Being a Human Is Hard

Posted by on Sep 22, 2014 in Communicating Like a Grown Up, Coping With it All | 3 comments

Have you ever stopped to think about how weird it is to cry? I mean, how did God decide that the ultimate expression of extreme human emotion would be salt water dripping uncontrollably from two tiny little drain holes in our eyes? It’s just weird. We’re happy and we cry. We’re sad and we cry. We’re in pain and we cry…

What a bunch of leaky sad sacks we are.

I hate to cry. My emotional engine typically runs at one speed, so it feels very unnatural to succumb to something that’s so…natural. The rest of my body is in agreement with me. I know, because I’m allergic to my own tears. No joke—my traitorous eye-terrorists leave little red shame trails on my face. Every. Single. Time. Since I cry approximately once every leap year, this has never been much of a problem—until recently. I seem to cry about everything lately. Happy crying. Sad crying. Stress crying. Pain crying. I don’t know who this emotional lunatic is, but I miss the old robot me.

The past couple of years have been some of the best years of my life, but some of the hardest too. In the last two years, I married the love of my life, became the stepmom of three fantastic boys, quit a job that made me want to give myself a lobotomy most days, started a job at a company that I love and respect, and became even more involved in my church and my community. All wonderful things. In the last couple of years I was also diagnosed with an incurable and wretched GI disorder, I had to all but stop running—which has been a huge part of my life for the better part of 20 years, I have had to learn how to be a stepmom to the aforementioned boys, I lost my grandmother, and my husband and I have had to juggle his self-employment with my new job and all of the stress that comes with both of our career paths, all while navigating a new marriage and blended family. It hasn’t been easy, but every moment was part of God’s plan for us. The happy, the sad, the painful and the downright stressful—all part of the plan. Just knowing that makes everything seem much more manageable, doesn’t it?

Through all of this, even on my worst SOD day, I’ve kept my emotions in check for the most part. I cried when my grandma passed away, and even then the feeling was so foreign that it almost felt like someone else was operating my face. Don’t get me wrong– I love my family so much that it scares me sometimes, but my tear ducts haven’t traditionally felt obligated to weigh in—that’s all.

Today, I wrote down every stressful or nervous or negative thought that crossed my mind during the day. I was amazed at the extent of the thoughts I had. Looking at that list, I realized just how trapped I am inside my own stoicism. I think mothers feel like it’s their duty to keep it all together sometimes. I know I do. When I can’t keep it together, and it all starts leaking out my stupid face, I feel like I have failed somehow, and my “Pillar of Strength” merit badge has been ripped away.

Since my face isn’t really giving me a choice, and since I feel like maybe there is a lesson in here somewhere for me, I’ve decided to just let my acidic tears fall where they may . Maybe the old robot me is still in there, but this new, dribbly, soft version of me can co-exist with it. Being a human is hard, but what a blessing it is to feel things worth crying about, right? It reminds us of what we have to lose, what means the most to us, and the grace we’re given to overcome the hard times. If you’re feeling like you’ve misplaced your robot too, I’ve got a box of Kleenex with your name on it.

Okay, half a box.

Two. Two used Kleenexes with your name on them.

Rip off that hero badge, mama.

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Just Pull It, Already!

Posted by on Aug 25, 2014 in Communicating Like a Grown Up | 1 comment

My five-year-old daughter has a loose tooth. While she is one of the most fearless little girls I have ever met, this tooth is really causing her some woe. I have tried to explain that it’s barely hanging on in there—connected only by a few tiny strands of tissue. It doesn’t have any big, scary roots, and she would be much better off if she just pulled it. Instead, she worries, and she does that disgusting thing that all kids with a loose tooth do—she moves it around with her tongue and adjusts it back into place when it slips around. Disgusting, yes? It’s an exercise in futility to delay the inevitable moment when the tooth slips out into a bite of food, and with great relief, your child admits that it would have been better to just pull it in the first place, before they reached the “dangling stage.” Oh, but my dear little daughter can’t see it that way right now.

“I’m afraid it will hurt if I pull it, Mommy.”

“But, it hurts now when you chew and brush your teeth, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“…and it’s making a blister on your tongue from rubbing it, right?”

“Yes, but…it might hurt if I pull it.”

“It might, but for less than a second. Isn’t that better than it poking you, and causing a big, painful blister?”

“But, Mommy—it might hurt if I pull it.”

There is no reasoning with her that the brief twinge of mild discomfort when she pulls it is worth the pain she will prevent by not letting her jagged little tooth exist in uncomfortable limbo.

It seems silly when you think about it in the context of teeth, but I do the same thing with conflict. I go to great lengths to avoid it, no matter what pain it might be causing me. Rather than biting the bullet and experiencing the fleeting discomfort of addressing what is bothering me, I let it dangle around in my head and my heart, poking me with its sharp edges.

My husband and I are two of the most non-confrontational beings alive.  While we’ve never raised our voices to each other and we have had very few arguments, every issue that requires a semi-serious conversation feels like an epic event to me. My husband, however, in addition to being non-confrontational, is also very pragmatic, so it’s not an emotional tsunami for him when these conversations arise. For me, it’s like I have a thousand little jagged teeth to pull at once.

My distaste for “conflict” is certainly not a result of my husband’s response to it. He treats me with love and kindness when I finally muster up the grit to ask him if we can talk. By the end of the conversation, I feel like a child—holding my harmless little tooth in my hand and wondering why I made such a big deal about getting it out. His sweet spirit and compassionate responses make me a little braver each time I need to discuss an uncomfortable subject.

If you ask my ex-husband what personality flaws I possess, I know that a lack of verbal communication tops the list. I have never been comfortable with expressing my feelings verbally, so I would resort to a carefully worded email or note, edited dozens of times. That was exasperating for him, because he is a “take the bull by the horns” (or “tie the tooth to the doorknob” in this case) communicator. When your communication styles are mismatched, it only serves to amplify the frustration of one person and the anxiety of the other. Both parties then need to work even harder to meet the other’s needs.

If you are on the other side of the spectrum, and you are a more…aggressive communicator, there are still a few things that can benefit both of us:

  • Think before you speak (but not for days like I tend to do!).
  • Pray, asking God to show you any hardness in your heart or irrational thoughts or expectations.
  • Be honest with your loved one that communication is a challenge for you (whether you are a “puller” or a “dangler”), and ask for patience upfront.
  • Don’t get so caught up in yourself and your carefully-planned words (or impassioned rant, as the case may be) that you forget to really hear what the other person is saying in reply.

I have so much work to do in the area of communicating with boldness. Unlike my daughter, however, who will continue to protect her loose tooth like a precious, stabby pearl, I am going to resolve to “just pull it” next time, and become the communicator my family needs me to be.

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