Monthly Archives: November 2021

Expectations

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During the holidays, I’m reminded of how far the space is between the life I live in DC and the one where I was raised. It is not always easy to be the one who left. To create a path for yourself that deviates from your family of origin. It can make you feel as though you live two different lives, that there are two different versions of you. On the plane ride over I transform into my childhood self.

There is so much beauty in how I was raised, and I have so much for love for my family. On a weekly basis, I was surrounded by family. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and, of course, the grandparents at the center. We were our own village. We celebrated everything and mourned tragedies together. With a large family, we had our fair share of tragedies. I am grateful for this built-in support network, for the togetherness, for this deeply ingrained sense of protection.

But there are costs to a strong, family-centric childhood, especially one with its fair share of groupthink. And togetherness does not necessarily mean connection.

In my family, and I imagine in many others, there was right and there was wrong, and we were expected to conform. The expectations were heavy. Sometimes they were spoken and sometimes they were not. But they were known whether or not there were words attached to them.

Going against the grain, deviating from the norm, was not celebrated. It was met with disdain. I could feel the disappointment. The tension was suffocating. What is wrong with this person? This person must think they are better.

For much of my life, I did whatever I could to meet expectations. I did what I was told to do. I called and checked in on who I was supposed to. I went where I was supposed to go. I did not push back even when I wanted to. I went with the program. I was the giver and the high achiever. Do you need something? I’ll get it. Do you have something to say? I’ll hold it.

I craved acceptance and this was what I believed I had to do to get it. Who am I if I’m not doing something for others? I craved the attention I received when I did things for other people. I needed to feel like I was enough.

I feel I should clarify that I do not think meeting expectations and doing things for others is inherently a problem. However, in my case, it did not always feel I had a choice, not if I wanted to be loved by others. My family valued harmony over individuality. I learned to value harmony and avoided conflict at all costs. Over time, it became difficult to know why I was making the choices I was. Was it for me? Was it because I wanted to do x, y or z? Or was it because of someone else? Because it is what they expected of me?

Expectations are a problem if they leave you with zero space to make your own choices. They are a problem if you wear them as an identity. My self-worth was tied to what I was giving to others and how I was performing according to other people’s expectations. THIS was the problem.

Tying your self-worth to others, even your family, is a trap. Always. Creating a role for yourself where only perfection is acceptable is destructive. Always. And I’ve had to work for years into adulthood to rewire my brain to see it this way.

I am the person who left the family unit to pursue a life different than theirs. For 12 years, I’ve had to convince myself that it is okay to have made that choice. It is not selfish. It does not mean I think I am better than anyone else. It does not make me a bad person. I am loveable even when I do not conform. Even when I do not meet expectations.

Whenever I am home, I am even more aware of the choice I made and of the space between who I was and who I am trying to be. I am told what I will be doing instead of asked what I want to do. I am reminded that I am different. That I’ve gone down a path less traveled. For my family, they think that is DC, but I know the more important path has been the one inward. That is what has changed me.

This last trip home for Thanksgiving was difficult. I did not feel accepted. I did not feel seen for the person I am today. I spent most of the time doing things for others, but not feeling any appreciation for it. I am realizing that the appreciation I want is not a thank you, it is space in these relationships to be myself.

I may never get this from some of the people I want it from. Is it frustrating as hell? YES. But that’s okay. I’m learning to detach, that there is value in just owning what you can control. Your needs, wants, and desires.

I want to take up space with all versions of me. And guess what? All those versions are enough. 😊

Cue ‘Closer to Free’ by Bodeans

Casually Cruel

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Do you ever wonder why certain people come into your life? Is it for a reason? Is there a lesson to be learned? Or is it just coincidence? Is there no deeper meaning at all?

I want there to be a reason. I want to believe in fate. I want my life to have meaning. Why? I suppose because the alternative is scary. To accept that things just happen at random means facing the powerlessness I have over my life. It means accepting that, despite all my best intentions, things may not go the way I want them to. Bad things will happen. Good things will too. Against my will. In spite of my efforts.

I’m not sure what the right answer is to these questions. I imagine, like so much of life, it is somewhere in the middle, in that gray space. Life is unpredictable in a predictable way. We may not be able to control everything that happens, but we do control our reactions to the things that happen. What causes what is complicated. It is nuanced. Every day I am learning to sit with that.

I recently started talking again to someone from my past. He is someone that I used to feel very attached to. Perhaps dependent on is a better way of framing it. His mom had passed away within the last couple of years when we met. When I first met him, though, he was goofy and always joking around. I actually questioned whether he was capable of being serious. He reacted to that assumption I made and called me out on judging him too quickly. I remember feeling bad. I’m not sure if I felt bad for what I did to him or felt bad for being criticized – probably both. I felt I needed to keep talking to him, to figure out who he really was.

So we did. This was 2018. To say this relationship has been tumultuous would be an understatement.

