No One Is Fine

Regarding sobriety: it sucks. I cannot believe that people voluntarily feel uncomfortable feelings. It’s the worst.

Avoiding and numbing is the bomb. Now that the 12-step program tells me I can’t continue doing what I normally do in order to avoid feeling my feelings, I’ve just been lying around the house eating chocolate syrup directly from the bottle.

My mother is sick and I haven’t allowed myself to feel feelings because I have three little kids to care for and I don’t have time to be sad, as ludicrous as that sounds. I haven’t allowed myself to feel feelings about much of anything, really, for almost 9 years. But I’ve been running from my feelings for over 18 years, doing everything under the sun to avoid them.

You know what I’d advise against? Doing that.

Knowing that women have the tendency to put themselves last, I have always prided myself on my ability to make self-care a priority. I shower, I take time away from my house and my kids, I do things that make me feel whole as a human being. Except for one thing: I do not, have not, given myself permission to feel much of anything.

Here are some things (excuses) I’ve been known to say out loud:

I don’t have time to be sad! I have kids to take care of!

I don’t have time to be depressed!

I don’t have time to grieve! 

I’m fine. I can just power through this.

I don’t have time to be sick!

I don’t have time to take a nap!

I don’t have time to process my emotions right now. I’ll just deal with them later.

I’m fine.

I’ll be fine.

Everything’s fine.

These are lies, all lies. No one is fine. I am not fine. I need a thousand naps and several dozen boxes of Kleenex and hours upon hours of therapy. I need jellybeans but I don’t need jellybeans.

I need to feel things because I’m a person and people have emotions that require processing. Motherhood is not an excuse to avoid this process.  Somehow, I’m going to have to learn how to give myself permission to feel shit that I don’t want to feel, while at the same time functioning as a mother and member of society. Women stuff shit down and stuff shit down and then, BAM! We’re alcoholics or bulimics or shopaholics.

Today, I don’t want to stop self-medicating. I miss it. I mean, I really, REALLY miss it. But you know what? It’s been almost 3 weeks, and I’m too stubborn to backslide. I’m going to sit with these feelings that are weighing me down like lead and I’m going to allow myself the time to work through them. And I’m probably going to hate every minute of it.

breathing-into-paper-bag

I would source this image if I had a clue where it came from.

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It’s Tuesday.

My husband and I crawled into bed last night like a couple of geriatrics. I’m so sore, I groaned. Me too, he whined. My shins are killing me.

I knew I was sore from a tough exercise class, but what was HE sore from?

Bowling. That’s what. And this is how I looked at him.

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I tried to stop the nagging from happening, I really did. But as I laid there in bed thinking about his sore shins, I had a sudden flash-forward of what life will look like when I’m 64 and he is 62, and … it scared the crap out of me.

I jerked my earplugs out and I began to tell him all the reasons why he needs to exercise. I’m sure he was riveted by my tirade, which is why he didn’t respond. Finally, I demanded to know WHY HE REFUSES TO EXERCISE. That is when Robbie Hobbs made the following speech:

“I don’t exercise because it makes me miserable.

It does not make me feel ‘elated.’

It does not make me feel ‘happy.’

All of the things it makes you? It does the opposite for me.

It makes me feel tired, hungry, and sore.

It makes me miserable. THAT IS WHY I DON’T DO IT.”

I explained my fear that a motorized shopping cart is in his future, something I know I am not equipped to handle (because my bedside manner sucks), and he said not to worry because I’m going to end up with Alzheimer’s and I won’t have a clue what’s going on anyway.

And so I put my earplugs back in, and silently worried about that instead.