First, the age thing. Let's get it out of the way. I can't believe I'm technically middle-aged. When the fuck did that happen? How do I have a house (that we actually, truly, literally cannot afford) and kids (that depend on us for their very survival) and all sorts of other adult things (like plumbing problems and yard problems and appliance problems)? I can't believe it. It wasn't until I kept dropping pop-culture references as I taught undergraduate psychology classes from Seinfeld, Friends, When Harry Met Sally, The Breakfast Club and all the rest, which were almost uniformly greeted by *crickets* that I realized I, myself, am no longer a college student. It never occurred to me that I was not of the same generation of my students. Holy shit.
But on to the main course. Too Much girl. That's me. I think I might be the poster child of Too-Muchness. I am always worried about being too much for everyone in every way. If someone doesn't respond to a message or email, it must be because I'm overwhelming. I'm needy. I'm Too Much. I am constantly walking on eggshells, pulling my punches, because I don't want to suffocate anyone with my Too-Muchness. I wonder if many people, particularly women, feel this way or is this yet another one of the fall-outs from my mood issues. Even that very thought reveals my fear of being Too Much. I wonder if people who don't feel this way can even understand it. More importantly, do they have Too Much people in their lives?
This poem brought me to tears. No, I take that back. I don't mean "tears" unless you understand that "tears" is a euphemism for ugly crying. I don't identify with the romantic partner aspect but I can easily sub in
any other relationship in my life. I have lost friends who I know I overwhelmed. I was Too Much for them. Not tons. Not enough to make me decide that I am the problem but enough to make me seriously question it. The thing about someone who is not comfortable in their Too-Muchness (though I suppose such a person might refer to themselves as Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully) is that they probably never question themselves. They probably readily write off that friend as having missed out on having a Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully friend. I, on the other hand, go back and forth, analyzing every conversation, every interaction.
"Fuck. I know I shouldn't have made that snide comment."
"Christ. What's wrong with me? Why did I say that? I sound like I'm having a middle-age crisis and no one wants to be around that person."
"OH MY GOD. No one shares in that depth. They're going to think you're nuts."
Along those lines... I am the kind of person who is honest to a fault. I mean, I tell white lies. I would never hurt someone's feelings for the sake of being honest. But regarding myself, you'll get the unedited version any day of the week. I once lost a group of very good internet friends, a mommy board, because I was Too Much, I think. I was too honest about myself. We had a conversation about whether or not we ever have thoughts of harming our young children. I said that, of course, I did. I said that anyone who said anything differently was defending against something unconscious. I said that I thought such a person was unwilling to let themselves acknowledge having such a thought. This is the thing: I cannot imagine how a person could live with a needy, ungrateful being, who is demanding nearly every ounce of your being for survival and (often) rewards your servitude with shitty children behavior, and not have flashes of shaking them violently. I mean, I remember saying to my kids as they fought and cried against diaper changes that
I was the one dealing with
their shit, in the very literal sense, and
they were the ones who were upset? I told my husband that it felt like I was bending down to tie someone's shoelace and was rewarded with a kick to the teeth. I also remember thinking after the birth of my first child, as I suffered from severe postpartum depression, that I was a person with tons of resources. I'm intelligent. I'm not poverty-stricken. I have the world's best husband (and father - truly). I have the support of my parents (we actually were living in their home at the time). Yet I
still had flashes of shaking that fucking crying, non-sleeping, hurting my fucking boob, sucking the very life out of me little shit as if he were a motherfucking maraca.
But I digress... back to my internet friends. I think what happens is that most people edit. Most people only tell others 70% of their truth. I do not do that. I tell it like it is. I hold back much more than others do. I think that terrifies people because 1) maybe it makes it sound like I'm in control of my shit and 2) they think, "Fuck! If I hold back the worst of myself and that's what she's saying, what must the worst of her be??" Ummmmm.... that's it. That is the worst of me. But they assume I'm even worse. Not only that but by sharing that kind of scary stuff (as in the thoughts of harming one's child), it forces them to actually think about it for themselves. They can't help but have a flash of it. It's like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant. People get pissed that I made them feel like shitty mothers. #sorrynotsorry
I mean, I'm not sorry. I say it because it makes others feel not alone. I can't sugarcoat things because that perpetuates guilt and feelings of Too-Muchness in my fellow mommies/women. I frequently get messages from friends who are so relieved to hear me say the things they are thinking but never say. That both breaks and warms my heart.
