We interrupt our pre-planned Anniversary Week Post for a bit of self reflection.
I had my regular weekly therapy appointment today, and the same subject came up that has come up at practically every session for the last month.
Here’s a rundown of how it’s gone each and every week:
- I bitch for a couple of minutes about being in limbo-land since That happened.
- I then move on to beating myself up over not doing enough about my health and the fact that I’ve gone back to smoking (yes, I have, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me) and I barely make it to yoga once a week.
- Then I spend another few minutes defending that, and saying, that really, I’m doing pretty Ok, all things considered. Especially compared to the last time.
- I then proceed to beat myself up about not doing enough to promote my new internet content business, and not being able to find the motivation to get moving on ANYTHING that involves my career.
- Then I talk about this blog. And the women I have met through this blog. A LOT.
Today my therapist finally called shenanigans. She said it was time to discuss what it is about this space that takes up so much of my time and energy, for better and for worse.
You see – I’ve kind of been skating around the issue here, because I’ve been skating around it in general, but ever since That happened I’ve barely left the house. I barely see my friends. I barely do much of anything outside of blogging, reading other people’s blogs, emailing fellow bloggers, and skyping with my bloggy BFF’s. This has become my life. A virtual bubble that I keep myself locked in. And really, it’s not only since That happened that I’ve been doing this. I’ve been doing this more or less since I first realized that I was part of a “community”. Since I found out that there was a little place on the interwebs with hundreds, if not thousands of women just like me.
And as my readership grew, as my friendships grew, as my google reader bloated up, I found myself detaching more and more from everything else. My full time job is this blog – at least in my mind and spirit it is. My part time job is the one that actually supports my family. This is not healthy. I know it isn’t.
So at therapy, we started to examine why this is. We were out of time before we got very far (most of the time having been already spent with my usual bitching and self-flagellation) but I’ve been thinking about it ever since I left our session, and tonight really started to put things in perspective.
Allow me to try to make sense of things:
I have friends. A lot of friends. Some of them I see once every couple of months, some of them I see and talk to more often. But all of these people love me and I truly love them.
But since more or less my first miscarriage last year, I’ve found myself getting more and more distant from most of them. I don’t reach out. I don’t communicate. I spend most of my real life isolated, and busy beating myself up for messing up one thing or another. For not being good enough.
On the other hand there’s here. If I had to say which version of myself was the “real me”, more often than not these days I would say the “real” me is not that self-flagellating hermit. The real me is Mo. It’s this irreverent, snarky, funny, open person. This person who supports and gives advice when called for, and is supported when called for.
This uncensored, open book. I love Mo. I love her dearly. She is the real me. The essence of who I truly am.
And yet, I’m not her in real life. I don’t live up to her. Mo isn’t a persona. She’s not a construction. Mo is the person I aspire to be in real life, but never really get there. I’m more real here than I am with my own freaking mother. I’m more real here than I am with my friends (so it’s lucky most of them read this blog, so that technically I am real with them). This is me.
That self-flagellating hermit going through the motions of my life – she’s the persona.
Tonight was the first night I’ve really gone out since That happened. An old friend got married. I pulled out a little black dress that barely fit anymore, a pair of spanx (getting into those in my current hormone-fluctuating state was definitely a challenge), and my make up and hair dryer. I shaved the forest that’s been accumulating on my legs for the last month. I waxed and tweezed to make myself semi-presentable. I went to the wedding, and saw a bunch of friends. All of whom I love dearly, and most of whom I hadn’t seen in months.
Now, mind you, part of this is because Shmerson and I moved an hour north of Tel Aviv, back to my hometown, to regroup after our second loss, and most of my friends are in Tel Aviv.
But still – it’s only an hour drive away. And there is such a thing as a phone.
Everybody was genuinely happy to see me. I got a lot of “I’ve missed you”s and “I love you”‘s tonight.
But I also realized why it’s so easy for me to escape and run back to my bubble. Because in the inevitable beginning “how’ve you been?” and “where have you disappeared to?” conversations, I had to tell everyone about That. The first two losses were already known, but I had to tell them about the third.
And I got that look from every one of them. You guys know the look I’m talking about. That sympathetic, slightly uncomfortable “I love you and I’m sorry but I don’t know how to comfort you” look. I hate that look. I love the people who gave me that look, but I still hate that look. And here is the crux of it all: I had to tell them about that, so I had to deal with “the look”.Because I can’t lie to people I love. I had to tell them, and all the while I felt like shit for being such a fucking downer. For making them have to face the crap that Shmerson and I are facing.
