Weak is Not a Four Letter Word

Mara here:

Okay yes, weak is technically a four letter word.

But what I'm referring to is that we societally use "four letter word" as a euphemism for a "bad" word. Bad words are words we think are shameful or inappropriate. They're words that we are supposed to avoid in polite society.

And for most of my life that's how I have felt about using "weak" as a way to describe myself.

I never wanted to be weak. In fact, consciously and subconsciously, I set about to vigorously prove that I wasn't weak.

Growing up in the 1980s, after decades of women breaking legal barriers and centuries of women fighting for their rights, sometimes dying to prove to the world that they were strong capable humans who could be equal to men in all the important ways, the concept of being "weak" was abhorrent.

And I do believe that being adopted made me feel as if I needed to prove my worth.

I spent most of my youth being very ambitious and pushing myself mentally and physically to be a high achiever. And it worked. As a young person I was extremely successful.

Looking back, I think I was able to accomplish what I did by basically ignoring any mental or physical warnings I was getting from my body and mind.  I was severely depressed and I got severely sick on a regularly basis. I got so sick my junior year of high school that I was pulled out and put on bed rest for the last four weeks of school.

Somehow it didn't occur to me that maybe I needed to change my behavior. I thought of sickness as an inconvenience—just a bacterial thing. I told myself I was strong and that I could push through anything. Strong meant being tough. Tough meant that I could handle anything. Nothing was going to stand in my way of getting what I wanted.

But as the years passed, I realized I simply couldn't sustain the level of stress I was putting on myself. The reality of understanding that I was not able to live the way I thought "I should" live—the way I thought I wanted to live—was a huge blow.

I had always thought of myself as "strong." I was the one who could handle anything. I was the one who could achieve anything. I was the one who started college in high school. I was the one who took 30 units a quarter in college on top of being an actress and having an internship at the State Capitol.

I was the one who basically didn't sleep for two years straight.

The idea that maybe I couldn't handle anything and everything made me feel weak. To my mind, being weak meant I wasn't strong.

There was no middle ground.

The cracks in my pretty obtuse theory started to appear when I achieved what I had thought I wanted, but there was no joy in my success. Graduating early from college brought no relief. Finding the love of my life didn't somehow bring a feeling of contentment. Being offered my dream job, didn't feel the way I thought it would.

And realizing that there was no end to the constant panicky feelings of pressure to keep pushing myself harder and harder finally came crashing down on me. If there was no actual thing that marked success—that would guarantee happiness—what was I pushing for?

I fell into a deep depression. I withdrew from the life I always thought I'd wanted. I didn't take the job at the White House. I didn't take the LSAT. I didn't push myself into law school.

I got married and was happy with my new husband, but I was lost.

After years of thinking I knew exactly what I should do, I floundered.

I spent years battling back and forth with myself. I couldn't figure out how to "be strong" and not cause myself to crash both mentally and physically. I spent years with severe bouts of depression and physical illness.

Becoming a mother was another milestone in my life that confirmed that there was no single event or thing that would magically transform my life. In fact, it just added more complications to my feelings of how I "should" be. Being a mother made me feel even more strongly that I needed to be a good role model and create a world where there were no limits on what a woman could do.

So I continued the cycle of manic achievement, followed by crashes of depression and illness.

Finally, at some point it dawned on me that all this struggling had not been toward strength; it had been running away from the concept of being "weak." I was fighting against a vision of myself, created by myself, of someone who was weak.

And what did weak even mean to me?

When I sat and thought about it, I didn't know. But it felt bad.

In contrast, strong felt good. Strong meant I was eager to say "yes" to everything. Strong meant everyone liked me. Strong meant that I didn't need sleep. Strong meant that I never felt sick. Strong meant that I could handle anything.

But my version of strong was impossible to sustain. 

So I re-evaluated my understanding of "weak." 

I'd spent a lifetime running away from the idea of being weak. I'm not even sure why, except that I think it's engrained in us from a young age that weakness is bad. Weak means frail. Weak means unsuccessful.