Back to being Too-Much more directly, it's a constant fight within myself. I know, cognitively, that I am not too much. But I'm, emotionally, afraid that I am. Reading this poem felt like sort of like I've been suspicious about a man being behind the curtain all this time and finally someone ripped the curtain back. I feel like I need to read it every day.
P.S. I'm still too scared to share this blog with anyone I know IRL. There are things in my life that I am still too afraid to share. I hope that one day I can but for now, I can't risk it for my kids' sakes. I'm sure that eventually people who are conditional friends (or acquaintances) may read this and I'm afraid that the effects of judgement and stigma will trickle down to my children vicariously. Not cool. So until then, I suppose you really are only just getting a part of me. Even if it is a huge part, my fear is that that last part will officially bump me over the edge into Too Much. This, my blog-reading unconditional friends, is the epitome of my Too-Muchness feelings. :-(
“Life is complicated. I am tired of hiding.”
“Why are you hiding?”
“Because I’m ‘too much’ girl”
“Oh. I know that story. All too well.”
“I just had a long distance lover dump me because I’m too much. And it hurts. Fuck it. No more.”
+++++
Listen to me. Right now.
You are right. Fuck it. No more. Never again.
You are not too much. You have never been too much. You will never be too much.
The very idea is preposterous. Because you were born to be you. All of you. Not a tiny acceptable sliver. Not a watered down version with colors dulled and edges softened.
No. You were meant to be every last pulsing-bleeding-loving-crying-feeling bit.
And if someone tells you that you are too much for them, the only truth you need to remember is this:
It is highly likely that they are not now, and never could have been, near enough for you.
Because you, my girl. You are the sun and the moon and the stars. You are the force that pulls the tides. You are the unrestrained howl under a wide-open moon. You are the essence of what it is to dance into ecstasy. You are the heat and the sex and the sweat and the burn and soft and the
grace and the grit and the ocean of tears.
You are all of everything.
You are the mother of us all and the daughter of the universe.
You walk through shadows and light.
You burn down and rise up and hold captive the pulse of the world.
You make the gods tremble.
And that, my dear, is bound to make some people crazy uncomfortable. It will make them pull back and push away. Because the way you dance with your shadows and your steadfast commitment to your light will push them into spaces that are fascinating and compelling and utterly terrifying. Your very being asks them to step into places they may not be near ready to visit, let alone stay.
But darling, you were not brought here for easy. You are here for so much more.
Because you are a boundary pusher.
You’re a truth seeker.
You’re temptation and seduction and heat.
You’re a mirror and a sorcerer and inside you swirls the power of the ancients.
So no, you are not easy.
But in the space of that truth – please also know this. Do not get this confused with the notion that you do not deserve the deepest ease. Don’t for a minute let them convince you that you will not know the grace of a lover who does not require that you constantly translate yourself or diminish yourself or quiet your storm or tone down your extravagant love.
Because that, my girl, is bullshit.
Because out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be.
And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.
And so while you are waiting, I want you to do this. For me, and for every last too much girl out there.
You take all that too much and you channel it. You gather every last ember of your too much
broken heart and you light that flame. And in doing so you will call forth the others and you sing the song that brings us home.
And then you – in your infinite, perfect too-muchness – unleash it all on the world. And you go and love too much and you cry too much and you swear too much. Fall in love to fast and get sad too often and laugh too loudly and demand with clarity the exact terms of your own desired existence.
Don’t you dare consider doing anything but that.
Because we need you. Everyone of us, man or woman, who has been called too much. You are our reminder, in the most desperate of moment, that we are exactly as we should be.
Every last too-much bit.
"All of Everything" by Jeanette LeBlanc
