If someone had met me at 25, they would have encountered a very boxed in, religious, workaholic, young woman, married to the only boy she had ever dated, unhappy but disguising that in judgment, bitterness and an incessant wish to prove that she is better than. Living in the cage of “the good girl,” the one everyone from parents to friends and colleagues “expected more from,” was only possible without looking inward. Because, let’s be honest: that voice inside, no matter how faint, continues to whisper: this is not you! Dare we listen? I did not.
At the beginning of the fourth decade of my life, mental illness was my liberation. I remember myself feeling so foreign in my life, in my body, to the point of not recognizing myself in the mirror. This is not a metaphor. Those moments live in me today as a traumatic reminder of the depths of darkness I can travel. Confessions to orthodox priests, natural remedies, medicine, therapy, the support of friends, they all worked for a while, each in its turn, as our journeys are never linear and our nature leads us – if we let it – towards every step that is both helpful and achievable in that respective moment.
At some point though, nothing worked any longer. Today I understand that it was the moment when I was ready, when I had tried everything I could think of (something I needed in order to allow myself to step out of the cage) and nothing seemed real anymore. That is, nothing but the truth. And that is when I said yes to going only towards what is true for me, for my heart, for my body, for my life, regardless of the consequences. I left the family I had built, the stereotypes I was trying to fit in, risked losing and lost people on the way, I left the church I had tried to fit in for years and took the chance of not caring about what people said about me. At the end of the day, the head on the pillow was only mine and it was only my eyes that I had to be able to close, in peace.
That was the first time I saved my life. With the help of many but the ultimate decision always resided with me. I was asked to choose courage or comfort – never possible to choose both. I wish I could say that I chose courage because that is the kind of person I was. Except that would be a lie. I chose courage because I had previously chosen comfort many times and it was making me not want to live any longer. And that made all the difference.
At the end of my fifth decade of life, I can feel myself taking timid steps out of another cage. The first and only memories I have of schooling are those in which I felt afraid, anxious, never enough. I dream repeatedly that I never in fact passed the exam for my licence to practice my job, or that I am in an exam and I forgot to prepare. In all of my sixteen years of schooling, I have never felt the pleasure of learning. And that is not a metaphor. As it did not feel comfortable to look directly at this and ask “could there be any other reason?” I concluded that I never liked school, that I am not a reader or a smart person, I remember myself saying to others that “I am not sharp but I work hard and compensate for what I lack in smarts”. And repetition convinced me for many years that this was true.
This is why, when a good friend recommended my current MBA programme, the first feelings were of anxiety, rejection and not wanting to add another burden to my life. I had just quit a job I had taken with great dreams and hopes and returned from a country I was ready to make my own, I was in complete professional dissaray and the last thing I needed was someone, in a school somewhere telling me I was not good enough. I already knew that, thank you very much!
This time it was privilege that pushed me: the privilege of time and space. No job, for the first time in 33 years, no calls, no emails, just our dogs, me and the silence around the house. So once again, I was pushed out of the comfort of a known path into actually enrolling in the programme. It has been a redemption to myself of my identity as a learner. Teachers who allow me to express my thoughts, to accept or reject what they tell me, to create things that are of interest to me, not imposed for everyone. A safe space where I was able to engage in a wonderful game of free flowing ideas, reading widely and allowing pieces to come together in ways that provoke joy in me (even when they wake me up at 3 AM because they cannot wait for the morning to tell me how they connected). Excitement about learning, reading for pleasure, writing with gusto. And imagine I would have never taken the leap!
The privilege of time and space I am afforded in my life today is such a gift. After the initial storm of what I knew to be required of me, after I, little by little, shed all of the “should”s that were threatening to break my back, a year and a half away from my 50th birthday I can finally say about myself that, yes, I am a hard worker. And, I am also someone who loves to read (what she loves to read), who listens and pays attention, who makes connections and is able to communicate eloquently. Whether I am sharp or not, that is besides the point. Everything is contextual anyway.
I look back to the teenager I was and send her thoughts of love and healing. You have arrived, my girl. Not at the end, at the beginning. The journey is only going to get more spectacular now!
Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash
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