And I'd only allowed myself those two choices: weak or strong.

Strong was blindly pushing myself toward the idea of success. Strong was achieving things even if they weren't things that I particularly wanted. Strong was being in charge—and wanting to be in charge. Strong was not allowing myself to be weak.

So what was weak? I finally realized that weak was being kind to myself. Weak was allowing myself to feel sick when I didn't feel well. Weak was acknowledging that sometimes I felt overwhelmed at the idea of organizing a school fundraiser. Weak meant that it was okay to take naps so I wouldn't feel so exhausted. Weak meant that if I got sick a lot, it's ok. Weak meant that I was not afraid to tell people I suffered from depression. Weak meant that I didn't have to pretend I could handle everything.

It took me a long time to let go of the notion of seeing myself as strong. It's taken me until pretty much this point in my life to stop trying to project an image of myself to people I've just met that I'm strong. I'm trying to learn to present myself as I am.

I'm flawed. I'm often tired. I'm interested in things, but I don't need to do everything. I want people to like me, but I don't need to be everyone's favorite person. For a while I went too far the opposite direction. I would put myself down a lot in front of other people. I would be distant and not engage them. I was terrified people would have expectations of me that I couldn't meet.

But I'm trying to let that go.

I have finally realized I don't care if people think I'm strong. I'm okay with not being the "go to" person for everyone; in fact, I need to not be the "go to" person. I'm finally focused on doing what I need to do for myself and my family.

And I'm comfortable with having weaknesses. The idea of being weak doesn't upset me anymore. Allowing some weakness into my life is what allowed me to take care of myself and that allows me to take care of my family. 

And if that means I'm weak, I'm okay with that.

***

Here are two questions I asked my mom about this subject.

How did getting chronically ill change your perception of your own strength or weakness?

First, I have to say Mara that your essay stunned me. I had no idea that you were struggling so much, even while you were still living at home. I hope with all my heart that it wasn't because I wasn't paying enough attention to what was going on with you. I also have to say that your courage astounds me, both the way you've worked through those harmful demands you were making on yourself and also your candor in writing about it for all of us to learn from. You are remarkable and I'm so proud to be your mother.

As for your question, getting chronically ill completely changed my perception of my own strengths and weaknesses! I thought my strength came from being a law professor and being an active member of my community—things like that. In other words, I thought my strength came from factors external to me. It turns out that strength comes from within. To me, it comes from the very things you talk about in your essay, mainly having the courage to examine your life and to acknowledge your weaknesses and limitations—and then to embrace them. By embracing them, I mean two things: not turning away from them in aversion; and treating those weaknesses and flaws (I've got plenty of them) with kindness and compassion. 

I've said this before, but it's worth repeating. There's so little we control in this life. The one thing we can control is how we treat ourselves. When I start to get self-critical, I think of how my Nana treated me when I'd share those feelings with her. (She lived with us when I was a child.) She'd invite me onto her lap and hold me gently. Just as she embraced me, I hope all of us will learn to embrace our troubles with a kind and gentle heart until things change (as they always do).

How did you cope with the changes to what you could handle mentally and physically due to your illness?

As readers of my books know, it took me years to learn how to cope with grace. For years, I mounted a militant battle against the changes brought about by being chronically ill, and all that fighting and denial just made life worse for me. It added another layer of suffering—mental suffering—to the physical suffering of the illness. 

Then I "put my head in the lap of the Buddha" as the Dalai Lama calls it, meaning I started examining my life through the lens of the Buddha's teachings and practices. As I say in the Preface to How to Be Sick, with his help, I had to learn "how to be sick, meaning how to live a life of equanimity and joy despite my physical and energetic limitations."  

It's not always easy; I work at it every day. But this is the life I have—one where I'm mostly housebound, feeling sick all the time—and I don't want to squander this precious life by being bitter and resentful. As you so beautifully put it, accepting your weaknesses and limitations enables you to take care of yourself and those you love.