Perseverate

Therapy for two

Last week I sat on a couch next to my daughter at her therapy appointment. A year of new things has left my little worrier more full of worry, and we felt like some outside support made the most sense. That particular week, Hadley asked me several times, “are you mad at me?” Never a question you feel good being asked as a mom, but I didn’t blame her for wondering. This year has held some particularly heavy challenges: a full time job squished into part time hours. A big family of six squished into a small apartment. Big feelings from kids and adults being tended to by a mom that can barely put words to her feelings about…well…anything. 

The theme of the year seems to be too much to hold, and I’m not really handling that failure too well.

“I’m so sorry baby girl, we’ll finish talking later. I have to run to work.” “Sorry babe, I have to go and put the other kids to bed.” “Sorry Mark, I’m just so exhausted. I have to go to bed.” “Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond, friend. I’m swamped!” 

The one thing I do seem to have words for is how very sorry I am that I just am not enough. Sorry that I can’t stay longer or go deeper or respond faster or give more or snuggle longer. 

Now, you’d think the feeling of not being enough would result in really good behavior. Extra patience, extra sweetness, extra presence. But often it results in the opposite. Mom is extra grumpy. Extra drained. Extra short, tense, on edge. 

So when Hadley asks tentatively, “Mommy, are you mad at me?” the rush of guilt and awareness of my inadequacies rushes over me.

I look over at my daughter, sitting barefoot and cross legged on the therapist’s couch. She has on her Pink Floyd t-shirt and tugs at the front part of her newly chopped hair. It’s thick and tangled—I resist the urge to reach over and run my fingers through that familiar mane that I’ve spent so much time taming. I can hardly believe how long her limbs are. She’s gangly and lean with the same stick straight eyebrows as her dad. She’s him in so many ways—a verbal processor, in touch with her many feelings, a little neurotic. But I see that I’ve given her the very unfortunate obsession with making sure people aren’t mad at her. 

We bring this most tender question to Hadley’s sweet therapist, Carissa, and she asks about the word “perseverate.” 

“Do you know this word, Hadley?” 

Hadley shakes her head side to side. 

“When you perseverate it’s like getting stuck on repeat—like when you can't stop talking or thinking about something even when it's not necessary anymore.”

Being an English teacher with a hint of arrogance around my own vocabulary, I sat humbly and silently taking in the definition of this word that I had never heard before but that captured my whole relational existence. 

I’m transported out of the moment for a few seconds while images of my own perseveration run through my head: hours obsessing over my word choice and actions all trying to solve the mystery of where I stand with people. I think through the extreme amount of effort trying to perceive people’s love and appreciation of me. The hoops I jump through. The image I manage. The burdens I carry quietly as to not bother or inconvenience those that love me. I think about the moments when my nearest and dearest have seen this in me and gently called it out. 

I think back to ten years ago when this very gangly child was just a few months old—tethered to an oxygen tank and absolutely miniature after being born six weeks too soon. I glanced down at my phone and saw another voicemail from a another friend’s call that I had ignored. I clicked on the message and held it to my ear, sure I’d hear ribbons of disappointment or frustration laced through her message.

“Hi friend, it’s me. I know you’re probably feeling guilty about not being able to talk—I know how you get like that. I’m just calling to tell you I love you and that I’m not mad. I love you just because I love you, not because of what you do for me. Anyways, Hadley is so cute. Just calling to say hello. Get out of that guilt and call me back sometime.” 

I hear Carissa’s strong Long Island accent explaining this concept to Hadley and am brought back to the present moment. She tells Hadley the definition one more time and these words in particular stick in my mind: “even when it’s not necessary anymore.” 

“Hadley,” Carissa explains, “I can tell your mom really loves you a lot. But sometimes moms are overwhelmed or grumpy or just having a bad day. And sometimes she’ll probably seem a little frustrated, but that’s not up to you to fix. You don’t need to worry about if she loves you.”

I reach up and find a little tear escaping my eye. I reach over and grab Hadley’s hand—my girl that’s more like me than I sometimes realize. Just two girls that want to be loved, want to do their best, want to make others happy—but are limited. I look over at Hadley and smile: “I love you no matter what, Hadley Kate.” 

Carissa catches my eye and winks. I wonder if she knows she’s providing counseling for two that day. Wisdom and language for a season of life that has left me in a constant state of perseveration. But I remember her words again, “not necessary anymore.” I think through the heaviness of trying to be what I think others want me to be. I instinctively shake my shoulders and think to myself, “let it go, Elle. It’s not necessary anymore.”