Tag Archives: authenticity

A Eulogy for my Perfectionist Child Syndrome

*Pro tip: if you ever delude yourself into thinking you’re so far along in your healing journey that you’re running out of things to address say, out loud, to the Universe, “But what would I even talk to a therapist about?” And just wait. It’ll come. Like a goddamn dump truck.

*Based on a true story.

Today, in a partner meeting in which topics of budgeting and cost saving procedures were brought up, I felt my anxiety spike. SPIKE.

Was the blame placed at my feet? No. Was pressure to solve the issues put on me? Nope. Was anything brought up in any way that could be considered remotely accusatory? Also no. None of those things. And I have been begging and pleading for budging for…ever. For always. I am the cheap partner in a bougie triad. I should be joyous. Busting out the excel spreadsheet and entering data sets to my heart’s content.

Instead, I was forcing myself to breathe without hyperventilating. Why? I took the time to ask myself. Why am I feeling this way? This is what I wanted. Changes proposed would actually take things off my plate, reduce my stress, and pad the budget.

If you must know, the answer seems to be two fold. The first is due to Perfectionist Child Syndrome. This comes when your parents are so stressed (or other things, for my parents it was stress) that if your parents notice you, it’s because something has gone wrong. No attention means you are doing well enough to not break through their other stressors. Your teachers tell them how wonderful you are in class. You have straight A’s. When you’re at home you keep your head down, and eat what is given to you, and smile when you are looked at to reassure them that all is well.

If they bring something up, or want to talk, or need to show you something – it’s negative. Grades need to be better. Manners need to be minded. Rooms need to be cleaned. Something is not good enough.

So when *anything* I do, or have a hand in, is brought up to be changed in any way, my immediate reaction is “if this task/pattern/chore/emotion is getting noticed, then I have done it poorly” which brings intense anxiety.

A less than helpful problem solving response.

This brings us to the second part. Namely, my ability to blow shit way out of proportion based on irrational and crippling fear. Because if I am doing something poorly enough to be noticed, then what value do I bring to the relationship? And if I have no value, will they let me stay?

I am secure in my partners love, and so I thought that I was wholly secure. Turns out not. Turns out I have deep insecurities about my value. I know my partners love me. BUT. But if I keep the house clean, if I make elaborate meals for dinner, if I homeschool the children to excellence, if I single handedly maintain the budget, if – if – if – then they won’t leave me. Then they will decide I am worth keeping around.

And let’s not mince words: I am wholly dependent on them. I bring in not a single dollar to our bottom line. Oh, don’t bother quoting me the math. I am well aware. We would bleeeeeed money if I were to try and work outside the home. Childcare, increased car, food, and clothes cost. Increased stress for all parties. In no scenario do we gain money by having me work outside the home. If anything, it can be considered that for room and board, I am a 24/7 nanny, decent housekeeper, and quite a good chef while also being an errand runner, laundress, grocery shopper, personal assistant, teacher, and bookkeeper. Which, based on industry averages, is a HELL of a deal.

Yet. Despite all I bring to the relationships, I feel deeply inadequate. Like I have to earn my place in the home, a seat at the table, and the privilege to homeschool our children.

And to be extra-ordinarily clear: my partners say, if not daily then multiple times a week, that they see me, and what I do. They see the effort and the work that I pour out. That they value me and appreciate me. In no way have I *ever* been made to feel as if my place was precarious, my value dependent on my cleaning lady/chef/teacher output. This is something that I wholly put on myself because I have drank deeply of the poison of capitalism. I have gargled that stank until I reek of it. And I hate it. I can rail against it until I am blue in the face. That no one should be broken down into only what they can provide in monetary worth. That productivity is not the golden standard to what is or is not worth my time. That everyone has a place at the table, regardless of their ability to bring tangible gifts to it. And that emotional labor, child rearing, house work, and general life maintenance are valuable labor and deserve recognition and inherent worth. And turn around, look at myself in the mirror, and feel terror that I haven’t done enough today.

Maybe it’s because the fear of god (literally) was put in me as a child and I feared for my eternal soul if I didn’t do enough to prove my faith to a god who watched me all the time to judge my every thought.

Maybe it’s because we live in a society that literally drowns us in messaging that the most essential labor (and therefore laborers) are replaceable and therefore not worth living pay, basic human consideration, or any kind of meaningful recognition. Let alone dignity, honor, and contentment.

