinforce the belief that I am loving and kind and generous. And I was more likely to act in those ways as well.


This is not to say that I don’t get down from time to time or berate myself for doing or saying something particularly stupid. I absolutely do. The difference now is that I am in the habit of counterbalancing those negative thoughts with realistic assessments of all of the things I do that are smart or caring. Human beings are wired to put more weight in the negative. It is an evolutionary way for us to avoid dangerous situations and learn from our mistakes. Thankfully, now that we don’t live in a world where we’re likely to be eaten by dinosaurs or saber-toothed tigers, we can also train ourselves to consciously add pounds to the positive. I firmly believe that this is one of the most important kinds of weight training we can do.



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Vacationing is Hard Work


When our children were toddlers, I had a girlfriend describe vacationing with children as “parenting in a different place.” She was right. If you’ve gone on a trip with your partner before having children, you know that taking children, especially babies or toddlers, out of town, is not nearly as relaxing as it could be. The endless accommodations you have to anticipate for diapers or food or public tantrums are, quite simply, exhausting. Corralling your children in a familiar place like home is much easier.

– Let me be the first to say how grateful I am that my girls are eleven and nine.
– Let me be the first to say how grateful I am that we insisted on swimming lessons (and they took to them like guppies) when they were toddlers.
– Let me be the first to say that there is nothing like traveling with your in-laws to a lovely tropical location to inspire such gratitude as you watch them manage twin 2-year-olds who want to go in two different directions, both of them potentially dangerous. (All this after you’ve given your kids some cash and told them to stay within shouting distance of the pool or the shave ice stand.)

It turns out that the most difficult thing I had to manage on my recent vacation was myself.

Day 1-3: Guilt. Despite the fact that my girls were both blissfully flitting from pool to beach to cousins to snack shack and back, requiring little if any interaction from me, I found myself often sitting in a chair on the beach beating myself up mentally. “I ought to be swimming with them.” “I ought to be taking a romantic walk down the beach with Bubba.” “I probably look really lazy sitting here in the sun while my sister-in-law struggles with the twins. I should go help her.” “Some exercise would be good. I ought to go for a run or swim some laps.” I could go on, but I suspect you’ve got the message by now.

I wasn’t getting dirty looks or pleas for attention. Cash, yes. Attention, not so much. The simple fact is, the girls were having a ball with their cousins (five of them accompanied us on the trip), and Bubba was fully immersed in vacation-mode, doing what he loves best (boogie-boarding with the girls, staring at the ocean, and having a martini with his father by the pool). And yet I couldn’t turn off the part of my mind that was certain there were more important things I could be doing.

Day 4-10: Occasional guilt. But mostly, since I continually worked on reminding myself that I work really hard at home and THIS IS MY VACATION, TOO, I was able to stop and give myself permission to be lazy relax. See? I can’t even bring myself to call it lazy. I guess that word is too thick with negative connotation for me to be comfortable with.

I won’t say that I didn’t continue to struggle with that constant questioning voice asking “what should you be doing?” At some point I was reminded that someone once told me no matter how far you run, you are still stuck with yourself. So while vacationing with my kids is now a lot easier, one thing that will never change is that going away in any circumstances is “being with myself in a different place.” It was a stark reminder that working on self-acceptance is still the most important work I have to do – no matter where I am.

Give It a Rest!


Nearly fifteen years ago, before I had children, when I was working at a job I truly loved but wasn’t sure I was smart enough to have, I had a bout of anxiety. I didn’t recognize it for what it was, maybe because of its benign beginnings.

I had an hour commute to work that I didn’t really mind. I had recently purchased my blue-collar dream car – a cherry red Ford Ranger pickup truck with a king cab and a manual transmission. I felt invincible in that thing as I sat high above all of the compact cars and listened to NPR’s Morning Edition on my way into the city. About two-thirds of the way to work I had the sinking feeling that I had left the iron on as I went out the door. I knew, despite the long round trip home, that I had to go back and check. We didn’t have any neighbors I could ask to pop in and have a look and Bubba was on a business trip. I got to work, explained the situation to my boss, and took off for home. The iron was off.
A week later, I had the same moment of panic about the toaster oven that I had used to make my breakfast. Luckily, Bubba was in town and only fifteen minutes’ drive from home so this time he could go check it out. The oven was off.
Nearly a week later again, I had the same anxious feeling as I climbed into the truck to back out of the garage. This time it caused me to stop and wonder what was going on. I was struck with the notion that I was becoming OCD. And then I realized that what I really wanted was an excuse to just stay home. Despite loving my job, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I was “faking it” to get by and even when my co-workers and my boss praised my efforts and abilities, I felt as though I was fooling them all. I was also lonely. Bubba had begun traveling a lot for his job and I didn’t have many close friends. What I really wanted was to stay home with my cats and work in the garden and feel safe in my own space.
Since that revelation, I have had many more opportunities to understand that the things I am often afraid of are also the things I am most fervently wishing for. Not really, of course. I was relieved each and every time that the iron or the oven were off and I didn’t truly want the house to burn down, but if it had, it would have been an accident and people would have rallied around me in support.
When Bubba was sick for so many years, a horrible fantasy used to creep into my mind before I could slam the door against it that he would die on one of his business trips and not come home. I hated that thought. I hated that I was capable of thinking it and that my mind could go there. It wasn’t superstition – that if I thought it it might come true. It was the knowledge that, if he died, my fears would be validated and everyone would come to see that I hadn’t been crying, “Wolf!” when there was none there. I would have a reason to feel anxious and upset that nobody could dispute.
While I still shun those dark thoughts as quickly as they pop into my brain, I have also come to realize that they serve a vital purpose for me. Whenever I conjure up some terrible scenario of doom and gloom in secret, it is a cry for help. It is the way that my psyche lets me know that I’m feeling unsure of myself and frightened and alone. During one such time when my anxiety overwhelmed me to the point that I crawled beneath the covers and sobbed, Bubba asked me what I wanted. What I needed. The answer that came to my lips before it reached my brain was this, “I want someone to take care of me.” Nobody was more shocked than I was to discover the truth of that statement. I wanted to be cared for. I didn’t want to have to run the house, parent the children, make any important decisions. I just wanted to be. And I wanted to know that someone else was making sure things were okay in my absence. I didn’t want to have to justify it with a major illness (I fantasized about contracting horrible diseases from time to time) or a family member’s death or some other excuse for incapacitation. I just wanted to take a break from being “in charge” and “responsible” and “strong.” But I didn’t think I could.
It is still difficult for me to admit that these thoughts crop up in my brain. I’m beginning to work on allowing myself to feel overwhelmed and anxious without needing to justify it to anyone. And it’s not as though anyone has asked. Or accused me of histrionics. I think that as I become more realistic about my limits and how hard I really do work, I can prevent the need for these periodic alarm bells in my brain. It’s okay to take a day or two off. And I am not faking it. I am the real McCoy.