This is how I feel with all of my friends. I feel guilty. I know they want to be there for me. I also know that most of them don’t know how to be there. I want to be my real self, the irreverent, snarky, honest, and confident Mo that so many of you read every day. But that’s impossible. Because my “real life friends” don’t know what to do when the honest comes out. They don’t know how to deal. It’s not their fault. They really do try their best, and I love them for it. It’s just how it is. Or maybe they do know how to deal, and I just don’t give them a chance because I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t know.
So I escape. I escape into this little virtual bubble where I’m the real me. Where having a conversation with one of my bloggy BFFs can easily shift from discussing my cervical mucus to talking about a good book within seconds, and without a second thought. Where I don’t have to deal with the guilt of being the downer. Where I don’t have to hide my losses and my pain, and at the same time I can show my sense of humor. I can beat myself up over crap. And for some reason a bunch of people find that interesting enough to read. And all of you accept me for who I am. It’s not that my “real life” friends don’t. I just think that for them, it’s much messier. They haven’t been where I am. They try their best. I love them for it. But I sense that sometimes, they just don’t know what to say or do with me.
In “real” life – I criticize every word I say, and everything I do. Here – a badly written post is no big deal, and there are some posts that I’m so proud of, that I spend hours or even days high on the feedback of writing something good, or particularly funny. I don’t have that kind of confidence when it comes to the work I do for my clients, or even the feedback I give to my students.
Here – I don’t have to TRY. I just am. Whatever comes, it’s accepted. Without “the look”. Without that feeling of helplessness I sense from even my closest friends “in real life” when I say words like “Beta” or “HSG” or “ectopic”.
My dad gave me shit the other day about the important place that this blog has been given in my life. He told me to “get over it already” and to stop “pouring salt on the wounds.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe being here on some level perpetuates the fear. Perpetuates my constant need to deal with my losses.
Or maybe – just maybe – this place is my saving grace. It’s my safe haven. It’s the one place where I am strong enough to love myself and forgive myself for my fuck ups. It’s the one place where I’m unapologetic. Guilt-free. I am who I am, and I feel loved for it.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that my “real life” friends love me for me. But I feel like a burden to them. It’s my own self-flagellation that limits my friendships. I love my friends dearly, and I think it’s because of that fact that I sometimes can’t bring myself to “burden” them with my situation.
Tonight, at the wedding, I really wanted to let loose and dance. I couldn’t bring myself to until the very end, just as Shmerson and I needed to leave. I spent the last 15 minutes or so dancing like a maniac. Hugging my friends. Feeling the love, so-to-speak.
I wish that was how I was all that time. That version of me is easy. That version of me doesn’t point at her
two butterflies and wonder aloud whether she needs to get a third. That version of me doesn’t feel guilty and constantly isolated from the world around her.
But that version of me is a mask. Every day, in my real life, I wear it. Around my parents, around my clients, my students, and most of my friends – except the ones who read this blog and know what’s going on. And with them, I just feel guilty. I feel like a pill. Like a burden.
Here in this virtual bubble – to quote my therapist – I feel “held”. Accepted. I don’t have to deal with “the look”. I don’t have to deal with uncomfortable silences that arise when people who love me just don’t know what to say to comfort me.
I feel like I’ve rambled on here quite a bit. But here’s my point: I know I have to find a balance. I know this little virtual bubble I’ve created for myself is not a healthy one, because I’ve taken it too far. I know I need to step outside. Deal with “the look” and find a way to be Mo in real life. Because that’s who I am. That’s who I want to be every day. And frankly, I’m sick and tired of being a hermit.
I just don’t know how the hell to do it. Because I feel guilty. Because the real world doesn’t “get it” the way you guys do. Because in the real world, I am different from everyone around me. I am grieving. My body is betraying me. I’m at war with myself.
Here – I belong. I am “held”.
So I give it over to you, dear readers – have you found yourself falling in too deep in this virtual bubble of ours? Any advice on how to bring out my inner Mo in real life and strike a balance?
I await your usual depth and eloquence. Not just my bloggy friends – to my “real life” friends who are reading this – I know it can’t be easy to read. I want to hear (or read) what you have to say.
Thanks. I love you all. Truly.
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Tags: community, depression, Miscarriage, musings, postaday2011