Maybe it’s because only women are ever asked if they will choose children or careers while it is an assumption that men can have both, because their partner will shoulder the extra burden – for free.

Probably it’s all of that and an (un)healthy dose of trauma passed down by ancestors and a (not) fun glitch in my brain that requires a daily dose of prozac.

What matters is that I name it. And then strike a match and, much like capitalism, the patriarchy,  and the idea that America is a Christian nation, not stop rooting it out and burning it down until there is no trace left.

What matters is that it stops with me. And my kids do not toss at night wondering if they did enough to earn their place in this world, or their home. As if a place in a home is something to be earned. As if love is a currency to be traded on.

What matters is that I tell myself a truer story – that I am worthy. Of love. Of a home. Of safety and security. And then I tell everyone that truer story.

So here it is, this is the match struck: I am safe. I am worthy. My value is not dependent on my output. Period. I’d say may my perfectionist child syndrome and irrational fears rest in peace but fuck that. Fuck that hard. Let’s burn those bad boys to a crisp and then piss on the ashes. Let’s dance naked around the grave, shoot silver bullets into casket, and let out a string of curses that would make my racist grandmother blush and my gypsy ancestors proud. Let’s show them a full moon full of glorious cellulite as we twirl, sexually satisfied and shameless about our jiggle, while swearing oaths that those who come after us will never see the fears we conquered.

Let’s just… live.

Give Me The Chisma

For those who don’t know, chisma means gossip and is pronounced “cheeze-mah”. And I’m going to be super upfront about the fact that I *live* for chisma. Do you know someone’s drama? Do you need a safe place to unload it? Hello, here I am. Let me listen. I will not interfere. I will not judge. I will listen, wide eyes, munching on popcorn and nodding or gasping on cue. I cannot tell you how much I cherish chisma.

So when Eilan was giving me the deets on his office drama – I was *there* for it. I was drinking it in. Relishing the details.

Until the details started to take the shape of my own insecurities. “He really just wants someone to partner with, you know? She stays home all day. She doesn’t do anything. She is totally cool just being supported.” And he glances at me, and instead of the side eye part of me is always expecting to imply that I am not doing enough, the look is easily interpreted as “thank goddess my partners are awesome” and I had to mentally take a step back.

What?

Like, he does know I am home all day, right? And that I have been (falsely) accused for years of having no ambition? And that as our children are rather young, I’ve got at least a decade before I have any plans to pursue any career outside the home. I *often* do not change out of pajamas. It’s been a month since the last time I wore make up and I am extremely contented being supported.

And he does not and has never seen it that way. It is not his money it is our money. He has said, multiple times, that he cannot afford me. I’m not just a sexy lady parading around the house in my pajamas making half baked plans to get the body of a super hero while downing my 3rd cup of coffee while my body pleads with me to drink some water. That’s who I see in the mirror. He sees a badass who nurtures his offspring while making multiple dinners because god forbid the littles eat something other than peanut butter and honey sandwiches. He sees a woman who keeps the house running while he is out working so that he can come home and just relax. He sees the woman who makes sure all of our bills are paid on time so he can focus on work and family and have a hobby. He sees the woman who does yoga cards with the kids at night which somehow almost always involves pretending to be a family of cats that need to curl up together and snuggle because apparently thats what cats do. He sees the woman who gets up in the middle of the night to gently guide our offspring back to bed, or at times, open the warm covers and hold them for a while after a bad dream. He sees me teach them how to sound words and add double digits and try to get them to remember the shape of Europe. (“I remember that one! It reminds me of syrup!” – 5 yr old) He sees what I do. He sees me and all the effort I have poured into our family over the past 8 years and he never looks at my lack of a paycheck and thinks “this is a woman without ambition” but that “this is a woman who has decided that for now, her energy and ambition is better spent in the home than out of it and I am so thankful for her”.

He sees my stretchmarks and thinks “my kids made those when she grew their bones inside of her”. He sees my saggy boobies and thinks “she nursed them for 4 years to give them the best she could”. He sees me close my eyes and count to 10 when I cannot even with the emotions of a 5 year old capricorn and sees me apologize when I don’t catch myself in time and teach said capricorn the meaning of sarcasm. He sees me hunched over my computer reading the 328249248th article on childhood development and trying to figure out next year’s history curriculum. He knows this “job” of mine is demanding. But because of him, it is not thankless.

