Jammed Elevators

We all have a person we go to when we feel unloveable. Someone who reminds us that we are not the actual worst person to ever walk the planet. To make us laugh even as they commiserate with us. We all have a person who can remind us of just how brave, resourceful and smart we can be.

Except, some of us lose that person. 

There are lots of ways to lose that person. The way I lost my person just happens to be the most permanent.

This person can be anyone in your life, but for me it was always my mom. 

No boyfriend or friend ever offered me that type of unconditional love. That love that helps you see your flaws but never makes you feel ashamed of them. I’ve never had a love that I knew would never leave me other than hers. The only thing my mom ever made me hate about myself was my calf to ankle proportions when crop pants were in style. She also used to tell me my feet weren’t very feminine—but whose fault is that? It’s not like I chose them. 

It’s just hard lately. Because lately, my inadequacy has less to do with anything from the knee down and more to do with my life, my heart and everything I can’t seem to overcome without her guidance.

Hers was the type of guidance that hit like a shot of tequila, though she probably wouldn’t like me saying that for a multiplicity of reasons. But what I mean is that it was the real thing. The type of advice that tastes like gasoline up front until suddenly, you can feel it in your chest, and you forget its bite. And in a lot of cases, you end up wanting just a little bit more. More genuine, harsh-when-it-has-to-be love. Because after the bite comes that wave of warmth. After the bite, you can start to feel good again. Not that tequila is where you should go to get your advice. This is just a somewhat problematic, extended metaphor; but it works because it’s partially true. Don’t read into the alcohol part of that sentiment, just think about that one person who you know you can run to, who never puts a coat of sugar on the truth, who you can always trust to love you just the same. Think of that person who would never change their mind about you—how much they love you, no matter how long it takes you to get over that one single sentence that held just a little too much truth for your liking at the time. The person that’s on your side, even after they’ve told you that you’re wrong. 

I don’t want to write the paragraph talking about all the wonderful people in my life who listen to me, love me and deserve every bit of that paragraph. I don’t want to write that paragraph because I think ultimately, we can all understand that some people are irreplaceable in a way that you don’t have to justify.

I don’t know why it’s been so hard lately. It’s not that I thought I was done grieving. I just thought that I was getting to a point where little things wouldn’t completely dismantle my emotional stability in the middle of a Tuesday work day or a night out with friends. I thought I was getting my grit back—learning how to self care without so much self loathing. Staying busy but not too distracted. Forming new bonds that were beneficial and fulfilling. I thought I was doing the right stuff, but it turns out, doing the right stuff doesn’t stop the tide from coming in when it’s time.

Let me just say, I’m beginning to believe that balance is nearly impossible for some of us.

I’m so all or nothing. I want to be the most of absolutely everything. I want to earn that superlative in everything that I do. And feeling like my insecurity and my grief and all those bundled up thoughts and fears in my chest are imposing on my superlative status just makes me absolutely terrified. All these gaping holes that I used to feel being covered my mom’s prayers and advice have become so unmanageable. And truthfully, I pray almost every day—short bursts of words and feelings—but I feel like I forgot how to pray in April, and I haven’t gotten that full ability back just yet. At least not full time. 

So much of my worst thoughts I have created for myself. So many of the things I hate about myself, I fixate on without stopping. So many of the nightmares I awake from, I have thought up in my own mind and fed with insecurity and anxiety. Why does grief have to make you your own worst enemy? Does it not make you enough of a monster riddled with anxiety, stress, disillusionment and general existential confusion already? There’s nothing on the planet like grief to make the good things feel just as heavy as the bad things.

Take, for instance, The Holidays. Who wants that at the end of a year like this? But, too, who could deprive themselves of the facade? Maybe it will help as much as it hurts, you tell yourself. But most days, you just want it behind you. Most days, you just want it to be another Thursday in November or Wednesday in December. Most days, you just want the entire season to go gray and drizzly so that maybe other people will forget those days too. 

I’m trying really hard to figure out how to subvert my misery and create in myself a new sense of mission. Maybe none of this had to happen, but maybe the only way I can be whatever future version of myself (who is hopefully way better than the version of me that currently exists) is for this to have happened. Maybe the only way I find purpose again is to embrace what happened. And I don’t mean that in a sappy, “embracing your story” way. I believe in unfiltered reality. I believe in telling the truth—even when the truth just plain sucks. 

It sucks that my mom isn’t here. It really, just truly, without a doubt, sucks. It sucks to be here without her some days. It sucks to know all the things she wanted to do, all the lasts we had and all the things we’ll never get to do again. That just plain sucks. There’s no slicing that cake a different way. 

But if I’m on an elevator that doesn’t go to the floor I want it to, maybe I should eventually start investing in the places that it does take me to again. 

And that sentence makes me a little physically ill to type because truthfully, I don’t want to go where the elevator can go. I want to go where it can’t, and frankly, I’m still not over the fact that God put me in this particular elevator at this particular stage in my life with this lack of wiggle room or relief. Maybe the elevator is fully functioning, but it sure seems like it’s stuck and the call button is broken about 6 days out of the week. I don’t know how to change that perception within myself yet, but I’m trying. Trust me, I’m trying. And all the days that my heart can’t bear to try, I am ridden with guilt. I want to push one of those buttons on the wall, remember that they can still light up and see the promise of the floors I am still privy to—the promise of what is still here. I really do. But that sure would be easier with a gentle push, a kind of motherly shove towards the panel. It sure would be easier with a fresh shot of tequila in my system. 

I want to accept my mission and put my misery to bed, but how can I accomplish that when my misery is what keeps me up the most?

I’m reminded of something only Aaron Sorkin could write:

“This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out. A doctor walks by, and the guy shouts, ‘hey, you, can you help me out?’ And the doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. A priest comes along, and the guy shouts, ‘Father, I’m down in this hole, can you help me out?” And the priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, ‘hey Joe, it’s me, can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. And the guy says, ‘are you stupid? Now we’re both down here!’ The friend says, ‘yeah, but I’ve been down here before. I know the way out.’”  (-The West Wing, Season 2, Episode 20, ‘Noel’)

It’s not that I want someone to jump down in this hole with me. I’ve been blessed enough to have people by my side in this darkness. The thing is, I just want to be at the point where I can use my experience in the hole to help someone else for a change. So here I am with a new prayer. God, if I ever do make it out of this hole, help me figure out how to use it. 

I’m on this elevator. If the door opens, and someone is standing in the exact place I once was when those elevator doors seemed to close for the last time, will I know the way out? Will I know how to help them? 

I’m in this elevator, but I still want to serve, and the door that I want will not open. I’m working on me, but sometimes I don’t like me so much. So God, is it selfish to ask, who can I heal while I’m here the way that Mom loved me even when she was incurable?