Agency
I used to believe that I couldn't get what I wanted. Like, either I wasn't capable, or the world didn't work that way, or luck wasn't with me, or whatever. This is a lesson I learned over many years. When I was a child, I wanted to fit in, and several peers laughed at me and told me I couldn't. When I was a teenager I wanted a boyfriend, and every boy I floated this past gently told me no, it just wasn't possible. Later I wanted to save money toward travel, and my husband told me that girls who grow up in poor families like mine don't get to see the world. When I wanted something-something consequential, something real-eventually I just assumed I couldn't have it.
This has bitten me in the ass (or come close to it) several times in my life. I almost didn't apply for my first job because I was too timid. I actually walked into my future boss's office as asked her if she thought I should apply, because it seemed like such a long shot to me and I felt crazy for even considering it. She said sure, she thought I should. She said it very calmly, but now that I know her better I know that she was practically begging me to apply. The place was a mess, and she knew I could clean it up. I just didn't know it. When she called me into her office during one of my student work shifts to tell me I'd gotten the job and that they were going to start me at $18/hour, I literally cried. In her office. I didn't think it was possible, but I was going to be OK, even with Michael making a piddly $7/hour part-time at K-Mart. Later, I didn't apply for my current job until the second round. I just blindly assumed that they would never hire young-un me when they could have someone older and more experienced. And then I saw all the applicants coming through, realized that their age and experience still couldn't allow them to keep up with me, and I decided to just go in for it myself. But I almost didn't get it because my reticence put such a bad taste in everyone's mouth. Didn't I have confidence in myself? Wasn't I hungry for the promotion? Well, yes and no, guys. It's complicated. It's always been complicated.
At my lowest point, shortly before my divorce, I stopped asking for almost anything. I just assumed everyone would say no. The same feeling came over me a while after my divorce, when everyone was so tired after helping me through it. They just wanted me to be OK, and I was afraid to ask for more help when they'd already given so much. But then I went back into therapy and learned one of the most important lessons of my life: agency does not mean that you can for sure get what you want. Agency means that you can try, that there are actions you can take, that you have an active role in your own life. I don't have to figure out whether I will actually get the thing I want. That's not my job. My job is to ask for it, to take the first step. And no matter how it turns out, I feel better for having done something.
Sometimes living alone is too much for me. After Noelle goes to bed (or when she isn't there at all) the nights stretch out so long and empty and silent. And sometimes after several of those nights in a row, it gets to be too much. The silence is oppressive. The emptiness is horrifying. Something inside me recoils. Sometimes I even have a small panic attack. When that happened, early in my divorce, I used to just put my head down and shake and cry and curl up in a ball and wonder if my soul was just going to shrivel up inside me, if I was going to suffocate right on the spot. Later, after therapy, I learned to start reaching out to someone. When I got a powerful urge to hear another person's voice, to know viscerally that I was not alone, I could text someone. Maybe that person would answer, maybe they wouldn't. But the act of me reaching out had power, either way. Last night, as I felt the panic starting to squeeze my lungs like a vise, I thought to myself, who do I know who might be free to talk right now? I texted those people. Five minutes passed, and none of them texted me back. They were busy with their own lives. This is a thing that happens about 50% of the times that these episodes hit me-because they inevitably strike at inconvenient times when people are likely to be busy with the people they actually live with-so I was prepared for it. But the continued silence was less devastating. Because I had done something. The thing I did didn't work out for me-no one was able to answer. But just knowing there are people that I can reach out to reminds me that I'm not alone, that even thoguh there was no voice that night, there would be the next day, and the day after that. I don't live in an empty vacuum. I live in a place where people come and go, and even though no one was there right then, they would come back. And soon.
There is power in asking, even when the answer is no. There is accomplishment in trying, even when the desired result is not achieved. I am not a passive observer in my life, waiting either to disappear or to reach that happy day when someone bestows my dreams on me. I am not just trying to get by with what I have and fearfully refusing to dream, as some-especially my ex-husband-suggested I should. That doesn't mean that my needs will always be met or that my dreams will come true or that I will get everything I want. But I can try, and no one can take that away from me. That's mine. When I send one of those texts that says "Are you free to talk for a few minutes?" into the universe, I am being strong. I am taking action. I am refusing to sit still and let the panic consume me. And that means something, no matter what happens afterward. When I realized that no one was going to answer me, I took a deep breath and said to myself, out loud, "It's going to be all right. This is going to pass, and you're going to wake up in the morning feeling better. You're going to be able to deal tomorrow, even though you can't today. And that's OK. You can keep going from here." And you know what? That was all true. I dried my tears, tucked myself into bed, and breathed slowly and deeply until sleep came, and in the morning I did feel better. I do feel better. Because I have hope. Because I have agency. Because I can keep acting until I get what I want, no matter how long that takes.
