"Outlook has exhausted all shared resources"

When I was in high school, I had a friend I'll call "T." T was kind and friendly to everyone, and she went on (according to Facebook) to work at a camp for children with terminal cancer diagnoses. She is a beautiful human being.

T and I shared a birthday. I never admitted this aloud, but I used to hate the fact that she would broadcast her birthday to the school. Many girls did this, actually. The petty, ugly side of me would think, "Ugh, why are they seeking all this attention! It's so self-centered!" The not-so-surprising secret: I wanted everyone to wish me a happy birthday too, to make a big deal of me. But it was wrong to want that. It was selfish, emotionally needy, and superficial. Being "too much" emotionally was a cardinal sin. Emotionality = I would never find or keep a boyfriend, and I would scare friends away. I would lose employment opportunities. My shame would be on display for the world. It was important to make myself small, self-reliant, and as perfect as it is possible to be in an imperfect world, both internally and externally.

I remember lying in bed, my junior year of high school, wishing dearly that I could trade thinness and perfection for genuine connection. I was so deeply, scarily lonely.

I recently learned that I have anxious attachment. (Thank you, Glennon Doyle & Dr. Marcia G. Franco.) At least, it is fair to say that I experienced anxious attachment growing up, though I have made significant progress toward healthier attachments as an adult. I've learned, through therapy and close friendships, that it is ok to bare the insecure and needy sides of my psyche. I finally got it through my thick skull that friendship actually requires vulnerability and imperfection, and that people like to help. Without friendship, my resources were frequently exhausted, because I was my only resource. Ironically, I have cherished the institution of friendship my entire life, but looking back, my early relationships were fraught with insecurity. I could only have one best friend, and I was so afraid of abandonment that any sign of independence from that friend broke my heart and I withdrew and had to start over. I expected perfection from myself, and so, subconsciously, I also expected it from my friends. I interpreted others' natural preoccupation with the ordinary business of their own lives as a loud condemnation of my flaws and unworthiness. It took years to become comfortable and safe with myself and then comfortable and safe with other people. Over time, I even found a romantic partner with whom I could be emotionally honest and have that honesty reciprocated.

These days, there is one friend, in particular, who consistently astonishes me with her emotional health. She is one of the most well-adjusted people I have ever met, and -- I sh*t you not -- she is one of my best friends. My imposter syndrome tells me it's because she doesn't really know me, but we've been friends for over a decade, so there's probably a chance she actually does like me. I jest, but only a little; there is still a frightened part of me that needs soothing. Fortunately, my friendships now are rich and generative; they help me expand rather than contract, and they give me a safe space to process and heal.

Another thing I'm working on is acknowledging and responding to my own needs, which also strengthens my friendships. When my son went to the ER a couple of years ago during a mental health crisis, I made two very deliberate and unnatural decisions. First, I shared the details of my situation with my three closest friends. I have found it is easier to be vulnerable when I think about the community that I want to build for my children. If I want my children to have an extended group of people who love them I must invite other people into my life. The second thing I did at the ER was eat a yogurt. That sounds ridiculous, but my tendency toward martyrdom and self-deprivation during difficult times is a long-standing tradition. My love for my children proved stronger than this old wiring, though. My son needed a coherent, healthy adult to keep him safe and model self-love, so I told myself to stop being an absolute walnut and eat the f$cking yogurt offered to me.

Today my Outlook message flashed the ominous message that it had "exhausted all shared resources," which seemed quite timely. Now, when I struggle, or when I celebrate, I am not alone, because I have such a rich network of emotionally supportive friends. I try not to exhaust any one in particular, and I'm still growing, but it has changed my life. I hope it will change my children's lives, too.

I am still terrified of being discovered for being less than. In fact, I'm so afraid that I haven't shown this blog to my closest friends. I fear they will read my passive voice and self-conscious sentences and their respect for me will diminish. Which is silly. It takes time to re-route those neural pathways, though, and one of the greatest lessons I've learned in parenting that has spilled over into my own self-care is that I must give myself an absurd amount of patience and grace.