Umm, Where’s My Parachute?

I don’t want a life consumed by exhausting management anymore. Living that way nearly killed me.

I had a friend say one time, “You’re very punctual for a creative,” and I felt the undertone. Even though I dismissed the negative feeling at the time, this “compliment” sat in the corner of my mind, sometimes reminding me of judgments I’d heard, but more so felt, before.

I remember noticing uncomfortable body language around my ADHD and Autistic-like traits (never diagnosed). My lack of awareness around normal expectations and social cues was noted and disapproved of. I remember lots of comments and mini lectures about time management, how I should contribute more, the predicted outcomes if I didn’t shape up, and what living in a messy room said about me. That last one was felt deeply. I was always digesting a negative interpretation of what it meant to be like this.

I didn’t keep my room clean because I was busy collecting shiny chocolate or lolly wrappers, among other things, pressing them between books only to file them away neatly in a box. For nothing other than the satisfaction of having such a collection. But when I did clean my room, I did so with such dedication. Everything was reorganized, adjusted, and styled to perfection. It was exhausting and the only way I knew how to approach it. No wonder I only did it once in a blue moon.

The place where I learned shame was the place where I never seemed to have the capacity to do it any differently, no matter how hard I willed it.

When I got married and moved out, it seemed I had a sudden and miraculous change of personality. All I wanted to do was keep everything tidy, perfectly in place, almost as though being out from under accusation’s constant gaze gave me the motivation I needed. I thought I had become a magical domestic goddess overnight, with a desire to create a beautiful home for me and my lover. But over the years, I started to notice some really interesting qualities to this management of the home and our belongings. It ran so much deeper than I realized.

Turns out it was driven by the very same shame that, in my younger years, had me dissociated most days and unable to tap into any sort of executive function unless it was one of those rare moments where I felt inspired to overhaul and restructure the entire system.

All or nothing.

I was in my all-in era for those first seven years of marriage. Then when baby number two came along, something broke inside of me. I couldn’t do it anymore, and the anger, shame, and feeling of failure that consumed me was so devastating I felt suicidal at times.

This lasted for years. I would swing between willing and forcing myself back into line, and then collapse into complete shutdown. What was even more heartbreaking was that I started roping my husband and kids into these spirals. In an effort to fix what broke, I unwittingly tried making them responsible for why things weren’t working like a well-oiled machine. Why I was failing.

Mess became so activating to me, it was easy to lash out and demand tighter routines, more attention to detail, harsher punishments when things didn’t get done, and stricter standards.

I was still a loving, nurturing mom. I just couldn’t stop this emotional whiplash.

Eventually shame won, and I went into shutdown like never before. I became a shell of a person, unable to do much at all. I would feel wildly overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks and quickly burn out when I tried to engage in life. My health was at its worst, and for a while I was getting migraines daily.

I just wanted it to end. And I would fantasize about suddenly being free from all of it. I didn’t actually want to die. I just felt like I couldn’t cope anymore.

But I stayed, trusting I’d find my way. And I did.

I’m on a slow path toward healing, where a lot of things have changed. I currently live in a home where there is always some mess. I’ve not yet figured out how to executive-function my way into a reality where every room and corner of my home is clean at the same time. I commend you if you’ve figured this one out. I might have energy to tidy the living rooms, but the bedroom remains a little disheveled. Sometimes I feel defeated by that.

However, I don’t want a life consumed by exhausting management anymore. Living that way nearly killed me.

What I’m getting to do now is actually build a new, loving and accepting relationship with the part of me that always felt managed, shamed, suppressed.

You see, when she showed up after my son was born, I hated her. I hated her so much. But in turn, that meant I hated myself. It was a horrible place to be, inside a person who had so much self-loathing. But that part of me had been the source of so much rejection. So how could I not want to strangle her into submission?

It was beyond confronting to learn that the only way back to any sort of healthy state of being was to learn how to love her. How dare it be both so simple and so f*cking hard.

It started with small gestures between us. She would show up when I felt burnt out, exhausted, or shut down, and I stopped trying to force her to leave. I resented her, but I let her stay.

Then I started getting curious about my reaction to her showing up. It was full of assumption. It was so familiar. My inner voice had become the same as the voices that chastised me when I was young. That shocked me, and I started to see how there was an opportunity for separation. Distance between what was and who I am. Who I want to be.

What came next was learning what my voice can sound like without those familiar filters. Learning what I could feel toward this part of myself if I chose to listen to a new sound.

Empathy perhaps. Curiosity. Compassion.

Something different, but also primal.

I discovered that it is possible to viscerally feel love toward her, even after years of disdain and dissonance. What’s more, that love has instilled in me new ways of being that disapproval never could. Within that love, I slowly found balance. Less swinging from one extreme to another, and more grounded, day-to-day movement. Cleaning without complete renovation. Mess without complete unraveling.

Recently, I was driving my daughter to an event, and we were running late. This stirred a usual pattern of anxiety and pressure. In response, I tried to make up time along the drive, avoiding traffic, strategically changing lanes to get through intersections quicker, and overtaking slow vehicles. I’ve noticed this energy when I’m late many times.

As this played out, I got curious and decided to try something different.

I put my hand on my heart as a gesture of support, with my inner voice saying, “I’ve got you.” This inspired some deeper breathing, and I was able to notice how the anxiety was actually feeling in my body. Like warm walls pressing in on my chest.

As I noticed that, I could see the shame.

I felt disappointed in myself for being late, but that disappointment felt larger than what was mine. It carried the expectations of others too. Of my daughter even. The memory of what my friend had said years ago popped up to add to the realization.

So I stayed with myself in that. I felt it, and I kept offering my chest that hand, and my heart that new tone of voice. What started out as curiosity became compassion.

And I challenged the old meaning in my mind about being late.

It does not have to mean that I am lazy, irresponsible, useless, or incapable. Accepting my humanity in that moment also does not have to mean that I’ll be perpetually late. From experience, acceptance often helps build more capacity and resilience in life. Not the other way around.

As I have continued to experiment with this, it has at times felt like I’m free falling off a cliff. This acceptance is so foreign to me. But more often than not, mid-fall, I can notice a parachute overhead, helping to carry the weight of both my fear and courage, as my own voice sounds more and more like love. And this part of me, who for so long had been drowning in shame, is feeling held. More buoyant even.

The drift down is still turbulent at times. And this relationship with myself can feel awkward. Because I’m doing the work of not just an emotionally safe childhood, but perhaps generations.

This parachute should have been tested many times, proven sound, and known as a sure part of my journey into the unknowns of life.

I’m retrospectively meeting a need that was never mine to meet. The need to be seen, loved, and accepted in my mess. In my flaws.

Or perhaps it’s a need I should already know how to meet because it was supposed to be modeled to me.

You see, I believe ideally we can grow up knowing how to tend to ourselves in this way. Not that we should never feel ashamed or like a failure. But that we should know how to respond to that with love and care. Because that’s the need. To feel okay knowing someone’s got you, even when life is really hard.

But I’m learning it as an adult instead.

And that’s complicated.