This has bitten me in the ass (or come close to it) several times in my life. I almost didn't apply for my first job because I was too timid. I actually walked into my future boss's office as asked her if she thought I should apply, because it seemed like such a long shot to me and I felt crazy for even considering it. She said sure, she thought I should. She said it very calmly, but now that I know her better I know that she was practically begging me to apply. The place was a mess, and she knew I could clean it up. I just didn't know it. When she called me into her office during one of my student work shifts to tell me I'd gotten the job and that they were going to start me at $18/hour, I literally cried. In her office. I didn't think it was possible, but I was going to be OK, even with Michael making a piddly $7/hour part-time at K-Mart. Later, I didn't apply for my current job until the second round. I just blindly assumed that they would never hire young-un me when they could have someone older and more experienced. And then I saw all the applicants coming through, realized that their age and experience still couldn't allow them to keep up with me, and I decided to just go in for it myself. But I almost didn't get it because my reticence put such a bad taste in everyone's mouth. Didn't I have confidence in myself? Wasn't I hungry for the promotion? Well, yes and no, guys. It's complicated. It's always been complicated.
At my lowest point, shortly before my divorce, I stopped asking for almost anything. I just assumed everyone would say no. The same feeling came over me a while after my divorce, when everyone was so tired after helping me through it. They just wanted me to be OK, and I was afraid to ask for more help when they'd already given so much. But then I went back into therapy and learned one of the most important lessons of my life: agency does not mean that you can for sure get what you want. Agency means that you can try, that there are actions you can take, that you have an active role in your own life. I don't have to figure out whether I will actually get the thing I want. That's not my job. My job is to ask for it, to take the first step. And no matter how it turns out, I feel better for having done something.
Sometimes living alone is too much for me. After Noelle goes to bed (or when she isn't there at all) the nights stretch out so long and empty and silent. And sometimes after several of those nights in a row, it gets to be too much. The silence is oppressive. The emptiness is horrifying. Something inside me recoils. Sometimes I even have a small panic attack. When that happened, early in my divorce, I used to just put my head down and shake and cry and curl up in a ball and wonder if my soul was just going to shrivel up inside me, if I was going to suffocate right on the spot. Later, after therapy, I learned to start reaching out to someone. When I got a powerful urge to hear another person's voice, to know viscerally that I was not alone, I could text someone. Maybe that person would answer, maybe they wouldn't. But the act of me reaching out had power, either way. Last night, as I felt the panic starting to squeeze my lungs like a vise, I thought to myself, who do I know who might be free to talk right now? I texted those people. Five minutes passed, and none of them texted me back. They were busy with their own lives. This is a thing that happens about 50% of the times that these episodes hit me-because they inevitably strike at inconvenient times when people are likely to be busy with the people they actually live with-so I was prepared for it. But the continued silence was less devastating. Because I had done something. The thing I did didn't work out for me-no one was able to answer. But just knowing there are people that I can reach out to reminds me that I'm not alone, that even thoguh there was no voice that night, there would be the next day, and the day after that. I don't live in an empty vacuum. I live in a place where people come and go, and even though no one was there right then, they would come back. And soon.
There is power in asking, even when the answer is no. There is accomplishment in trying, even when the desired result is not achieved. I am not a passive observer in my life, waiting either to disappear or to reach that happy day when someone bestows my dreams on me. I am not just trying to get by with what I have and fearfully refusing to dream, as some-especially my ex-husband-suggested I should. That doesn't mean that my needs will always be met or that my dreams will come true or that I will get everything I want. But I can try, and no one can take that away from me. That's mine. When I send one of those texts that says "Are you free to talk for a few minutes?" into the universe, I am being strong. I am taking action. I am refusing to sit still and let the panic consume me. And that means something, no matter what happens afterward. When I realized that no one was going to answer me, I took a deep breath and said to myself, out loud, "It's going to be all right. This is going to pass, and you're going to wake up in the morning feeling better. You're going to be able to deal tomorrow, even though you can't today. And that's OK. You can keep going from here." And you know what? That was all true. I dried my tears, tucked myself into bed, and breathed slowly and deeply until sleep came, and in the morning I did feel better. I do feel better. Because I have hope. Because I have agency. Because I can keep acting until I get what I want, no matter how long that takes.