faking it, making, and whatnot: when a leaky faucet turns to flood
I’ve been a performer most of my life so keeping up appearances comes almost naturally. I’ve spent my life on a stage—dance recitals, theatre productions, orchestra, worship teams, preaching. I am someone who claims to value authenticity and being real, so I’ll crack myself open and let others see a glimpse into my head and heart. I’m comfortable admitting my wrongs, exposing weaknesses, brushing off a bad note here and there, even confessing my sins to others, but usually in a way that is curated and polished. I’ll do it in an after-the-fact, thank goodness I’m over that, retrospective admission. I’ll be vulnerable, but in a moment that is outside of the moment.
Here’s the ugly truth. Here is my moment. I can only fake it for so long. I slap on a happy face, check off my to-dos, and walk through another day, week, month, with little self-reflection… until I can’t anymore. Until my controlled attempts at holding it all together fall apart. Until a headache lingers for two days, three days, six days, more. Until the weight of all I carry is too heavy and something drops, inevitably on my toes. Until grief turns into some other emotion because instead of opening the release valve little by little, kaboom: I am baking soda and vinegar, a diet Coke and Mentos, a chemical reaction of rage or sadness, screams or tears, or everything all at once.
My current moment is, I’m actually not fine. My moment is, I screamed at my kids yesterday because their playroom was so unbelievably cluttered—board games strewn across the floor, blocks and puzzles dumped, blankets piled in a deconstructed fort, markers without lids and “I WILL NOT BE BUYING YOU ANY MORE ART SUPPLIES. THAT’S FOR SURE.” As if their inability to stay organized or keep spaces clean is a direct reflection of my parenting. As if I’ve failed them because I’m the one who allowed the room to sit neglected all week as the mess compounded. As if I’ve failed because I’m the one who stopped paying attention, who didn’t take enough interest in their 6-year-old and 4-year-old lives to notice them exhausting every possible form of entertainment without tidying up.
My moment is spending much of yesterday afternoon checked out, disengaged, and withdrawn. Some of it crying in the other room wondering why I can’t seem to respond with patience and kindness, why I can’t dial in, focus, and be present. Pondering if I ever remember my mom getting that angry with me. Lamenting that she isn’t here for me to ask, to reassure me that even if I don’t remember, she wasn’t perfect and definitely had her own moments.
My moment is being surprised at how difficult May has felt. I thought I was a professional griever by now, what with the pregnancy losses and my mother-in-law in quick succession through 2016-2017. Ha! You fool, said my heart as mother’s day passed this month. You thought you knew how to do this? Think again. Tomorrow would have been your mom’s birthday? Let’s throw open this slow-leaking faucet and see what you’ve really got in there. Floodgates.
My moment is reflecting on my anger and grief and emotions this morning only to hear my daughter slap her brother so hard on the back that we could see the bright pink outline of her hand. My moment is wondering if—no, knowing that—I need to figure out how to stop letting the pressure build until it’s too late, because she needs that skill too, and how will she get it if I don’t model it first. My moment is dreading the last week of school because then those two will be home all day together, making messes, bickering, and being best friends until the moment they’re not and I’m not sure how I’ll manage.
The old adage, “fake it until you make it,” implies that with enough right behavior, positivity, and projected confidence, one can actually become those things. To an extent I agree. I dug deep last night—built a tower out of magnet tiles, read two chapters of Charlotte’s Web aloud (crying at a passage on friendship to my kids’ bewilderment—are you crying again?), and connected with my family. I behaved my way into believing yes, I might just make it. But behavior modification alone won’t drain the flood that I held back for too long.
In this moment, I’m not making it, but I’m not faking it anymore either.
In this moment, I’m treading water.
When you go through deep waters,
I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty,
you will not drown.—Isaiah 43:2a, New Living Translation
