Response-ability
I just saw a man on an electric wheelchair trying to get past the long line of self-involved patrons outside Maru Coffee in Los Feliz (the Cream Top is delicious, by the way). I waited and watched, looking back over my shoulder as I walked to the cafe down the street. I was ready to jump in and tell one of these assholes to move out of his way, if needed. And then — I bumped into someone walking the other way. That’s the problem with making someone else’s well-being your responsibility: Unless you’re going in the exact same direction, you end up tripping over yourself.
A few months after Matt had his stroke and I had our daughter, I had a conversation on the phone with my sister, Bianca.
ME: Matt is really making improvements. I truly believe he’s not done with his work in this world. I don’t know what it’s going to look like, but the best is yet to come.
Yes, I said this out loud. I’m a walking, talking hallmark card. I still find myself constantly saying things like this in between loads and loads and loads of laundry. They say you’ll remember the smiles and laughter but you won’t remember the laundry, but one of our dogs has started peeing on the curtains, so there’s no way I’m forgetting that.
BIANCA: I believe that too. It’s so amazing watching him through all of this.
A half a beat passed, where I knew Bianca was thinking about everything she’s ever said to me and trying to help me forward in the best, and least damaging, way possible. She’s sixteen years older than me and has been a kind of mother figure at times.
BIANCA: I see that for you too, by the way. I know Matt will do more, but I also think you as an individual have more for the world.
In the moment, I just said thank you. But what I thought was, “Oh silly Bianca, I don’t need anything else, helping Matt and Hazel is my purpose. Maybe you feel like you need something for you individually, I don’t feel that pull.” And I naively thought, as I’ve thought so many other times, that my feelings would never change.
It wasn’t until months later when I started having weekly breakdowns that I reflected on what she said. I was trying to pull Matt through therapies and progress and depression and I just couldn’t keep it up. He wasn’t going in the exact direction I wanted, or the exact speed I planned for. I was exhausted trying to breathe life into him and running out of breath for myself. CPR is not a sustainable way of living. I still didn’t feel the pull to create something of my own, but I knew something had to change.
I was so completely melded with Matt and our daughter that I didn’t have the space to feel any urge of my own. I needed to think this through, so I started journaling at 5:30 am when Matt and our daughter were asleep. I “played the tape” like my old sponsor taught me to. Where would I end up if I continued on this road? I thought about wives who try to help their husbands achieve their goals, becoming so thoroughly part of them that their husbands no longer register their effort because it seems like their own. They become extensions of their husbands, like an extra arm. But they are not just an arm; they have a mind and soul and dreams and eventually their lack of autonomy creates resentment. Is that the type of partner I want to be? I thought about moms who consider their kids their purpose, living vicariously through them, taking every decision personally and as a direct reflection of themselves. Is that the type of mom I want to be? Both of these types of relationships start with kindness and love in mind but end with resentment and bitterness.
Before anyone gets out their pitchforks, I’m not saying all stay-at-home moms or wives are bitter—just the ones who don’t have enough space to feel and meet their own needs. A room of one’s own, or whatever. In order to be the best mom and wife and caregiver and dog pee cleaner, I needed to create space to know myself. So I started going to therapy. Thanks to my friend, Molly, to whom I offhandedly mentioned I wanted to see a therapist and, after asking if I’d be into it, made a fucking spreadsheet of therapists for me. It was a good reminder to talk about what I want, otherwise how will anyone know? You never know who will drop the ball and who will catch it, unless you throw it out there. I love my therapist and I would not have been able to find her if Molly hadn’t helped me, or without me taking the time to think about what I needed. And I wouldn’t have even considered making space to consider it if Bianca hadn’t planted the seed.
That’s the secret about “self-care,” it’s not doing the care yourself, it’s yourself asking for it. Then when someone else needs care, you are able to provide it. I am weary of the term “self-care.” I feel like it has been appropriated by #girlboss capitalists who try to convince you that if you just buy one more moisturizing mask you’ll finally be happy. I do find “put your own mask on first” to be a helpful metaphor, but I don’t think they mean $100 mud masks. But sometimes I do forget to put my mask on, like I take Matt to PT and OT every week, but I’ve been having elbow pain for a year and still haven’t gone to the doctor.
I was also slightly resistant to therapy because it feels like a replacement for a religious confession. I wasn’t raised religious, and I don’t feel comfortable picking it up now. I thought about it, I even went to some churches, but I didn’t find a fit. I was resistant to hiring a nanny because it feels like a replacement for a nana. Yes, in an ideal situation we’d live near her grandparents and they would watch her, but both my and Matt’s parents are dead, and though we have family in multiple places, our largest community of support is here. I’m realizing self-care is less going to the spa and more going to the mechanic. Of course, I wish I just had a friend who knows cars, but that’s not my reality. But my sadness about my lack of mechanic friends doesn’t mean I can ignore the check engine light. Then I just end up broken down on the side of the road, unable to give anyone else a lift.
Since going to therapy and hiring a nanny, I have had room to write again. And though Matt and Hazel are often the subjects of my writing—they say write what you know—this is something that is just mine. It keeps my engine running smoothly, so I can lift them up. But first I have to lift myself. Moms can lift cars to protect their children, I can at least lift myself. And who knows? Maybe I can lift others, too. My work in this world is not done.
I am looking forward to reading more of your work. Keep the faith!
There are tens of millions of caregivers and caregivers in waiting who will need to read narratives like these and remember to take a carve out for their own ambition and needs. Thank you for writing.