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Looking back and inward at mid-life: |
Have you ever thought about the choices you've made in your life: Why you went to a certain school, why you married a particular person, how your life would be different if you hadn't put job before family or enjoyment before responsibility? Well, I did recently.
One of the first things I did in response to these questions was get together with friends who felt the same way—a group of women searching for themselves. Some are closer friends than others, but we all understand that whatever is said within the group stays within the group. So here I sit, looking for answers, and only time will tell whether my decision to start down this path was foolish or courageous.
I chose friends because I found very few counseling options for mid-life crisis, self-examination, or similar counseling, by whatever name you call it. Individual counseling is of course available, as is a Web site, www.midwestanxiety.com. But for the most part, group counseling focuses on such issues as divorce, depression, and sexual assault.
One would think that at this point in our lives, women would be content spending time with their grand-children, relaxing in retirement, or even experiencing new adventures abroad. But instead—or maybe in addition—some of us are searching for something that seems just beyond our grasp. And I wonder why some of us, as we reach 40, 50, or even 60, go through this confusion, this wanting to make sense of it all. Isn't age supposed to bring wisdom?
Don't get me wrong; I want to be here, though at times it is very hard to be honest and detailed in front of friends. It's just that when I was younger, I never expected that someday I would question who I was, or even why I was. Then, suddenly, I am older and questioning everything.
As I sit quietly, glancing at the faces that have now become more familiar, I see that they, too, are filled with nervous energy and profound doubt. I don't know about the others, but I wonder what good it does to divulge inner thoughts that have been hidden for so long. And because we are friends, we spend time each meeting trying to explain our actions and defend our choices. No one wants to look bad or stupid in front of others, especially friends.
Slowly, in my quest to find this healthier and more contented life, I have begun to understand why it is important to return each week. But I have also come to understand why I fight the intrusion. I accept that learning from my past and trying to find answers will not be easy, but I also accept the need to try. It's like a tug-of-war that never ends—keep up the illusion and save face, or hang the laundry out to dry and see where the wind blows.
I recently read something I'm trying to incorporate into my life daily: We should release our regrets and accept our choices, and we must give up the need to know why things happen. This makes perfect sense, but how many of us can actually do it? How many of us can sincerely forget our mistakes, concede our choices, and quit our worrying?
No matter how many times I think I have things settled in my mind, questions loop through my head: Why is it so easy for me to think the worst? Why do I blame myself for other people's reactions? Why is it so hard to stand up for myself? Why should one small moment in time make any difference in my life?
But then, in the very next breath, I ask myself whether I'm ready to confront my mistakes, my fears, and my bad choices, whether I'm willing to see myself for who I really am, underneath this shell that has taken years to build.
There is no clear path, no right or wrong.
For tonight's topic we are discussing our childhoods, looking at hidden resentments or feelings about events that cannot be changed but may be forgiven. And despite my conviction to heal, something holds me back—some hesitation to take that next vocal step. It's as safe an environment as we can make it, but is it safe enough?
I listen and observe what others are saying and how they are acting. Are they being rejected or taken seriously; are they being dismissed or given strength? And I'm still struggling with the desire to get better versus the panic of opening up. It's almost overwhelming. But embarrassment is not an option, and fear is not a choice.
I tell myself again that I'm here to find relief and purpose—not just to take up space, but to be acknowledged, not just to be a next-door neighbor, friend, or co-worker, but someone with value.
So, with a reluctant but open mind, I begin to look back and see myself as a child. I examine my innermost childhood recollections for any lingering feelings that may still be influencing, controlling, or manipulating me. I try to recall traumas or incidents that affected me negatively or positively, incidents that may have taken root and never let go.
Some childhood images remain foggy; others are clear and precise, like the cool summer breeze that blew across my crib most mornings as I listened to the musical sounds of birds singing from a nearby tree; the crisp, white snow that fell on cold winter days as we attempted to maneuver a steep hill on our sleds; or the wait each school-day morning for the bus, no matter the weather. These and many more happy memories come flooding back with beautiful images and heartwarming sounds.
But then other memories, long buried and forgotten, begin to surface. There are scenes of yelling and hitting and fear, images of confusion and envy. I remember the jealousy of wanting to be like other kids—kids who laughed with no hesitation, moved without keeping watch, and played as though they had no worries. I remember hiding, but not in games. I remember tears, but not in happiness. And I remember silence, but not in church.
I start to feel the ache in my stomach and my heart begins to pound as I absorb those feelings of anguish and dread. I mentally shake myself aware, because I am remembering too much, too soon.
As the evening draws to an end, I again look at the emotions displayed on my friends' faces and see so much of myself reflected back. We have shared much, yet we know that if we choose to continue "looking inside" with each other, we also choose to continue putting our trust in each other (at least for a little while longer). And although we have all come to understand the key words—dysfunction, abuse, domestic violence, mid-life crisis—what we may not understand is whether we fit the definition, and that is the bottom line.
I believe we can be proud of all we have accomplished so far, the baby steps as we dig deeper and analyze more thoroughly, the courage to keep coming back, the belief that we have the right to learn and to grow as individuals. (I'm sure that this is more than some of us ever thought possible.)
As we say our goodbyes, with a lighter step and more confident smile, we know (without acknowledging) that some will not return. For some, this self-induced journey will wait for another time. Others will return to continue the fight. My only question is, which will I choose?
Therese Swartz Iverson is a published author, cancer survivor, and recently retired Johnson County employee. She is available at Ivysan13@aol.com.
