Epic underestimation. I should have known.
You know you are in trouble when in the course of an hour
you discuss co-dependence, boundaries, grief and self-esteem.
Fuck.
“What I want from you” I plead “is for you to listen to my
words, give me some strategies, and send me the hell out of here.”
“Yeah... not so much… we have some work to do… I’ll see you
next week.”
Tailspin.
In the past few years, I’ve experienced my fair share of
loss. Loss of a job, loss of a parent, loss of a relationship and loss of time
with my daughter. And on any one of those stress level scales, I have hit the
jackpot.
All of those things have caused
grief, and all of those things I have survived.
I have, I think, done OK. Not
perfect, but OK. I’ve allowed myself the requisite amount of mourning, managed
to continue to go to work, been a better parent, and basically taken care of
all the “to-do’s” that life requires. I joined a gym, lost some weight, made
some new friends, and have even gone on a few (disastrous) dates.
All of that
moving in the right direction. Right?
But I still have grief—profound and awkward grief. And one that doesn’t line up with the
timelines of regular bad stuff that has happened. And it’s really pissing me
off.
It’s that grief over losing myself. Or at least that self
that I used to be.
As complicated as it was, I knew how to be in my past lives.
I knew how to love and be loved. I knew how to manage my home and my responsibilities.
I knew how to be a parent in an intact family.
And I knew how to nurture and breed my own
insecurities—how to take on other people’s emotions—how to intervene and “fix”—and
how to take the blame. And when push came to shove, I knew how to do that which
I have expertise—how to check out.
And now, all of those
things that I was sure of are not so much so.
And now there is a big blank open
space sitting there that I can’t seem to fill up.
And as hard as I have tried, I
can’t seem to check out.
Not this time.
Some people would be thrilled at the prospect of starting
over and re-inventing their lives.
I’m terrified.
I am not, and never have been, good at being vulnerable and
out of control. And this, quite frankly, feels like a free-fall into an abyss with
no ropes.
Call it lack of self-esteem—fear of change—lack of spiritual
or mental strength—inability to trust—or downright cowardice.
Whatever.
All I know is that I don’t quite know how to get there from here. I want a manual with step by step instructions. I’ll even
take one written in Ikea—I don’t care. Just give me something—anything—that doesn’t
require a big fat scary leap and a whole lot of pain.
Something that tells me that it’s OK to feel unsure and
grieve for now—and that doesn’t make me crazy or dysfunctional.
Something that lets me acknowledge my past mistakes and make
better choices in the future.
Something that tells me that I will get there and it will
be better.
And something that assures me that where I am now is exactly
the place that I’m supposed to be- painful and awkward and terrifying as it is.
For the record, my therapist is “excited” about this next chapter in my journey.
I think it’s going to blow.
And I’ll see you next week.
