I have been seeing an Occupational Therapist for about four weeks because an issue I’ve been having with one of my hands. I am convinced my feisty little OT is 75% pyschotherapist and just 25% occupational therapist. She is a firm believer that the bulk of our physical ailments comes from inflammation, and inflammation is caused by stress and trauma – both physical and psychological. As a result, she is constantly encouraging me to examine my core beliefs and figure out what I’m stuffing down, causing more inflammation. Starting this blog was one attempt to do just that.

One of her favorite ways to describe the human “fight or flight” response is when you are caught in the “I Can’t Evens.” When I confessed last week that I hadn’t done any of the exercises I was supposed to do the previous week, because “it was a really bad week,” she called me on it. She said, “You gotta get out of the Can’t Evens and come up with your No Matter Whats.” She went on to tell me “Whatever you believe, you will set yourself up to fulfill it. These Can’t Evens have become a pattern for you.” In other words, if I believe that during the height of tax season, I can’t even take care of myself, I won’t. I can’t even go for a short walk, I can’t even remember to eat properly, I can’t even face X, Y or Z.

She told me that if I wanted to initiate real change, I have to start setting reasonable goals. Such as, “I want to walk two miles every day, but no matter what, I will at least walk to the end of my road” or “My goal is to drink 100 oz of water every day, but no matter what, I will drink a full glass of water first thing in the morning, with every meal, and before I go to bed at night.” She challenged me to examine what has set me on this path of self-martyrism and abuse, and then look for ways to flip the script. I nodded and said, okay, but inside I was thinking “Girl, I can’t even.”   

But I know how I got here.

Our mother was the epitome of the 70s supermom. Are you old enough to remember those horrible Enjoli commercials from the late-1970s? Here’s an example, if you can stomach it: https://youtu.be/jA4DR4vEgrs  “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never, never let you forget you’re a man.  Cause I’m a Woman”. Lawdy, that was my mom to the bone. In the 70s, she ran her own bookkeeping business from her home office (back before that was a thing), ironed dad’s work shirts and pants, made two separate dinners every night (one for us girls, and one for dad), ran my girl scout troop and summer camp, chaperoned every field trip, and never, EVER missed a performance or after school activity one of her girls were in. She was a holy-terror of a superwoman, and loved us with an intensity that was often overwhelming.

This was my role model.

So while other kids played “House,” my sisters and I played “Office.” That King Crimson maple in the back yard of the New House – the main power source for our backyard concerts (see https://only-an-egg.com/2022/04/22/homes-are-also-complicated-pt-2/) – conveniently had a ready-made office in its upper branches. I, of course, was the boss, and my sisters were my unwitting assistants. I became very good at barking orders at them from my perch in the top branch because they were ALWAYS losing my Very Important Papers. Of course, we did also play House, although in our version, I was the mom who always had to go to work. Our neighbor/sound crew, Francis, was usually the dog. And my sisters were the kids of the household, always getting into trouble while I was at work.

Later, as our neighborhood gang grew, we formed a club. All the dues were paid to me, naturally. In turn, I provided the Jell-O, by which I mean a box of Jell-O crystals pilfered from Ma’s pantry. I always held the box. You’d spit on your finger and dip it in the box and then lick the sugary deliciousness off. One dip for Sheesh, one dip for me. One dip for Peeper, one dip for me. And so on. Lick, dip. Lick, dip. Sounds fair, right? When my sisters realized that I was receiving two to four times more dips than anyone else in the club, they tried to riot. I threatened to stop bringing the Jell-O, and that put an end to the revolt. I mean I was the one taking all the risk here. Also: oldest!

Mom tried to get us interested in real business in our early teens. I worked for her as a file clerk for a couple of years, and hated it. The. Most. Boring. Job. In. The. World. I would mock her behind her back “Who wants to spend their life tallying numbers? Booooor-ing.” She ended up having the last laugh, though. I started doing bookkeeping two years out of high school for a firm that was also willing to send me to community college to learn the fundamentals. Later, I would go on to start my own very successful bookkeeping business, which still exists today, although – believe it or not – I am no longer the boss.

Bottom line: it’s all Mom’s fault.

The summer after I turned seventeen, she expected me to get a job. I had my license, I had my mail jeep (which is another story), I had the time. What I did not have was the incentive. I was busy, busy, busy sneaking out of the house, partying all night, sleeping all day. Who had time for a job? As July was coming to a close, Mom decided she’d had enough. She called me into her office for “a talk,” and I knew I was in trouble. She started calmly enough. But her voice rose as she pointed out that “I did NOT raise you to become a lazy bitch sleeping your life away!”

The gauntlet was thrown. My church-going, clean-mouthed mother just cursed. At me. About me. She thought I was lazy? I’LL SHOW HER.

I had my first job two days later. A retail position at Springfield Mall. A week after that, I took on a second job at the same mall, alternating nights between the two. When school started up after Labor Day, she expected me to quit those jobs, but ooooh no. I was only getting started. Now that I’d found escape in work, I was never going to stop! Besides, I wanted to make her sorry for what she said to me, and honestly, I think she was. She rarely saw me from the time I started working. I was either at school, work or “studying” (partying) with my friends. By the time I graduated I had three jobs, and was well on my way to developing a speed and coke addiction. Thank goodness all my “connections” went off to college that fall, and I learned to negotiate my hectic schedule without the drugs.

In the end, I think she was proud of me, and the life I carved. And really, that’s what I wanted. She made me angry, and that jump-started the life I would have happily pissed away on parties. I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but that’s part of growing up. However, I am aware that the coping mechanisms we develop as children can be detrimental when carried into adulthood. So perhaps some further self-examination is necessary. I do realize that I’m not superwoman. Enjoli, be damned.     

My own superwoman has been gone for two and a half years now. I’d give anything to be reliving some of these memories with her now. And asking her a million questions that I never even knew I had. But, I can’t even. I know that sometimes she might come off as a monster in these writings, and in some ways she was. But, no matter what she loved all her girls, 24/7/365, to her last breath.

I don’t think I am doing this right. I still can’t even. But, no matter what, I will keep trying.