I LOVE Chocolate. Like it's a food group. It's been my best friend for decades (until the relationship became toxic and I needed to set boundaries and redefine the relationship - the dreaded DTR). But that's a story for another day.
Why do I LOVE Chocolate? The obvious reasons - taste, smell, texture, creaminess, delight to have a treat in my mouth, sugar buzz.
Why did I overdo my privilege and overlove chocolate?
I hated my life. My perfect storybook life with 5 kids, a husband who was sure and true, a home with almost enough bedrooms, a paycheck that almost lasted the whole month, a car that drove most of the time, a yard complete with white picket fence. I had everything I'd ever dreamed of - the Kodak family. Oh, did I mention the Golden Retriever who filled the house with love - (and long blond hairs.)
So add to Hating my life, guilt over having so much, over getting what I dreamed of, and still being miserable. Who could I complain to? Who would listen with any compassion? I had it all. And I had nothing.
Why? I'd become the launch pad for all 6 humans in my life - everyday I'd man the control station and send them off happily dressed, fed, lunch and backpacks in place to their fabulous destinies while I had none. My job was to help them all realize their gifts and provide ways for them to discover and develop them. My smile faded as I walked back into the house to face the recovery of the aftermath of the launch and preparation for the reentry in 6 hours. Caring for 6 humans takes a lot of time and effort leaving little or no "spare" time as there is always needing to be done.
So chocolate became my self-care program - I could eat MnM's WHILE: doing laundry, driving carpool, ironing, (yes, I actually ironed shirts and skirts), shopping (a record shopping trip I ate an entire pound bag of MnM's before going through the checkstand and paid for an empty bag), or sitting numb on the couch after they finally all went to sleep.
After 30 years of nurturing this relationship, me and chocolate are very tight. And so were my jeans. My definition of self-care had to change. There must be more to life than living to facilitate everyone's lives. I had been serving the Family Pie for so long, dishing it out with a smile to everyone only to look down and time after time there was none left for me. Now of course, my kids and husband jumped to offer to help more, do more, arrange more so that I could have a life, right? All of them had their own confessions of "I'm not helping enough. What can I do more to give you time to see what you can become?"
No, wait. That's in that alternate universe somewhere in a galaxy far away. Nope. No one noticed I was suffocating. The children did not see me as a person beyond the extension of their needs. My husband erroneously thought I did everything I did because I WANTED to and figured I'd ask for help if I needed it. All saw me as a machine of ultimate service in their lives - they were the upstairs "Family" in Downton Abbey and I was the "staff" who lived downstairs. (My new obsession and addition of self-care minus the MnM's.)
It was up to me to begin to serve myself some of the Family Pie - maybe even the first piece. This blog details my journey and how I'm doing 14 years later.
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