The struggle of post-traumatic growth
A note from me to you:
I do this annoying thing every now and again when I start a personal project, like this blog: I get distracted and completely abandon it. Then I come back years later with all kinds of new ideas and thoughts that inevitably require me to re-do everything. I start all over again because my imagination can NOT just sit still. It’s always nagging me with thoughts and ideas. Such a nuisance.
So here I am, writing a post for the first time in over a year. Because of this wild pandemic, I now have time to do a little more with this site as I pursue intentionality in my life. I plan to share my thoughts along the way, journaling with you a bit, but I also want to make this site a resource for you. I tend to be a voracious consumer of random information, so I’ll share some of that too and create content you’ll hopefully find useful. I even made an official project board, with lists and everything. You know how seriously I take my lists. No matter what happens, thanks for hanging out here with me.
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My imagination failed to properly prepare me for the things I’ve seen over the last few months. It simply didn’t have enough catalogued images of my own body in a perpetual state of sweatpants and slides. How could it know? Grown ups of the future will surely learn from us and have a well-stocked athleisure drawer.
After the table-flipping, world-wide panic attack of Mar-pril-ay, (during which I worked so much that a 14-hour workday felt lazy) summer was a blur of daylight hours I spent trying to keep everyone in the family sane and happy. Explaining pandemics to young children is a challenge; trying to keep them from licking their own hands from top to bottom after touching absolutely every germ-ridden surface in a doughnut shop is excruciating.
But it wasn’t until September that I was forced to completely let go of any sense of control I thought I had: a week before my planned vacation, I was furloughed from my dream job.
After spending every moment from 5 a.m. - 11 p.m. building training courses, attending meetings, simultaneously homeschooling a 1st grader and a kindergartener, and managing general activities required to keep humans alive, I felt a giant hole tear open in the warm, fuzzy blanket of busy-ness I’ve come to know and love. In real life, the blanket would probably be made of chaneile or whatever micro-plush material they use for those West Elm blankets. That shit is cozy. Just like my busy lifestyle.
Good thing I have such a healthy understanding of my self-worth and identity! *cough, ahem.*
I had done a lot of work to break bad habits, but a year spent in full hyper-drive really did a number on any progress I made during my time spent understanding and recovering from perfectionism. It’s not all that difficult for me to see the anxieties and stressors rising to power in my mind. The greater challenge has been remembering the tools therapy provided and ritualistically practicing them as if I were starting all over again. Because that’s what it means to continually move forward. Growth is the adjustment we make after stumbles and missteps.
All this to say, this year has been a dumpster fire for most of us, and the collective trauma deeply affecting each pocket of our society has only served as fuel. I spent most of October and November pacing around my dining room table and going on long walks and runs to clear my head.
Truth was, I was mostly in panic mode. Existential dread takes many forms. I redirected my need to stay busy and set my sights on schooling, exercise and cleaning house. Anything I could do to run away from the terror of sitting silently with my thoughts. This is pretty standard for people like me. The kind who lose all sense of self when there’s no expectation to measure myself against.
There are a few different types of perfectionists, and it’s important to note that some people are really good at differentiating between their self-worth and minor mistakes.
For example, a person with adaptive perfectionism would say, “whoops, I fucked up. Better not do that again.”
A person with maladaptive perfectionism would say, “ohmigod, I fucked up and now I am a friendless, worthless monster who will never be good at anything eveeerrrrr aahhhhhhhhrrrgggg!”
That previous example is a direct quote from me. Every night. Usually repeated multiple times.
As another example, I just re-read that last paragraph and thought that maybe I should take out the swear words because people don’t like swear words, and if no one likes swear words then they’re not going to like this blog. If they don’t like this blog they’re not going to like me, and I will live in shame as a swear-word-using failure! (chews nails).
But thank God for cognitive behavioral therapy because I am much better at shushing the harmful self-speak these days.
I think we’ve all heard the words “unprecedented” enough times in the last year to almost make it lose its meaning. And it’s ok if that’s the case for you. It’s ok if you’ve also worn a path in the floor while pacing around your dining room table. Losing the anchor to our sense of identity is disruptive and messy.
It’s going to be interesting to see who we will become after this: the new habits we’ll start, creations we’ll make, and the new ways we’ll anchor ourselves to our identity. As terrifying as the last 9 months have been, I’m still hopeful that we will collectively grow, connect, and do great things in the years to come.