Last Thursday, after dealing with persistent and severe back pain for a long time, my stepfather finally went under the knife. When my parents first shared the surgery date with me, my immediate, gut reaction was that I would visit him right away—that very day! Duh! But when I got home and checked my calendar, I realized I was babysitting my sister’s kids the day before. And I know my energy levels just don't allow me to be around people two days in a row. After any social activity—no matter how short or long—I simply need recharge time. I view it as my inner battery draining during those moments, practically begging to be plugged in for at least one full day. By now, I know exactly what works best for me to recharge: resting, taking naps, embroidering, crocheting, and maybe going for short walks or bike rides. Rest, fresh air, and a tiny bit of movement. During my "recharge days," my phone is usually on silent, and I simply cannot deal with other people. Fortunately, these days I’m pretty much recharged after just one day, whereas it used to take me three. I know what works, I stick to it, and I am incredibly grateful for this progress in my recovery process.
Less than a year ago, a situation like this would have made me feel incredibly anxious. Babysitting the kids on Wednesday and going to the hospital on Thursday—how on earth was I going to manage that? Even back then, I knew it was too much. But admitting that to myself was one thing; admitting it to someone else was a whole different story. I wasn't afraid that people would think I was weak, but I was terrified of hurting them. I was scared they would think I didn’t love them. So, I did what I thought others expected of me, because I loved them more than I loved myself. And, of course, because I was afraid of hurting them—and getting hurt in return.
I have since learned that the two have absolutely nothing to do with each other. I’ve learned that I can tell people: "I love you, and I love me too. I am going to take care of myself first. Not because I don't love you, but because I love myself. And once I've done that, you are the very first person I will spend time with." Saying that to people—practicing that act of self-love—used to feel terrifying, but I’ve started doing it more and more. The fact that I’ve often received incredibly loving responses, including from all four of my parents, has truly helped me grow. It helped me find the courage to speak up, to set my boundaries, and to love myself just as much as I love anyone else. "What is spiritually right for you can never be bad for someone else," someone once told me. I’ve learned just how true that is.
After double-checking my schedule, I immediately let my parents know that I couldn’t make it on Thursday, but that I would visit on Friday instead. As it turned out, that was the right choice not just for me, but for my stepfather too. While he was still completely groggy from the anesthesia, he already had my mom, my sister, her husband, and their two kids visiting. Talk about enough energy in that room to wake the dead! I ended up visiting the next day when things were a bit quieter. That way, his visits were nicely spread out, and I got enough rest. A total win-win!
Since the hospital isn't exactly around the corner, I had arranged with my mom to ride with her so we could go together. Yet, my gut quickly told me this wasn't right for me. Driving with my mom also meant driving back with my mom. Which would be nice, for sure, but the problem was that I wouldn't be able to protect my own needs. What if I got overwhelmed and exhausted after two or three hours, but "had" to sit there for hours longer because I had no way to get home? Believe me: this isn't a matter of not wanting to, it’s a matter of not being able to. When my battery is dead, it’s dead. That doesn't benefit me, and it certainly doesn't benefit anyone else. That’s why I suggested to my mom that we drive separately. Her by car, me by bike. It wasn’t the most convenient choice. First of all, it was a 45-minute bike ride under a blazing sun in 95°F (35°C) heat. Cycling in that weather is really no fun. But it was mostly difficult because we were having lunch at my mom’s place first. Leaving separately from there felt a bit strange, as if I didn't want to sit in the car with her—but I knew that wasn't true. I knew it was just the voice of fear whispering that I was hurting my mom, that I wasn't good enough, that I should be doing better by now. And I knew it wasn't true. It really, really, really wasn't true.
My act of self-care had nothing to do with a lack of love, but everything to do with an abundance of love. Love for myself, but equally for my mom and stepfather. Because what good am I to them if I’m sitting in that hospital room completely overwhelmed, losing my mind over the sound of a humming fan, and snapping at them? Exactly: no good at all.
I am grateful and happy that I’ve learned from my experiences. In the past, I couldn't do this, which meant I would end up completely overstimulated and in tears at family weekends, Christmas dinners, and weddings. Today, whenever possible, I try not to skip things entirely, but to only attend a part of the dinner or event. I try to tell the host: "I love you and that’s why I’m here, but when I get tired in a bit, I’m going to head home. I’ll call you this week, and maybe the two of us can grab a quiet tea together later?" Because in my experience, that works too. If an event is too far away or just way too crowded (like a big dance party), I look for an alternative. Something my easily overwhelmed mind can handle. Skipping the party itself, but meeting up for coffee a week later. Letting the family weekend pass, but planning a separate get-together in a much smaller group (ideally just two or three people). Not everything or nothing, but the in-between. Out of love for me, but also for the other person.
