Life Lessons Through Pain

"Control freaks are often perfectionists defending themselves against their own inner vulnerabilities in the belief that if they are not in total control they risk exposing themselves once more to childhood angst."

For a lot of years that was me. If you asked anyone close to me to describe me, you'd most likely hear words like "stubborn" "perfectionist" "self-sufficient" "short fuse".

When I felt my worst I called myself a "control freak". When I felt my best, I called myself "in control". There were a lot of skills I had, that I still have, that are not bad in and of themselves. I was always a good planner. I was organized. I was on top of things. But the problem was the drive for it. If I couldn't plan, if I couldn't organize, if I couldn't fix, I crumbled. It didn't just feel upsetting when things didn't go my way, it felt like my whole world was caving in.

Sometimes people with backgrounds like mine turn to drugs, alcohol, sex, food... anything to fill that void and numb their pain. For years I was proud of myself that I never did that; looking back I see that absolute control was my addiction. It was how I coped. If I couldn't have it I couldn't function.

It was exhausting. It's hard to manage not only your own life but your entire family's lives, full of individuals who perhaps don't see things your way. I married a man who is perpetually late, who answers most questions with "maybe", who does last minute and lives very much in the moment. Things that I found charming about him when we were dating, they offset my constant tension. Once we were married though, as the story always goes, all those "charming" and "childlike" qualities that I once saw became flaws. I couldn't stand how he'd never plan things out with me. How he'd do last minute and throw a wrench in my carefully laid plans. How no matter how much I nagged, we were never on time.

So I heard that "control freak" accusation quite a bit out of my husband's mouth during the first few years of our marriage. I felt that I was normal, on top of things, and he was just assigning negative connotations because it didn't fit his lifestyle. To a point that was true, but to a point... what he said was also true.

I wish that I could say that life got easy and that's how I learned to let go of all my baggage and need for control. Like a fairy tale, where I got my happily ever after and life was grand.

The truth is, I learned to let go through pain.

Three separate things happened that slowly destroyed my ability to be in control of everything.

1. My second diagnosis with Bi-Polar Disorder, along with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Generalized Anxiety - and accepting treatment for these things.
2. My diagnosis with Fibromyalgia, and being told that for now, there is no treatment.
3. My car accident and subsequent injury and chronic pain.

5 Things That Chronic Pain Has Taught Me

1. Life Goes On
   
   Maybe life doesn't go on the way I envision it, but it does. If I can't make dinner, dinner still happens somehow. My kids might eat cereal once in a while, my husband might give them a can of soup and a sandwich. It's okay, they're fed, and that's what counts.
   
   My ability to focus began to slip a couple years ago. My memory began to shut down. I lived in a fog, and suddenly things that had always come naturally became difficult. These days anything that isn't routine is easily forgotten. I often realize it's 4:00 or 5:00 in the evening and I haven't even begun to think of dinner. I would make stupid mistakes at work and hate that I didn't even know why I made them, or how to not make them in the future.
   
   Life has moved on without my input in a lot of ways. I struggle with decision making now, and yet things work out. I'm not in charge but the world still turns.
2. There Is No Shame In Accepting Help
   
   I always prided myself on being self sufficient. I'd enlist the help of my family or others if I simply didn't have the time to do it all, and even then I was often hovering, instructing, making sure it was getting done my way. In my head my way was synonymous with the right way.
   
   It was in all things, big and small. From "This is how you make a sandwich" to "This is how you fold your laundry" to "This is how you patch a wall" to "This is how you manage finances". There was nothing too small for me to micro-manage, ever.
   
   Before my injury became debilitating I had committed to painting the walls in the main floor of our house. The more I did the more I hurt myself. I finally had to stop and it became one of those things I'd finish "later". For about 5 months it was half done, and it was because I insisted that nobody else could do it but me. I was the only one who knew how to do it right. I forgot that there were people willing and able to help.
3. It Doesn't Have To Be Perfect
   
   This is a big one that ties into the previous two points. It doesn't have to be perfect. Most things don't. If my family eats cereal for dinner, that's okay - at least they're eating. If someone else takes over my painting project and doesn't do it my way, that's okay - at least it's getting done. If the laundry sits in baskets in the living room instead of getting folded, that's okay - at least there are clean clothes. The floors don't need to be done to my standard all the time. It's okay that I can't work right now, I need to get better.
4.  I Am More Than What I Can Do
   
   I've struggled with this one quite a bit. Feeling like a burden, feeling useless. Wondering when everyone will get tired of helping me, wondering when they'll realize that they're better off without me.
   
   Having struggled for so long with my own self esteem and self confidence, it's been a long and difficult road to see myself as more than what I can do for people. I still struggle to accept that people can care about me just for who I am, and I'm fairly certain that I'm not alone in that feeling.
   
   When you are stripped of your abilities to do even simple things, you become vulnerable. You are at the mercy of those around you, and it's frustrating. If you're lucky like I am, you are surrounded by people who are willing to pick up your slack, and it becomes a very humbling experience. If you're not lucky, it could easily become a very debasing experience instead. I grapple with the fear that my luck will run out, and I'll be alone and helpless.
5. It's Healthy To Cry
   
   I was never much of a crier. I funnelled all my bad feelings into anger. I'd be irritable, sure. Frustrated, sure. Angry, sure. But I didn't cry. Crying to me felt like vulnerability and I'd be damned if I'd ever be vulnerable.
   
   Being in the mental fog, being in physical pain, being unable to do all the things I once did effortlessly... has made me nothing if not vulnerable. I can't pretend not to be. And for the first time in probably 25 years, I feel more than anger.
   
   The more I'm allowing myself to be vulnerable, the more in touch with myself I feel. My control issues extended far beyond what anyone could see for a long time, and I needed to be in control of my thoughts and feelings just as much as anything else.

Some days I'm miserable. A lot of days I'm miserable. I currently exist on pain medication while awaiting a neurosurgery consultation. I rarely leave my house, I can't shop alone, I can't even mop my own floors. I fight against depression a lot.

It's hard to feel depressed and grateful at the same time though, so I try to see the silver lining. I understand how much worse all of this could be without my family. I have a wonderful husband who loves me to death and good kids who are understanding of my current set of limitations. I have a mother and aunt who go out of their way to help me with housework or cheer me up. I tell myself that if all of this had to happen to anyone, I'm glad it happened to me since I have so much support and love in my life. 

People often say "Why me?" And if I'm completely honest I've said it to myself too. But then I think, "Why NOT me? Why anyone?" I'm far from a masochist, but maybe all of this is why. 

Maybe it's my chance to grow.