Because of him, when I see those stretchmarks in the mirror and feel the gentle, constant tug of my stretched out boobs, and see the *now trendy* dark spots under my eyes from another night of broken sleep I can hear, ever so faintly, the words he has repeated to me over and over and over. “You are sexy.” “You are beautiful.” “You are worthy.” “I love you.” “I appreciate you.” “I choose you.”

Until it builds into a crescendo that covers my existence and writes the words “YOU ARE SEEN” over my skin and over my sky and over my eyes. Until meaning flows from my fingertips and covers everything I touch. Until I begin to believe it. Until I let it transform me. Until my guilt is washed away and I’m laying on the living room floor just BEING and feeling the sun slowly trace its way across my skin as it flows across the sky.

And because of some (not okay) things that have happened in the past, because of accusations made against polyamorous partners (that non monogamous men are not family men and do not value their partners and that polyamorous women are just being abused and don’t know it), I need everyone here to know that this is my chisma.

I’m not saying we don’t fight or get our feelings hurt or have really, really, really shitty days. I’m not saying we don’t have misunderstandings and work to do on our shadow selves and trauma to heal on our child selves. I’m not saying we’re always great parents and great partners. I’m not saying there is no conflict and its nothing but shiny happiness behind closed doors. We’re people. With flaws. With baggage. With children who have intimate access to our buttons and hands that looooooove pressing them. With hormones and prozac and endless work to keep. going. forward.

I’m saying that I can consume gossip with gusto because the biggest conflict in my own life is the fact that I need to learn to see me how my partners see me. I’m saying that if it weren’t for the fact that I am hilarious, my life would be exceedingly boring. Polyamory is not inherently dramatic. I’m saying there is something fucking *magical* about being loved for who you are and not having to hide the fact that you want to go to bed at 8:30 and your partners giving you a kiss and crawling into bed 3-5 hours later after they have been *themselves* and awake and doing stuff. I’m saying that the biggest challenge in my life right now is my own brain and the pile of laundry that I swear to Hathor never gets any smaller. Ever.

In the end, I think don’t think I’m writing this for my polyam fram, or other moms, or even women in general. I think, actually, that I am writing this for those who don’t understand that “alternative” means “authentic” and nothing else. My alternative life is more boring than most monogamous relationships I know of for the simple reason that I am more fulfilled than my monogamous counterparts. Less is expected of me because it is understood that I cannot *and will not* fulfill all of my partners needs and that I need to spend a significant portion of my energy fulfilling my own needs.

And to be clear, I don’t think that polyamory is better or a more valid option than monogamy. I just think those that embrace polyamory are more likely to embrace authenticity and authenticity is the key to fulfillment. And doing the work. And learning how to communicate. And doing shadow work. And nurturing our inner children. And accepting our full selves (even the parts that live for gossip). And accepting our flawed and still perfect partner(s).

We don’t do this for the drama. We don’t do this to be “different”. We do this so we can live our best lives. We do this because it’s who we are. We do this to make our lives *easier*, not to make your life *harder*. We do this because we cannot stand the thought of another generation of children thinking that something is wrong with them. We do this because we are burdened with the weariness of a hundred ancestors and have no more capacity to do anything other than LIVE.

Freedom

“We are FREE in Christ Jesus!” Is a sentence I have heard more times than I have had sex and I’m almost 8 years into my marriage soooooo. A lot. I’ve heard it a lot. And frankly, even if you weren’t raised evangelical – I bet you have too.

Freedom is thrown around by the church like a tie die hacky sack at a shoegaze concert in Colorado. Or, like how my son used to shout “Frog!” loudly at the top of his lungs while not being able to pronounce an r and his g’s definitely sounded like k’s every single time he saw another person for almost 4 months. That’s right. It was my favorite. However, when the church uses it, it is neither entertaining nor does it brighten my spirits. Almost entirely because they are saying it wrong.

Again, this is not a thing I have against Jesus. I like Jesus. It’s the church who claims him that I have a problem with. Because things freedom does not look like:

Heavily policing what women wear in order to enforce a strict code of modesty and begin the indoctrination that their bodies are dirty, dangerous, made exclusively for the enjoyment of men and of bearing children for those men, and that male happiness and indeed thoughts and actions are dependent on our ability to cover up skin.

Being taught that any hobbies that would not have a place in a new Little Women reboot are useless, and indeed sinful because they waste time and women’s time is never to be wasted – by her – on something she enjoys that does not have an element of productivity for others in it.

