I am standing in my socks with my feet firmly planted in the space she has cleared for me. I am holding about 20 colorful 8.5 X11 foam sheets in my hand. These sheets represent my responsibilities. Well, they represent my perceived responsibilities- both past and present.

I trapped myself in a multicolored spiral of responsibility and guilt.

I inhale deeply. And, as I exhale I am instructed to say the responsibility out loud as I place the sheet on the floor in front of me. Dishes. Laundry. Menu planning. Grocery shopping. Jackson’s school lunches. My family’s social calendar. My Lyme Disease. Returning all emails in a timely fashion. My patients. Whether our business succeeds or fails. The bills. My brothers’ well-being. Being a good mother. Being a good wife. Being a good neighbor. My father’s funeral arrangements. Not upsetting people. The list went on and on. I used every sheet, and probably could have used more if available.  My therapist asked me to take a look at what I did with the sheets. I had encircled myself with them. I trapped myself in a multicolored spiral of responsibility and guilt.

She then asked me to step outside the circle and view the sheets from the outside. My heart began to race and I said, “What a mess. What a cluttered mess!”

Is it because I have lived on this street for 40 years and know it all too well?

I then re-entered the circle and my heart beat slowed. For some twisted reason I felt better in the eye of the storm. Why? Is it because I only have an 180 degree view from in here? Is it because I have lived on this street for 40 years and know it all too well? Sometimes there is comfort in the familiar even if it doesn’t serve you any longer.

I understand some of these are in fact, my responsibilities. I am a mother. I am a doctor. I actually find a certain level of joy when performing some of these responsibilities -like putting together my son’s lunch box for school. It truly is one of my favorite things to do in the morning. My primary Love Language is Acts of Service (tasks), after all. But, some of these responsibilities are not mine alone, or mine at all. And, some are just products of my unrealistic expectations of myself and the fear of displeasing people.

Who am I without my illness- my pain- my story?

I am a very visual person. Physically seeing all the sheets on the floor around me was eye opening. However, as I spoke about each one with my therapist, I continued to justify them all and hold on to them like they were a part of me- as if they defined me.  Who am I if I am not putting everyone else ahead of me? Who am I if the dishes aren’t all done before I go to bed? Who am I without my illness- my pain- my story?

I feel tired and heavy. I am standing at a metaphorical fork in the road. The next step I take is critical to my well-being. I want to be faithful and grateful. But, I am scared.

I leave you with this…

Autobiography in 5 Short Chapters

By Portia Nelson

I

I Walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost … I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place
but, it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in … it’s a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

Love, Joy, Truth, Gratitude-

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