Gratitude Journal: December 2021
December was a whirlwind. Throughout the month, I felt caught in a dust devil of emotions, changes, packing, travel, holidays, and family. In some ways, I'm still processing everything that unfolded over the course of the month; in others, I feel as though each chapter closed (or continued, or began) just as it was meant to.
Toward the beginning of the month, we were consumed with cleaning and packing. Jeremiah and I returned from celebrating Thanksgiving in San Cristóbal de Las Casas and without missing a beat, hit the ground running. Immediately, I set to packing up our casita — bubble-wrapping our treasures, donating the small, extra things we'd picked up along the way, sealing clothes into jumbo bags of Ziploc. Jeremiah had 2 more weeks of wrap on his show, which meant his time was consumed with finalizing tasks, closing out loose ends, and working 12-15 hour days. Our relief was found in one another; we sang along to Adele's new album, groggily passed each other cups of coffee; snuggled with the pets.
As we neared our moving day, I felt the exhaustion take over and the shame narrative(s) kick in. Despite the stress of moving and packing and cleaning, I felt I didn't "deserve" to rest — that doing so would make me lazy; sloth-like. On the days that I woke up late, in the early afternoon, or smoked, or crawled into bed and binge-watched Love Island Australia, I felt immensely guilty. My critical inner voice berated me ceaselessly. “You don't even have a job, what are you tired for?” or “You didn't do a single productive thing today...you could at least try to do something to offset your laziness” or “Jeremiah doesn't even get the choice to rest, he has to go in to work — yet you're the one who's tired? Ha! Give me a break!”
When a friend asked me to babysit 5 days before we were to leave, and I listened to my body and said no, the voice doubled-down. “You bitch!” It shrieked anew, at a screeching pitch. “You terrible, lazy, selfish, so-called "friend"! This is why you aren't deserving of love. I hope you know you don't deserve to ask your friends for anything when you turn around and act this way. You sloth. You slovenly, lazy lump!”
The next week, with aching arms outstretched, I brought this shame to my therapist. It was our final session. With giant, searching eyes, N listened to me patiently. Even as I shared — even as she sat across from me, grey streaks in her curly hair, warm eyes searching, present — I missed her. Her nature is gentle, patient and warm; she radiates acceptance and authenticity. I could've kept sharing forever, just to keep her there with me. But, of course, eventually the conversation moved forward. She asked:
Is getting things done more important than your emotions?
Why is it bad to lean-in to your emotional exhaustion and give yourself rest?
Do you have the right to spend the day as you like?
Why compromise your own needs, to the point of depleting yourself, to do for others? Do you not deserve the same?
If you had a friend who was moving cross-country and they told you they’d felt exhausted & watched Love Island all day, would you treat them the same way you’re treating yourself?
We worked through these questions and identified an old pattern/belief that I've been (subconsciously) holding tight: To keep my loved ones close and connected, I must compromise my own needs. I tend to feel that I “owe” others my time and energy, and feel immense shame when/if I don’t do what others want. Of course, this pattern/belief didn’t emerge from thin air — it was a learned behavior and tactic for survival. It grew out of a childhood where I learned that to be loved, I needed to always be a “fixer” and/or do the “right” thing for others. (Even if that thing didn’t feel “right” for me). The session, despite being our last, felt like a breakthrough.
With these insights in mind, it was time for us to close out our time together. Tears immediately welled in my eyes as I looked at the woman across from me, understanding that while her impact would be lifelong, both our lives would continue forward without the other. It was a part of the process of healing and therapy, but I still felt the sharp pain of it in my chest.
She looked into my eyes and told me that she wanted to end our session by telling me a few truths about myself. She told me that I’m a “good human” — that I’m vibrant and exquisite, immensely intelligent and mesmerizing, bright and filled-to-the-brim with life. She told me that I’d taught her about vulnerability and openness; how to get down to the meat of a feeling. She told me that I’m miraculous.
When we hugged goodbye, I held her tightly and realized, all at once, that I believed her. I believed every word she said, even though it’s often a struggle for me to truly feel and internalize a compliment. The tears flowed more quickly and I wished I could hold her forever, her curly hair on my shoulder, her perfume in my nose, her voice a guiding light.
And yet, what I realized toward the end of December is that I am holding her forever. When the shame narratives kick in, I immediately hear her voice, soothing me, asking me to approach my emotions with curiosity rather than judgment. The day after Christmas, when I slept-in until 4:15 PM (I know!), I cracked open my eyes, felt a wave of embarrassment, and then heard her: Would you have slept that late if your body didn’t really need it? What’s wrong with giving yourself the rest you deserve? When Jeremiah and I listened to “All I Ask,” I jokingly told him that N would push back on Adele and say: “Let’s pause for a moment. Will you really never love again? Is that true or a story you’re telling yourself?” When I spent the day before New Year’s Eve, playing Sims for 12 straight hours, and looked up in a groggy, video game haze, it was N that I saw, grinning, and giving me a thumbs up for indulging in self-care.
I know that eventually N’s voice will give way to my own. One day, I’ll tell myself that I’m miraculous and believe it fully. I’ll give myself permission to be entirely selfish and afterward, feel great about the decision. But for now, as I move into the new year, N’s lessons guide me. And for the first time in awhile, “gratitude” doesn’t even begin to describe how immensely gracious and contented I feel.
