Perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect house, perfect Christmas card. We've all seen the attempts. Chances are you have the aforementioned cards displayed in your home right now. Perhaps your Facebook feed is incessantly updated with happy! brilliant! beautiful! talented! family tidbits. Maybe I have been an offender in this assault of domestic perfection.
If so, I apologize. I'd like to come clean. It seems that the harder I work to prove my "have it all-ness," the less I actually have. I do have an awesome family, that's no lie. My kids are smart and articulate and insightful. They're also messy, snarky, and prone to outbursts of manic emotion, details I may leave out when I'm gushing of their greatness. My marriage is blessed and strong, but it's also tried by issues like money, extended family, and more than anything, my disease. My house is decent-looking, but only as a result of my compulsive need to purge excess (eating disorder parallel, anyone?). To summarize, my public got-it-together persona isn't a lie, per se, it's just a meticulously-edited version of the truth.
Nearly all of the mothers I know suffer to some degree by the "have it all" myth. It's not good enough to be okay, we have to be GREAT. It's not good enough to be average, we have to be THE BEST. We try to teach our children that it's their effort that counts, not the product of that effort, but we reject that notion for ourselves.
For me, this myth is becoming dangerous. My drive to appear high-functioning is compromising my willingness to admit struggle, my ability to ask for help. I'm a sick person with a worn-out body, and I don't have the endurance to withstand the constant grandstanding. In my case, the pursuit of "having it all" can cost me everything. How artfully-decorated would my living room be if I wasn't there to arrange the furniture? How cheerful would those Instagram pictures of my kids be if they were motherless? It sounds harsh, but sometimes that's life.
I don't need to be perfect. I CAN'T be perfect; such a goal is futile. You can't be perfect either, and frankly, I wouldn't want you to be. It's your flaws, your mistakes, your inadequacies that make you interesting and dynamic. It's your irreverence that makes me gravitate to you. It's your REALness. A painting can be captivating, but it's the wounded artist that's the real treasure.
I would rather slouch in my poor-postured imperfection next to my wild children than perish trying to be the upright person I'm not. I hope you feel the same.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
"Just Talk to Me," or, the Need for Understanding
I was in a surly mood. "Just talk to me," he implored; "I won't try to fix anything, I'll just listen."
I've been feeling desperately cut off lately. Since being effectively shut out of my outpatient program, dismissed from therapy, and told - ironically - that I'm "too sick" to treat, I have been feeling afloat. Drifting through my disease, my distress, without the lifeline of a community of understanding. People express their concern, their desire to help, but how do you explain to someone that you hate what you're doing but you go on doing it anyway? You don't. You smile, thank them for their warmth, and swallow the pleas for aide.
Which led to the recent exchange between my dear husband and myself. "Just talk to me," he said. So I did.
"I feel like I fail in every area of my life," I explained. "As a mother, a wife, a teacher, a friend... I feel like I'm never good enough, like I never give the people who need me what they deserve. But damn can I stay thin. I have to feel like I'm good at something; doesn't everyone need to feel proficient? Isn't that some basic human need, the need to feel accomplished? And when I recognize that the only thing that makes me feel accomplished actually makes me a worse mother, wife, teacher, and friend, I am drenched in shame and retreat even further into my behaviors."
"That's a bitch," he said, trying hard to keep his promise of not being a fixer.
And that was it. He went to sleep, I went to sleep, we woke up and began our suburban middle-class working-parent day. He with his inner dialogue of "I have a sick wife and I have no idea how to handle it while ensuring my kids and home are taken care of," and me with my inner dialogue of "You idiot, next time just keep your damn mouth shut."
We all have a need to feel understood. We, as human beings, are social creatures; no man is an island unto himself. We were not created to be completely autonomous. We need each other, and what's more, whether we admit it or not, we WANT each other. I have had a handful of opportunities recently to spend time with good friends. During each encounter my inner un-sick person was screaming out for me to engage. Admit my challenges. Ask for a hug. I didn't. I talked about Christmas, kids, work. I baked. (Heads up: if I bake for you, insist you eat my baking, and give you my recipe, it's because I'm hungry and eating vicariously through you. It's an anorexic thing.)
