When Life Intrudes

 I have been largely absent from this site for a week or more, and only sporadically engaged since the winter holidays. I am sorry for all those who have found themselves here, seeking guidance or advice only to be met with silence. I tell myself that the telling of our own stories is healing in itself but so is the comfort that comes from someone saying, "you're among friends. Welcome. You will be okay."

And so let me tell all of you, "you're among friends. Welcome. You will be okay."

It is the truth.

The last time I was this busy was in the weeks before D-Day. I was finishing up a book and organizing a massive fundraiser (we raised $75,000 in one night!!). I had three young kids and a husband who had just moved firms and was working around the clock with his clients. What I didn't yet know, but would find out soon, was that it wasn't all work. He and his assistant were taking time for sex. 

D-Day hit, my book got finished in a fog, D-Day #2 hit and my mother died suddenly, literally the day before my book hit the shelves and I had umpteen media interviews to do. It all happened in six months and when I look back, I remember little more than the emptiness I felt, interspersed with such biting pain that I could barely breathe.

But here I am. Still breathing.

And, again, busy in that same way where there doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day. 

So perhaps it's not surprising that old feelings are surfacing. Resentment at how responsible I am for so much around this house. Quiet fury at how little my work is prioritized among family members. Fear that the opportunities now presenting themselves will vanish before I can fully seize them. There is no question that opportunities that presented themselves in the wake of D-Day were lost because I simply didn't have the mental or emotional bandwidth to grab them. 

That was then, I tell myself. This is now.

True.

I have to remember all the lessons I've learned in the years since. I'm resentful for how much responsibility I take in this house? Well? Whose fault is that? My 20-year-old is capable of folding his own laundry so why am I doing it? My 17-year-old will not starve if I'm not reminding her to eat. Taking "responsibility" for others is really about my own anxiety. It's about control and my (unhealthy) need for it. "Help is the sunny side of control," my former therapist insisted.

I feel furious that I'm interrupted during Zoom meetings, or that I'm asked to "pick up milk" during the day, as if I don't have better, important things to do? Well? Whose fault is that? Why should I expect family members to prioritize my work when I've never prioritized my work? I have always always taken on the lion's share of tasks because it's more comfortable to me to feel resentful at others' lack of participation in household tasks than to ask and be disappointed. Far easier (and familiar!) for me to play the martyr. I need to feel needed because, on a deep level, I believe my value lies only in what I do for others. Ugh. 

And so I remind myself again, that was then. This is now.

I can do things differently. I can stop taking responsibility for things that others can do themselves. I can breathe through the anxiety as I let others deal with the consequences of their own actions. I can prioritize my own work and model self-respect rather than expecting others to mind-read. I can remind myself that have value because I exist, not because I serve.

I can do things differently. Without behaving like I'm some kind of martyr. Being honest with myself and them.

Life is challenging right now. Five adults living together on month 11 of a pandemic lockdown. Five very busy adults trying to navigate school and a growing workload. Serious mental health issues. A new puppy. 

And it's when we're under stress that old habits can resurface. Long-buried resentments. Barely suppressed fury.

I need to be careful that I'm not falling into old patterns.

That was then.

This is now.