I have an interesting, somewhat problematic, relationship with compliments. I know I'm not alone in this. Recently, I've been much more aware of it because I'm on the receiving end so much.
I think it's uncomfortable to be praised for something "good" that I do. I was very aware, when I was teaching, that praise can be as destructive as criticism for a child's sense of self. Kids aren't good because they wear pretty clothes, draw pretty pictures, get all the math problems right. They're not bad because they don't understand word problems or they can't catch a ball. Maybe it's my time in the classroom and thinking about self-esteem that makes me hyper-aware of the pitfalls of judgment and the difference between acknowledgement and praise.
That said, this month is chock full of opportunities for the people around me to sing my praises and shower me with acknowledgement. Yup, I'm up for the daughter-of-the-year award and I truly deserve it. Not only that, but I'm the loving, supportive wife of Jill in the loss of Lucky Lu, her best friend ever, the Being who she poured herself into so completely that sometimes they were indistinguishable, at least on a soul level. All that and writing a book, too? Do I hear orchestral music swelling in the background?
You might not be surprised to hear that my reaction, when people lovingly, supportively tell me that I am being saintly or incredibly patient and giving, is to turn up the volume on the harsh parental voice in my head that says WRONG! -- LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!! Because it is taking everything I've got --- all the words of wisdom from years in AA, all the therapy, the books, the conversations with friends, meditation, deep breathing, tea with honey, and self-discipline to keep it going. It feels like a culmination, of sorts. It's like the "overnight success" of an actor who spends 20 years in backwater rep companies and suddenly makes it big in Hollywood. I have been preparing for these moments my entire life and still don't feel really ready. Each day I wake up with a flutter of fear that something will come up that I can't handle. Each night I sink into the pillow, grateful that the household is still intact and nothing terrible has happened.
Melodramatic? I suppose. If I weren't, how could I write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days? Even with NaNoWriMo this month, now that I'm on day 8, I'm up against the demons of doubt and exhaustion. I haven't missed a day of writing yet this month and I'm on target for my word count. But the story feels bogged down. I need to plunge into a big new part and I'm not feeling it, not quite ready to give the characters their lead and let them take me down the path.
I guess that's the part I keep circling back to in all of this; I'm not the one in control. I have control over my own reactions, my own words and deeds and thoughts, but I am not in charge of life and death and everything in between, for the people and critters I love. A few weeks ago, I abdicated my crown as Queen of the Universe, put down the scepter, walked away from the throne. But old habits die hard. Maybe I don't want to be Queen, but can't I be the trusted adviser, hissing in the ear of the new Monarch?
So it is ok to shower me with rose petals and drape me with service medals. I do like to know That someone notices. At the same time, I'm simply a work in progress, muddling through with strength and patience I didn't know I had, but also with irritation and impatience and exasperation as well.
Here's what worries me ----- what if this is training for something else? Oy!
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