I’m entering a strange and new phase of life, and it’s not so much my own age & maturity but the age and maturity of my parents. We all reach it sooner or later (provided we’re not orphaned or estranged), and it’s a time when our parents need us more than we need them.
I’ve been cryptic with family posts in the past but I don’t see a way around saying exactly who I am talking about this time around, because there’s a certain amount of grief we become willing to take when it comes to mom… grief we wouldn’t take from anyone else. Why? I have no fucking idea, but I feel like the relationship a person has with their mother is easily the most complicated relationship they’ll ever have. It’s universal.
I won’t get into specifics due to the embarrassing nature of some of the things that have been asked, but I will say that a very necessary boundary is being forged as a measure of protecting my own sanity and the sanity of the people under my roof.
The question I keep coming back to is: what is help?
“Can you help me because I can’t reach the item I need from the top shelf of the grocery aisle?” “I need help shoveling snow.” “Can you help me understand an algebra equation?” “Can you help me move?” – all examples of a one-off scenario in which a situation can be improved with a little assistance. These examples are rudimentary, to be sure, but they’re sound because this is the type of help I am able to offer.
I am happy to do an act of service, but as harsh as it sounds, this is where I have to draw the line… because on the other side of that line is being perpetually caught in a tangled web of existence that include being emergency childcare for my niece, emergency roadside assistance for a 10+ year old vehicle, an emergency ATM machine / payday loan officer.
These things might sound like “helping” but they come with a hefty price tag of stress and; if unbridled, can result in my own financial uncertainty, when the real help would be to remove the ‘emergency‘ element, so things can just run smoothly. If I could choose a different life for her, I would, and it would be predictable and calm.. devoid of drama.
All that said, I didn’t come here to complain about my mother today. I can to talk about the preservation of my own mental state and the challenges around that. I’m reminded of the notion I’ve written about in the past – stress, pressure, friction, and time – these are the elements for change, whether you’re turing seeds into flowers, or coal into diamonds, or a 300+ lb man into a tri-athlete (which I’ve done). And the only way through is with structure and discipline.
The seed does turn into a flower through stress, pressure, friction, and time – but it does so with regular watering and feeding, and in the appropriate sized pot. So, then, do I become effective in assisting the people in my life to do their best work… because in this metaphor, I am the flower pot.
I am not the seed, nor the water, and when the flower blooms, I will take no credit for it.
The Conscious Pilgrim 