Learning not to walk
By: Rachel
Some people have been given more, and some people have been given less.
And I’ve been given less.
I know, I know. People don’t talk like that. We think to ourselves, “We should be grateful for this and that; So-and-so has it so much worse off than I do.”
We tell people about all the great things in our lives and post on social media all the happy things everyone is jealous of while holding everyone at arm’s length of there’s a struggle.
I’m not saying that what I have isn’t awe-inspiringly amazing. I’m just saying that for the most part, I have less of it.… Less energy… Less flexibility… Less money (because of having less energy)… Less space… Less community (because I can’t work much)… Less abilities (DISabilities)And I’ve been wracking my brain for years, maybe decades, wondering why I can’t be like so-and-so and why my dreams have crumbled so many times and why I don’t have 14 kids or work 67 hours a week and why I haven’t started an animal sanctuary yet and haven’t gotten a master’s degree and a couple of doctorates.
People thought I would grow up to do this and I thought I would grow up to do that and I haven’t…. AT ALL.
In highschool and college I will say I had some pretty sweet accomplishments. And then after that–and during, honestly–it’s been the perfect storm of one shoe dropping after another.
Finally this big pile of shoes built up, and I couldn’t get around it anymore. I couldn’t just keep wearing 5 pairs of shoes everyday because it was like 100.
I’ve had 6 surgeries, and one was basically 3-in-1. I have an average of about 6 doctor appointments per week. I hardly have an income because I’ve hardly been able to work for almost a year. I don’t even know how many mental health diagnoses I have, and each one affects me differently.
Each one of these trials takes away a little bit of independence, a little bit of stamina, a few of my dreams, and a little bit of hope…. Until I feel like I have nothing left. I feel like a puddle flat on the floor.
“Nothing left” but comparing myself to people without thousands of dropped shoes around them.
In therapy we’re talking about “Radical Acceptance,” which is a willingness to accept reality the way it is instead of fighting against it.
When I compare myself to my friends and judge myself for perceived “failures” that I can’t even help, I’m fighting reality. When I get mad at God and try not to trust Him with the outcome of my life because more shoes might drop, I’m fighting reality. When I recite the list of my dashed dreams for the millionth time and let myself ruminate there, I’m fighting reality.
What’s the problem with fighting reality?
It hurts.
Unbearably.
The pain of 1,000 shoes is enough. I don’t want the extra pain of my fighting anymore.
So I’ve started validating myself instead.
“It makes sense I feel so sad about that.”
“Yes, this person is giving 100%, and I’m giving 100% too. Everyone’s 100% is different.”
“I could never repay this person, and the Bible says that for those who have more, more is expected. It’s okay if I can’t repay this person in the same way.”
And maybe I feel the tiniest bit better.
