I Don’t Know How You Do It

Our road.  It’s a hard one to be sure.  But then aren’t we all on hard roads, for one reason or another?  When talking with others about the speed bumps on my particular road, the mental illnesses that my son fights daily, people often respond with, “Ugh.  I don’t know how you do it…”

I think the intention behind the comment is to commiserate, to empathize, to provide a virtual pat on the back or gentle hand on the shoulder – acknowledging that my road is a hard one, and I must be strong to withstand the journey.  However, I’m not really ever sure how to properly respond to that comment.  “Ohhhh…it’s no big deal,” is certainly not sufficient.  Or truthful.  Either is, “It’s easy.  With wine, that’s how I do it.”  Because ‘with wine’ is a good option, but one I rarely rely on.  I’m mostly talk on that game.

The reality is, my answer is usually the same. Accompanied with a sigh and a possible rub of my forehead, I respond, “I don’t know how I do it.” And really…that’s true.  There are a few things I know.  I know that good friends, good family – they help me get through it. Writing helps me through it.  Faith, helps me through it.  But still?  How. Do. I. Do. It.

One thing I’ve come to realize; I just keep moving forward – one step at a time. Sometimes I can manage a jog, but many times I move slowly, my steps mere shuffles.  Because I’m not always equipped with the energy to properly pick up my feet.  But I’m still moving forward.  Even if slowly.  And sometimes, I’m so busy trying to move forward, trying to hang in there, trying to ‘do it’ – that I don’t realize how I’m really feeling along the way.  I numb myself and stuff emotions deep down, because who’s got time for that?  Especially when I am the support system for Noah.  Especially when he is struggling.  There isn’t time for me to worry about me.

Like a brand new tennis shoe, laced up tightly with a bow at the top, I hold myself together – ready to pound the pavement.  Ready, always at the ready, to fight Noah’s battles.  To support his needs, to hug and hold the love in.  But sometimes this road and the battles along the way leave me weary.  They work themselves up and out until the laces loosen, the bow unravels and the seams on the sole separate.  And I come pouring out.  All of me.  All of the feelings that the laces have been expertly holding in, as long as they could, until they were worn down.  I come pouring out.

And this is when I must stop putting one foot in front of the other.  This is when I must pause.  Hands on hips, gathering my breath, searching for water and looking for a nice, comfortable place to rest my soul.

The last couple of weeks I’ve been flat out exhausted.  Incredibly sad.  Weary.  Fearful.  Lonely.  And I couldn’t figure out why, because Noah was having an incredible couple weeks.  The light had returned to his eyes, the smile warmed his face and the sadness vacated, if even temporarily.  A gift – for that sadness to be at bay and for his ability to participate in the world, the way only a child can.  It has been beautiful.

So why am I so worn, so ragged…so incredibly heavy hearted? And then I realized.  All of these feelings, I’ve been holding them back.  Because when Noah is in crisis, there is no time.  No energy.  No room for me to be in crisis too.  And so there I stand.  Feet firmly planted in the ground, shoulder with apart.  Arms outstretched on either side.  My son resting against my soul.  One arm fighting off the evil that torments him, the other warding off my emotions that threaten to weaken my stance, overtake my position.  A tug of war of energies, thrusting my arms in either direction. Pushed.  Pulled.  Eventually, I fight off the torment, the evil.  Or perhaps they just give up and let go of the rope.  And then what happens?  I get thrown backwards, into my emotions.  They cover me until it’s so dark, I notice I can no longer see.  And in reality – that is when I see the best.  In the dark.  In the quiet.  In myself.

That is when I notice just how sad I am, how much my heart aches, how hard this battle is.  That is when I notice that I don’t often give myself any other choice than ‘to do it’.  That I don’t give myself the pass to be sad, to wallow, to mope.  Because it’s a ‘pull yourself up by the bootstraps’ kind of world, and if I take time to mope, well – all sorts of shit won’t get done.  Who will take care of my family if I wallow?  Who will get the Christmas shopping done, the cookies baked, the laundry folded? How can I protect my baby from more evil, more torment, when I’m curled up in a ball in the corner, wishing to get sick – because then I’d have an excusable reason to rest.  To stay in bed.  And to cry under the covers.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” they say.  Yet I feel so brittle, so breakable, so….weak.  But I guess I’m good at fooling people.  Because I don’t feel strong.  I feel tired. Unsteady.  If they say I’m strong, I must be strong then, right?  I must keep moving forward.  I must keep ‘doing it’.  And still, I don’t know how.

In ebbs and flows I guess.  Perhaps that’s how I do it.  I have moments I feel strong, prepared for the next battle.  New tennis shoes strapped on, laces tight, soles in tact.  But in reality, most moments…most of the time, I look down and notice how ragged my shoes are, the laces loosening, even fraying at the ends.  The sole starting to separate from the rest.

And perhaps that’s the beauty of it all.

The journey, the road this worn and weary shoe has been on.  The stories that it could tell of the hills it traveled, the terrain it covered – and yet it is still here, formed to my body – not letting go – until it truly needs the rest.  And then, it gives way to a bright shiny new shoe.  Ready to run – or shuffle – down a new road, one foot in front of the other…and write new stories on this ‘road less traveled’.

“We live stitch by stitch, when we’re lucky.  If you fixate on the big picture, the whole shebang, the overview, you miss the stitching.  And maybe the stitching is crude, or it is unraveling, but if it were precise, we’d pretend that life was just fine and running like a Swiss watch.  This is not helpful if on the inside our understanding is that life is more of a cuckoo clock with rusty gears.”  – Anne Lamott from Stitches

So here I am, here we are.  Learning to embrace the beauty of the worn out shoe and the cuckoo clock.  Because that’s what is real.  That’s what is relevant.  That’s what is love.