Jessie Spano Would Be Proud
Or, How Working for my Worth is Going
When you have always worked for your worth, there are a few things you need to remind yourself of.
I have to remind myself that working on my bed, in my pajama pants with the tear down the left leg from the dog’s paw, is just as legitimate as working (uncomfortably) straight-backed in my office.
I have to consciously remember no one is following me with a clipboard, tracking my progress on my self-initiated deadlines.
If my lunch doesn’t contain more than three colors, it can still be “healthy and nourishing”.
My OCD in combination with my upbringing and my deep propensity for perfection often makes me forget that my life is my own. I have been known to sit idly at my desk waiting for something to ping my inbox simply because it is “working hours”.
I am a worker. A gap-filler. A, gasp, help-meet. I have been conditioned this way, and the effects of the disorders I carry only perpetuate it.
I can trace each of these inclinations to Biblical passages I’ve committed to memory and interpreted accordingly:
I have to remind myself that working on my bed, in my pajama pants with the tear down the left leg from the dog’s paw, is just as legitimate as working straight-backed in my office. - Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord-Colossians 3:23-24
I have to consciously remember no one is following me with a clipboard, tracking my progress on my self-initiated deadlines. - If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat.- 2 Thessalonians 3:10
If my lunch doesn’t contain more than three colors, it is still deemed “healthy and nourishing”.- Daniel resolved not to defile himself with the royal food and wine... ‘Please test your servants for ten days: Give us nothing but vegetables...and water.’- Daniel 1:8
I am known to often whine to my therapist about how I wish it didn’t feel like I had to work so hard for things that appear to come so easily for others. Cleaning the living room. Ordering lunch. Buying new clothes. Logging off at the “end of the day”.
But the propensity to “produce” never wanes. The drive to “do” never diminishes.
I am forever seeking outside approval for a profoundly inside job.
I sincerely thought this drive would lessen when I walked away from capital “C” church, and a service-oriented profession. It seems a lifetime of martyrdom can’t be rectified by a simple change in profession.
I WANT TO FIX ALL THE THINGS.
Who cares if it’s in my job description?
Not me, clearly.
There is a very specific martyr’s high that accompanies the frenetic energy of bleeding out for a cause. It’s hard to tell the difference at some point between anxiety and the thrill of the circus you’ve created.
Sometimes I feel like super superwoman. Most of the time I feel like Jessie Spano hopped up on caffeine.
I really long for an a-ha moment when I realize all of the Instagram memes are true: You’re replaceable. You’ll always regret working too much, you’ll never regret spending time with your family. Etc. And so on.
And also- WHO IS PAYING FOR THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE TO SPEND TIME WITH THEIR FAMILIES?
Because I need to keep my job, please and thank you.
Working folks who have people to care for ( elderly parents, children, etc.)- how are we doing out here?
My brain repeats biblical passages less and less to justify it’s compulsive need to be good. I had thought that meant my desire to BE GOOD would also dissipate, but alas. This is apparently also something that needs work. It feels nearly impossible, after a lifetime of identifying gaps and filling them, that I can shift my attention inward to my own gaps.
What has helped you let go of the fear of not being enough?
What has enabled you to navigate a new version of yourself that you’ve been able to sustain?
How do you know when you’ve “done your best”?
WHERE IS MY ZACH MORRIS????
I’m certain he would know. Or, at least, laugh off camera into my lion’s mane.
"What has helped you let go of the fear of not being enough?" and all the other questions, too:
Diagnoses and meds.
Seriously. I started years on just supplements (ashwaganda, magnesium, probiotic) prescribed by my wonderful, wise, holistic DO of a shrink; these made a very noticeable dent but never resolved things. Took a few more years to realize I had been living with an ulcer (for, yes, years); got meds to treat that. More meds/supplements to treat chronic pain/nutritional deficiencies elsewhere. Resolved a lot of that, got off some of those meds. Realized I still had brain weasels. And with less physical pain and external reasons to explain them away, it became more and more evident that they were native to my skull. And after three years of therapy, my therapist cocked her head at me and said, "You know, I don't think it's all *just* trauma."
So I finally got tested for autism and ADHD. First one took years to find someone who would test me, but the second one took no time at all. I passed both with flying colors. Turns out perimenopause cranks ADHD up to 11. Also turns out high-riding anxiety and endless fixing/doing was my #1 coping mechanism to mask it. As I had worked to decrease those in my life, guess what? More ADHD symptoms. Which then brought my anxiety back up.
I had spent enough years chasing these particular weasels around this particular mulberry bush. My doctor looked at me and I looked at her and I was ready to try the meds.
It took some sorting through; the side effects from the first few things weren't sustainable, and my anxiety was worsening. So my doc put me on the lowest dose of Buspar. And then--that hustle for my worth that I've carried with me since age 6 or so?
I could finally set it down.
I can still *see* the impulse there. Looking at me. Sort of like a pathetic dog that has had to be put on the porch while I clean up a pillow he's shredded. But I reassure it. "It's ok. You didn't know. I'll still listen when you bark for help, but it's ok if you just chill a bit for now. I got this."
And it wags its tail and lies down. It watches me. But it's content. I can finally rest.
And, before you ask, yes, I still feel entirely myself--and it's easier to feel like myself, in fact, when I'm not set on fire by both everything and nothing.
All that to say... please forgive the peer review. But I can't help seeing the signs through your last few blog posts. If ADHD hasn't been an angle you've explored yet, I can recommend going through the process. At the very least, if it is a factor, it's so, so helpful to know what you're dealing with and dig into self-education. My marriage would have ended, I think, if my husband hadn't gotten diagnosed years ago, and my own diagnosis is only helping. (Took us longer to figure me out; mine presented very differently.) We can work with and figure each other out now. We respect each other better. We love each other better. And, oh man, we love our kids so much better because of course, at least some of them are neurospicy, too, if not all.