Being taught that women are obedient first, and everything else that is good and quiet second. The only way she will be blessed is to be submissive to a man, indeed many men, including her pastor, father, future husband, and sometimes brothers and sons depending on denomination.

Being taught to ignore your own experiences and suppress your own intuitive connection with the divine. Granted, this is more like a part b to the point above, but distinct enough it needs its own paragraph. If you have so much as a conversation with the divine that one of the men over you would find questionable, you are to immediately dismiss that conversation and assume you are being tricked by the devil. IF what you believe/realized/received/connected to was REALLY the good one, then He will reveal Himself to the man in authority over you and thusly give you blessing. Otherwise, trust any man in authority over you more than yourself. Always. Else you will most likely burn in hell.

Rejecting any personal aesthetic that involves attention or an affinity for any color not prominent in the rainbow or an Easter palate. Self care is a small list that begins and ends with prayer and might have ‘eat a salad’ or ‘drink some water’ or ‘exercise’ in between. Any sort of indulgence is a waste and selfish.

Peace is more valuable than truth. Especially when that truth is personal and the peace involves anyone else. There is only one truth that should be proclaimed whenever possible, “Jesus is Lord” and I swear there is a secret but well known rule that you get brownie points if it’s written in cursive on a T shirt bought from a grocery store. But seriously, racist grandpa? Shush yourself, he is Jesus’ problem. Petty aunt who passive aggressively compares the grandchildren in a ranking system? Smile and nod. Gropy uncle who aggressively hugs every kid and strips them of their personal autonomy? Children don’t have any say over themselves since they were born sinful, manipulative little turd nuggets so you should blatantly encourage them to not listen to that voice that tells them to stay away from dangerous people and hug their uncle.

Importantly all of these truths can be boiled down into one: do not be yourself. Be a quiet, giving blob of selflessness that constantly allows yourself to silenced while forcing yourself into a cookie cutter mold of a fictional woman from the 1800’s with an endlessly sunny disposition and a penchant for getting walked on.

*side note* Men do not have it easy either. They are discouraged from having emotions, showing emotions, wearing color, being unique in any way, showing weakness, displaying anything other than americanized masculinity, or having close friends that do not attend the same church, or are on a team together, or are women they do not intend to marry, or are not appearing masculine enough. Also the happiness, financial stability, and eternal souls of their nuclear family rests solely on their shoulders. Like they get to enjoy sex but have to keep themselves locked away too.

And locking ourselves away is the opposite of freedom. It is why we are depressed, lonely, and secretive. We have to be secretive because otherwise we die and we don’t actually want to. We want to live. We want to be free. We want to be everything we are. We want to be everything we are made to be. Because deep down we know we were made this way. We’re just told it’s wrong. That we’re wrong. And we’re not.

We’re not. We’re not. We were not born sinful turd nuggets. We were born impressionable, adorable whole people with likes and dislikes and intuition and curiosity chock full of wonder and questions. We internalized so much because we wanted so badly to be good and loved by the man in the sky who said he loved us so long as we were nothing like he made us to be. Or for parental approval. Maybe both. Kids are complicated.

The point is: it’s hard to realize all of this and live out the unlearning because our very vocabulary was fucked with. We were taught freedom and loyalty and unconditional love (agape, you’re welcome) and wholeness and clean and safe and all of those things were somehow twisted into meaning other things.

I am still working on it. Daily. To untangle all this garbage in my mind. Sometimes, doing so feels absolutely absurd. Because it’s often just pointless rebellion, like laying on the floor of my living room that desperately needs to be cleaned and vacuumed and instead shouting “I am more important than this!” at the top of my lungs while spread eagle in over-sized sweatpants. (Truly, I am a *joy* to live with.) But doing that kind of absurd rebellion always reminds me how absurd it is that what I am doing is rebellion. And that helps me breathe a little easier. And get my shoulders down from my ear lobes. And see that the divine truly does not care if I wear black on national holidays.

And that goddess is not in a building. But goddess also isn’t in the people in that building either. That goddess is everywhere and absent all at once and no one can tell us about ourselves (unless they are well trained therapists, in which case my advice is to listen) and life is half of what we make of it and then literally half advertizing (thanks capitalism) and half all of the shit that happens to us and the people that happen to us and how we definitely happen to them. And it’s messy. It is all so fucking messy and THAT is so much more pure than the people shaped cages we are told to be.

Be free. Really free. And really messy.