The other day on twitter I was accused of being wise. Now, I grant you, I tend to be a wise-ass, but that isn’t what my #ppdchat mamas meant. It seems that I always know what to say and how to help.
Honestly, I’ve always been analytical, introspective, and compassionate, so the giving-good-advice thing just kind of comes naturally. But I fear I’ll be seen as someone who has all the answers and has their shit together, when in reality, I’m muddling through just like everyone else.
Because you see, I give great advice…to other people. I can listen and put myself in their shoes, mirror back what I’m hearing from them, and truthfully tell it how I see it. Perhaps I would have made a good therapist. Maybe it’s part of why I am a great teacher. But when it comes to myself, I often get so caught up with believing my feelings I can’t see the forest for the trees. No1 freaks out because her covers aren’t tucked in just so and I fly down the stairs in a rage because I. Am. Done. Or I go to a playgroup and leave feeling insecure about myself as a mom and a friend…all because someone looked at me a certain way. Hubs will tell me we are running out of milk and I take it personally, as if he is accusing me of failing as a wife. And I feel like a burden these days, asking for help because I am eight months pregnant and so very tired.
With practice, I’m getting better at treating myself like I do others. Sometimes (and with the help of modern medicine), I can step back and separate myself from the feelings enough to judge the situation for what it is. Those are my proudest moments, lately. It’s been a tough lesson to learn, but three years of therapy has taught me while I can’t control my emotions, I can choose how I respond to them.
So please know. I don’t have all the answers. Really. I’m faking my way through this just like everyone else is. And that’s okay. Life is hard – and anyone who claims to have all the answers is full of it.