I live a pretty easy, stable, and functional life. I have to admit that it's a lot of peach-y. I have two wonderful parents, a job that helps me pay off my school debt, friends that send me cards in the mail "just because", and a bedroom that acts as a sanctuary. I'm typing this on my bed as we speak. I woke up around 9 am. Things look pretty luxurious I must say. But nothing is free; peaches don't become peaches without hard work, hard sun, and hard rain. Those peaches need a lot of help from God and hands that care.
And so, while my life appears to have not been rattled by anything too drastic, there are some things going on under this roof that are in fact quite drastic. My dad is overcome with severe anxiety, hasn't been to work in nearly two months, and needs almost constant attention and encouragement. My father.. the man who scratched my hand in church every Sunday when I would flop my hand in his lap, who uttered wisdom in almost every sentence that he spoke, the man who was the the foreman on the job when the foundation of my personality was being laid as a child, he's not the same person that has invaded my dad's body. Or maybe he is, just a different side of him that I've never seen, but either way sometimes I have to do a double-take when I look at him, or when he says something wildly uncharacteristc of the man that I've come to know during the last 20 years.
But honestly I really didn't think that I was troubled by it. I've been positive about the situation, through the ongoing doctor's appointments and tests and scans and medications. In fact I remember telling him that I couldn't help but be a little excited for him because God was taking him on a journey where he had to fully rely on God. I thought I was saying all of these things for his sake. And maybe I was. But more than that, I was saying those things for me, as a coping mechanism.
If I said things were okay, then things WERE okay. If this is just a journey with God then the ending is good, and yes, the ending will be good, but good according to God and his will, not according to my preferences. I adamently displayed a confident attitude about the whole situation because someone needed to take my dad's place as the firm foundation of the family. But the confidence was just an act, just a means to avoid the nagging questions in my head about the reality of the situation.
What if my dad never returns to the way he was? What if he gets worse? What if his brain is toxic and it's just a matter of how long the downward spiral really is? Those are kind of scary questions. And he might be fine, but he might not be "fine".
The other day my dad told me that I should make sure that I was talking to someone about what was going on because he knew that it must be difficult for me. I kind of shrugged off the suggestion because I really didn't believe that I was affected by it. I'm strong. I can see the positive in everything. I don't need someone to support me-I support me.
...I don't even know how to have that conversation.
I continued on, avoiding my dad as best I could without seeming like I was avoiding him. I would chat with him and regardless of what he told me I would respond with something like, "Isn't that great?! You probably never would have learned that if you weren't in this situation. Wow. God is so amazing." I'm sure that I left him stunned sometimes. I have a running script in my head that I spit out whenever it seems that he is done talking. I'll say anything to convince myself that, "This is good. This is good. This is fine. It's all okay. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
But the emotions never really go away, hard as I try to push them out. They get carried with me wherever I go, usually undetectable. I can have conversations galore without a person ever really seeing into my heart, and that's the way that I've operated most of my life. I don't like to talk about things that are bothering me. I like to be dependable. I like to be in control. I want you to come to me when you're having a bad time and I love to make people feel better, encourage people, challenge them and inspire them. But the thought of being vulnerable to someone else terrifies me.
And so I went to work and found out that I would have to stay longer than my original shift and close the restaurant because there was a mistake in the schedule. Chip. I was feeling a little tired, having not fallen asleep until 6 AM that morning and sleeping on and off until noon. The thought of working until 1 or 2 in the morning was unappealing at best, but there was nothing that I could do. So I continued working. My co-worker notices my fairly glum demeanour as the rest of the crew dances and fist pumps their way through whatever cool David Guetta tune is blasting through the speakers. "You seem tired." Chip. I smile half-heartedly but don't respond.
I walk into the freezer to sweep it. In that moment of solitude I start to cry. Crack. While standing beside the cactus cut potatoes and garlic toasts, tears well up in my eyes and stream down my face. At first I'm perplexed as to what could possibly bring me to tears and then I see my father in his sad and confused state and I'm overwhelmed. I take those few moments to realize that what's going on at home really does bother me, but then I remember that I'm at work. I can't hide out in the freezer forever (because although there is a bountiful supply of frozen meats, mashed potatoes, and apple crisps, I didn't bring my coat). I assume that there are probably orders piling up on my screen so I let out a deep breath, wipe my eyes and hope that I come out of there looking cool and refreshed.
Mmm..not so.
That same co-worker takes one look at me and can see that I didn't just take an extra long time in there to get at the pieces of shrimp stuck under the shelf. But sure enough, orders are on my screen and I grab some spatulas to make some jumbalaya fettuncini. He gets in front of me. "Let's go for a break outside." I shake my head no, but he turns me around to go and get my coat. I tell him that I'm fine and he doesn't believe me. We walk outside.
"Tell me what's going on."
"No, if I do then I'll cry."
"Melissa, it's okay to cry. Tell me what's up."
The door opens and another coworker and longtime smoking partner of his steps out. "You couldn't have waited two seconds for me?" I take this as my chance to flee from interrogation. I make a b-line for the pasta station, which doesn't talk to me, it just does what it's supposed to (usually anyway). I can't hold myself together though, and my eyes betray my best acting abilities. I blame it on the cajun spice, which isn't too far fetched of an idea since it has been known to aggrevate the senses of whoever is cooking with it.
A few pasta dishes later and I feel like I might make it through the night without having to explain myself. People are working, minding their own business. But then the rush dies down and I'm told that it's time to go have a chat in the office. "Well I'm in the middle of making this smokey spaghetti so maybe after that." He tells someone else to look after the spaghetti. I'm defenseless.
The door shuts and we sit there and why I even try to contain my tears at this point is beyond me. There's no point in hiding that something is going on. So I talk, try to muster up some words in between sobs and he gets it. He listens and he understands and he makes me feel better.
He's in my chair.
And I'm sitting in someone else's chair, some weaker person's chair and it's not comfortable. I feel like I'm lying on the couch at the pyschiatrist's office and I hate that feeling. So we talk about that, too. We talk about how it's hard to let people see the emotional side of us, but why it's a good thing. And guess what. The talk helps. I try to avoid it at all costs, but it is healing. In my friendships I never try to be a burden but doing so makes me less dimensional.
After our chat I think of all of my friends who have seen me cry (not counting goodbyes or sad movies) and it's few. Very few. And it makes me think of why I resist the comfort that can be found in good friends. And I can think of some reasons, and they are different for everyone, but whatever those reasons are, they aren't good enough to not ask for help when you need it. It's actually not okay to pretend that you're doing fine when you're not. You need to believe that people will love you good, bad, and ugly and that you're worth the time and the effort. Because you are.
I know it's hard to sit in that "other" chair. To be on the receiving end of help feels so defeating, but I think it's actually a sign of strength. For you to be able to know when life becomes too overwhelming for you to live it fully and to ask for some of the weight to be lifted, that's smart. And it makes you more relatable when you do find yourself back in the helper's chair. If you've been there, if you've experienced the pain of a similiar situation, but you know how much the words of another helped, and if you can truly empathize with the person looking at you with tears in their eyes, you become a bigger blessing. In that office, he could and therefore he was.
Living a full life is about being fully open, not to the whole world, but to people in your life that can build you up. Without them you will inevitably become empty, because so much of your energy is focused on just holding yourself together. Be brave and you will be blessed.
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