It became an unhealthy dynamic for me very quickly. It was the oh so common trap of wanting someone you can never have. It didn’t take long before we were spending hours on the phone, and I truly enjoyed that time. It was both witty banter and deep conversations about what we had been through. It had become very important to me that I find someone with a sense of humor, but an ability to be serious at the right times. I felt like I found that in him.

Despite all the communicating, he wouldn’t commit. I wanted the constant communication to mean we were in a relationship, but when I told him I wanted to date only him, he replied with the “I’m not in a good enough place to be in a relationship.” It is true. He wasn’t. But we acted like we were without the label and that was confusing for me. And it hurt.

He told me to date, and he went on some dates too. However, he would then use the fact that I had gone on other dates as “evidence” that I didn’t really want to be with him. I would defend myself and he would twist it around so it became my fault. Every. Single. Time.

We continued to talk, but over time, the fighting was more and more frequent. The same push/pull dynamic played out repeatedly. I felt crazed – trying to convince someone I wanted to be with him while he was actually pushing me away. Once I started to move on, he became ready for a relationship, but made a point of letting me know that he had doubts about a relationship with me. I tried to hold on to my truth and not lose myself, but this relationship broke me down. The words broke me down. As Taylor Swift says, he was casually cruel in the name of being honest. I was called many names and accused of having so many terrible traits.

I did finally move on and started dating other people. Enough was enough. In response to this, I was accused of ghosting him. This was not ghosting. I’ve ghosted before (I’m not proud of it), but this was not it. This was me deciding I was worth more than the way I was being treated. This was me getting out of the trap of needing his validation. But I will never convince him of that. He will never see it from my perspective. He is the victim, and I am the one doing harm. That is his narrative.

We did occasionally talk after that. I learned that within a month or so after we stopped talking regularly he got into a relationship. I was still dating around. We attempted a friendship, but the conversation always steered back to who was to blame for what happened between us. A game I was destined to lose every time.

The fact that he got into a relationship after telling me he wasn’t ready for one with me triggered my insecurities in a soul crushing way. I was so tired of this being my story. Why was I always the one men left for greener pastures? I was trying very hard to build up my confidence, to not tie my self-worth to external validation. But, F*ck, it is hard. Really, really hard.

In my more confident moments, I can reflect on these relationships and look at them critically. I can see my role in them. I can see their role too. It can be gray. That is easier to accept. When you are in it, though, when the pain is raw, you need a place to put it. You will do anything to not feel it. That feeling of rejection. Of loss. Of what could have been but never was. In these painful moments, I turn on myself. I blame myself. I am the version of myself he painted me out to be.

From Spring 2020 to August of this year we did not speak. And during that time, I let go of the idea that we would ever be something. I continued to learn more about myself and who I want to surround myself around. Despite my ongoing struggles with OCD and bulimia, I generally feel more at ease, more settled. So why did I respond when he reached out?

Honestly? I think there are three reasons. One – It feels good to be on someone’s mind, especially when you already feel like you are easy to walk away from. I’m human and would like to feel more of that. Two – Dating hadn’t been going particularly well. There is some weird sexual energy out there following the months of isolation due to the pandemic…hang tight, I’ll share more on that in the near future. Finally, three – I think I was genuinely curious to see how he was. Contrary to his belief, I am not actually a monster.

Up until three weeks ago I was really enjoying catching up. I told him I needed to ease back into being in each other’s lives again and he seemed to respect that. Though, it didn’t take long until we were talking daily, including over the phone. The banter was fun. The conversations were real. I had always genuinely appreciated his comfort in sharing his emotions. They did not make me uncomfortable when I wasn’t the target of his negative feelings. When things were on good terms between, they felt really good. I let myself consider the possibility that maybe he was in a better place these days.

And then poof, it switched. I wasn’t there for him in the way he expected. He was having a difficult week and so was I. I was honest about the fact that I was struggling. I told him I had less energy to give for that reason. Still, I was accused of distancing. “You always do this.” “Would have been nice if you asked about my interviews.” For the record, I didn’t even know these interviews were happening.

I knew following this exchange of messages that letting him back in my life was a mistake. There will never be any space for me in this relationship. His needs will always take priority and I will be expected to carry them even when I’m on the ground struggling to get up.

In an effort to have more direct and honest conversations with the people in my life, I told him that I was hurt he hadn’t checked in with me to see how I was doing. I told him I didn’t feel there was room for me to struggle as well.

And suddenly it was 2018 again.

I was selfish.

I was imploding so badly he had a hard time watching it.

I flip and let emotions cloud me.

I am unstable.

I am entitled.

I am like talking to a 4th grader.

I was destructive.

I was using him and taking advantage of his kindness.

I was an asshole.

All these things were said plus more. I will admit my anger led to me saying some regrettable things. There is something so anxiety-provoking about someone who tries to rob you of your truth like he does. Every time the story is twisted and I become demonized.

The last message I sent was an apology for the hurtful things I said when angry and defensive. I do wish I was able to control my emotions more in the moment and disengage, but I am imperfect.

