Sunday, 04 September 2011

• Being Strong Is Sometimes Over-Rated

  
  
  People have always told me I'm strong.  As a child, my Mediterranean mother drilled into me the fact that we came from strong stock.  That things that would down mere mortals could not sway us, because of who we were and where we came from.
  
  I have to say, I bought into this lock, stock and barrel.  I played my role as peace keeper and solver of problems diligently.  Whatever challenge came my way,  I took it.  After all, what choice did I have?
  
  Being weak was not an option.  In times of crisis (and if you've been reading my blog for any length of time you will know we've had more than our fair share of these), I've been the one to hold things together -- the one to rise above the insanity and think of possible solutions.
  
  I've fought doctors, educators and insurance companies to help my family.  Whatever the problem, I was always able to reach deep inside me to some unknown reserves to pull through.
  
  Over the years people have told me that they admired my fortitude.  They'd comment on the fact that they didn't know how I did it, or how I handled my lot in life.
  
  Although meant as compliments, I began resenting these remarks immensely.  I no longer took pride in my role as the "one to hold things together."  I didn't want to have to be strong anymore.  I longed for back up where there was none.
  
  But while I kept threatening that a day would come when I could no longer bear the brunt of my burden, somehow I kept it together.
  
  Until this week.
  
  You see, this type of strength has it's price.  Years upon years of not taking care of myself took it's toll on my health -- physically and mentally.  So when this last round of bad news hit, there were simply nothing left to tap into.
  
  I cracked.   And how.
  
  Tears could not be contained and hope had left the building.  Between the kids and the money (or lack thereof) and my health and the mold, I saw absolutely no chance of a better tomorrow. 
  
  I felt extremely isolated and completely alone.   So for the first time in a long while, I admitted defeat.  When people called and asked how I was, I told them.  I just didn't have it in me anymore to keep up appearances.
  
  Being out of control like this terrified me.  For so very long, I saw any sort of breakdown as a sign of weakness.  A huge character flaw.  And this fear just made everything worse.  I thought I would never recover and end up in one of those fashionable white jackets and a padded cell.
  
  I also did something else that is very hard for me.  I began asking for and accepting help.
  
  And to my surprise, no one berated me.  No one judged me.  At least no one that I care about.  When I began telling people I wasn't OK, the common response was, "We don't know how you made it this far."
  
  And while many turned a blind eye and offered simple platitudes, others began to help.
  
  For starters, I'm taking a much needed break.  Tomorrow I leave for an extremely overdo visit with my brother in Chicago.  I will leave the kids, the house and all the worries in my hubby's trusted hands for a few days while I take some time to regroup, recover and collect my thoughts.
  
  I've also been amazed at the help that is coming from family and friends -- from food to money to offers to watch the kids.  Don't get me wrong, we are not out of the woods by any means, but still I am humbled and amazed.
  
  So this last week, I learned an extremely valuable lesson.  I learned that being strong is not all it's cracked up to be.  That being vulnerable and weak is OK.  And while I will always fight for my family, I will no longer be afraid to say UNCLE every now and again.

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