Why do we squelch our need for help? Why, when we need to feel understood and validated, do we instead assume we're broken and keep our pain to ourselves? You may not have an eating disorder. Maybe you struggle with some other addiction, struggle with chronic shame, or suffer that horrible ailment known as "Mommy Guilt." Can you honestly say you reach out whenever you need support? More likely, you, like I do, keep quiet. Pretend it's all okay. Smile smile smile. We're supposed to be fine, so we pretend to be fine. Someone once taught me that "FINE" stands for "Feelings Inside Not Expressed."
This is a rough time of year for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. I get it. If you need help, if you need to feel understood, I implore you to find someone you trust will get it, and reach out. REACH OUT. What's the worst that can happen? The person to whom you reach out may think, "Wow, this person I thought had it all together actually has the same struggles I do." Not only have you asked for help, you've given another person the gift of feeling understood.
P.S.
I give my husband tremendous credit. It takes a great deal of humility to acknowledge that you do not, in fact, understand, but you love someone enough to be there anyway.
I've been feeling desperately cut off lately. Since being effectively shut out of my outpatient program, dismissed from therapy, and told - ironically - that I'm "too sick" to treat, I have been feeling afloat. Drifting through my disease, my distress, without the lifeline of a community of understanding. People express their concern, their desire to help, but how do you explain to someone that you hate what you're doing but you go on doing it anyway? You don't. You smile, thank them for their warmth, and swallow the pleas for aide.
Which led to the recent exchange between my dear husband and myself. "Just talk to me," he said. So I did.
"I feel like I fail in every area of my life," I explained. "As a mother, a wife, a teacher, a friend... I feel like I'm never good enough, like I never give the people who need me what they deserve. But damn can I stay thin. I have to feel like I'm good at something; doesn't everyone need to feel proficient? Isn't that some basic human need, the need to feel accomplished? And when I recognize that the only thing that makes me feel accomplished actually makes me a worse mother, wife, teacher, and friend, I am drenched in shame and retreat even further into my behaviors."
"That's a bitch," he said, trying hard to keep his promise of not being a fixer.
And that was it. He went to sleep, I went to sleep, we woke up and began our suburban middle-class working-parent day. He with his inner dialogue of "I have a sick wife and I have no idea how to handle it while ensuring my kids and home are taken care of," and me with my inner dialogue of "You idiot, next time just keep your damn mouth shut."
We all have a need to feel understood. We, as human beings, are social creatures; no man is an island unto himself. We were not created to be completely autonomous. We need each other, and what's more, whether we admit it or not, we WANT each other. I have had a handful of opportunities recently to spend time with good friends. During each encounter my inner un-sick person was screaming out for me to engage. Admit my challenges. Ask for a hug. I didn't. I talked about Christmas, kids, work. I baked. (Heads up: if I bake for you, insist you eat my baking, and give you my recipe, it's because I'm hungry and eating vicariously through you. It's an anorexic thing.)
Why do we squelch our need for help? Why, when we need to feel understood and validated, do we instead assume we're broken and keep our pain to ourselves? You may not have an eating disorder. Maybe you struggle with some other addiction, struggle with chronic shame, or suffer that horrible ailment known as "Mommy Guilt." Can you honestly say you reach out whenever you need support? More likely, you, like I do, keep quiet. Pretend it's all okay. Smile smile smile. We're supposed to be fine, so we pretend to be fine. Someone once taught me that "FINE" stands for "Feelings Inside Not Expressed."
This is a rough time of year for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. I get it. If you need help, if you need to feel understood, I implore you to find someone you trust will get it, and reach out. REACH OUT. What's the worst that can happen? The person to whom you reach out may think, "Wow, this person I thought had it all together actually has the same struggles I do." Not only have you asked for help, you've given another person the gift of feeling understood.
P.S.
I give my husband tremendous credit. It takes a great deal of humility to acknowledge that you do not, in fact, understand, but you love someone enough to be there anyway.
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