I own this. When provoked, I am capable of saying hurtful things.

But that is all I owed him. Me owning my part. But I refuse to own his too. I refuse to carry his anger, frustration, and pain on my back. I refuse to be a projection of his anxiety. I will not let him or anyone else weigh me down so they can feel lighter. I will not be silenced so they can yell louder.

This is progress and no one can take that away.

Cue ‘All Too Well’ by Taylor Swift

Pain (Continued)

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I live my life through song. The lyrics, the melody. They speak to me. Different songs depending on my mood or my circumstance. At the airport tonight I randomly thought of a song that I probably haven’t heard in at least 2 or 3 years. I had such a strong urge to look it up and listen to it right then, but I could only remember the beat. I waited for the lyrics to come. And then one word did. Blood. The name of the song. ‘Blood’ by Middle East. Why this song? I’m not sure I know yet, but I will try to unpack it.

The song is heavy, at least my interpretation of it is. It is about family and love and loss. Lately life has been heavy, particularly for my family. But then again when is it not? There is always pain. Your own or someone else’s. And then so often there is the fear of the pain to come or the pain from the past that you are trying to forget. It can be paralyzing for so many of us. It is debilitating. I mean this metaphorically and, also, literally. Anxiety and depression can be physically painful.

As someone who has struggled with depression, I know pain well. The kind of pain that grips you and takes over. Pain that leaves you on the floor unable to get up. Pain that leads to uncontrollable tears and then the opposite, numbness because it is so deep you just cannot face it any longer. In high school I had a plan in the back of my mind that soothed me. I could end it. If I really had to. Back then taking my own life truly seemed more tolerable than living it. The pain consumed me and I did not yet know my way out.

Today, it seems like a lifetime ago. That version of myself. Sure, it doesn’t always feel like that. I have my bad days where I feel low, both helpless and hopeless. I still feel shame about many things from my past. But today I feel okay. And more days than not, I feel okay. Of course, I still feel pain and know I will continue to. But I feel at peace knowing that it will come and go, just like feelings of joy will, as well. But it has been a hellish road to get here.

I teared up listening to this song tonight. I think because it reminds me of my own family and the weight we’ve carried. Maybe this is inevitable when living with chronic illness. We learned pain too early. Not the typical pain of childhood. The bumps and bruises that your parents can wipe away with a band aid and a kiss. It was a pain you couldn’t easily make go away and one you certainly couldn’t understand, at least not when you were under the age of ten. When a parent is sick life is scary and unpredictable and you learn to feel okay any way you can. Her pain was my pain. Her suffering was my suffering. I would have given anything to make her better.

I was recently asked on a date what I was like as an eight-year-old and all I could think of was anxious. During those years, I was scared most of the time, especially when she wasn’t home. Every time she left for a doctor’s appointment or for the hospital, I feared she wouldn’t come back. I hated the space in between when she left and when she returned. That space was lonely and the silence was deafening. I learned early on how to fill it with all the “what ifs”. I begged God to please make my family safe, happy, and healthy. Over and over again. This was self-preservation. The relief I felt every time you returned was intoxicating and I believed my various control tactics worked.

I used to look back at my childhood self with shame. Why wasn’t I stronger? Why was I so strange? Why did I behave the ways I did? While it still isn’t easy to talk about, it makes a whole lot more sense now and slowly the shame is dissipating. I’m learning to soothe the childhood me.

I understand from the outside looking in that obsessive compulsive disorder looks completely irrational. But is it? As a child, I felt out of control and I did not know how to express it. I was also told often to “be strong” which I interpreted as do not show you are afraid. I learned to control what I could. Of course, the organization of my dollhouse and the position of the throw pillows had nothing to do with my mom’s health, but it did make me feel more in control in some strange way. It was better than sitting with my spinning thoughts. When you are anxious and hurting, you will accept any form of relief. And if it works, even for a short period of time, you are going to repeat the behavior. This is what I mean by self-preservation. I learned to survive. Day by day.

When I was at the beginning stages of therapy, I was told to practice self-love. To talk to my inner child and repeat words of affirmation in the mirror. I was repulsed by it. I felt insulted by the therapist. My skin was crawling at the idea of it. What an intense response to self-care…

If you are in therapy and have had this reaction, try and ask yourself why and, most importantly, be patient. For me, it was impossible to practice self-love when I did not love myself. It felt foreign and any of my efforts would have been insincere at the time. I did not think I deserved any sympathy. The problem was me. Why would I go easy on myself?

My current framing of my struggle with obsessive compulsive disorder took years of therapeutic work. First there were the years of hiding it and then there were the years of being ashamed of it. It is only until very recently I could see it differently – as resilience.

I’ve learned the hard lesson that you cannot escape pain. Pain is certain. If you let it, it can consume you. My advice to you is to feel it. Don’t run from it. Don’t bury it. Don’t ask someone else to carry it. Feel it so you can move past it.

Cue ‘Blood’ by Middle East