Feeling Good
My Self-Compassion Committment Is Working
The daily Letters From Love I have been writing have been life-changing. It is a daily act of self-compassion —an opportunity to speak kindly to myself, when no one else does. This was a challenge from Liz Gilbert to the readers of her newsletter, of which I am one.
It only takes a few minutes to write. I tag it on to my Morning Pages each day. It feels like soaking up the sun, making it’s light internal. I can choose to let it shine outward to others. I can also use it to shield my heart from some of the pain that life throws my way. Writing lightens my load just a little bit every time I sit in my chair at my teal blue desk, which sits right before the ceiling to floor windows in my office/writing room.
Being a mother to black sons who experience the effects of autism, depression, anxiety and a crappy world, has both expanded my heart and caused deep pain. When they hurt, I hurt, and sometimes when they are hurting, it feels like they want to make me experience their pain as if it also belongs to me. My therapist used to say it’s like they think I’m an extension of them. This may subconscious, and not intentional, but the results are the same.
This little story is an example of how they think, I’m supposed to know what they’re feeling and always be at their disposal.
One Saturday afternoon, my husband and I were on our way to a party. I put my phone in my purse so that I could be fully present our friend’s “Going Away” party for their son who we have known since he was little boy. He was moving out of the country to Vietnam.
Halfway through the festivities I went into my friend’s bedroom to freshen up my lipstick. I picked up my purse, and took my phone out for a second. That was a big mistake. There were dozens of missed calls and nasty text messages about why I was not answering. Party over! My heart rate shot up! Anxiety, surged through my body like an electric current. This kind of thing would happen all of the time, and it would usually come out of nowhere when I was not expecting it. My body’s reaction was an uncontrollable trauma response.
In the texts, my youngest son said I was being selfish! He must have been at least twenty-years old at the time.
Like what? I was supposed to be on call? I should have subliminally known that he would have a problem that I needed to help him solve immediately! Like I am not to have moments of ease, relaxation, or fun.
My other son, my first born is twenty-eight now. He lives miles away from me in Los Angeles, while I live here in Texas. He calls me every.single.day. Whenever he has an emotion of sadness, emptiness, frustration, disappointment, or anger, he lays it in my lap. Because I am an empath, I end up feeling it deeply.
Feeling his feelings has gone on for years. It’s way too much to carry. It doesn’t belong to me. Because he is far away, I start to feel the emotion of guilt and helplessness. I start ruminating. We should live closer together because I need to be there for him.
The reality is if we were closer together, I would still be drowning right now.
I have learned to shield my heart as much as I can. I maintain the boundary of only answering my phone once a day. It otherwise remains on silent. My heart is fifty-eight years old. I have given my children my best. In fact, I’ve gone way above and beyond for most of their lives. I can’t allow stress to continue damaging my heart.
Basking in self-love and finally engaging in things that bring me happiness is now a priority in my life. I schedule to go out to see something beautiful and be alone with my thoughts. I take myself out to my favorite neighborhood restaurant to have dinner alone (well, not exactly alone; the bartender is there.) at least once a week.
When I was a teenager, I hid from my thoughts, by staying busy, watching t.v. or doing arts and crafts. My thoughts made me feel anxious and lonely. Well, not anymore. Being alone is my favorite thing. It helps me process my thoughts and helps my writing.
As women, we have been conditioned to give and serve others. Most of us were never taught how to love ourselves. Our mothers had no idea that self-love was even a thing.
When my mother was seventy-three, she left Los Angeles to come live with me in Texas. She moved into our house temporarily, and stayed for ten years! I was too busy raising teenagers to think about the implications of that. It was my therapist who probed to make me think about what it really meant. She could see that I was drowning.
In those years that Mom lived with us, I had to take periodic breaks. I would travel two hours away to Houston to stay at my best friend’s house. Trish would let me just be. Her children were younger. They would go about their lives and leave me at their house to take a bath and rest. Sometimes, we would go on girlfriend dates where we would talk and sit for hours, having dinner, dessert, and cocktails. It was a heavenly respite.
However, every time I packed up to leave home my mother would question me.
“You’re going to be gone for how long?! Why do you need to stay that many days? What exactly are you going there for? You know, you’ve never taken ME with you to Houston.”
Are you freaking kidding me?! The only way I could be 100% off duty was to leave the city. That was the only time my husband would completely take over taking care of our kids, because if I was within eyesight, the questions would all come like rapid fire towards me.
I confess, sometimes, I secretly fantasized about getting a divorce so that he could have custody every other weekend, two weeks at Christmas and in the summer.
My mother developed this “learned helplessness” so I would do more things for her. I had to leave the premises to rest.
Thank God my therapist helped me realize I was entitled to self-care, love, and rest. Now that my boys are all adults and my mother has moved around the corner into her own senior-living apartment, I am free to take better care of myself without any guilt or trepidation.
My Letters from Love reinforce my commitment to myself each day when I write one. I recommend you try it. Here is one that I wrote this week.
Dear Love,
What would you like to tell me today?
Beautiful girl,
Stick to standing up for your wants and needs. This is new to you because you spent the majority of your life trying to make people like you, avoiding conflict, and trying to make others happy. That is not your job! It’s impossible, anyway.
Your job is to make yourself as happy as possible. Take care of your body and mind. Protect it like no one else will. (Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you are overdue for several health appointments right now. You better get off your ass and take care of them! You have gotten into the habit of putting your appointments off behind other responsibility. But you better get busy Sister!)
Most people will never put your needs above their own. Why should you keep putting your needs behind every one else’s? That is conditioned patriarchy, and f*#% that!
Go do you Boo!
What are you doing for moments of self-compassion and love? Nothing is too big and nothing is too small. Let’s do this!
Love, Karen
Karen. Thank you for writing your love letters and Asperger confessions posts. I learn so much from your sharing your life. I pick up little habits from you as a stay at home mom to a 23 year old aspire girl. Sometimes I silence my phone; sometimes I don’t carry it. My daughter and I both learn. She can problem solve on her own or the situation resolved on it’s on quite quickly. I wasn’t absolutely needed. I take care of myself by getting massages more often. I go alone to movies...phones off! Thank you, thank you!