I'm Franki and " I Love Myself But I Don't Always Like Me"

Loving myself is easier these days, but liking myself...

I often find myself reflecting on why I am so goddamn tired. What is it that put me over the edge? What is the hardest part of my day? Is it simply being a mom of three? Is it because, as I learned in the 2020’s, that I am the default parent? Is it because I am so career-driven? Is it my highly sensitive nature, being able to scan a room and feel the feels of others? Is it because I’m a woman in a man’s world? Is it the act of simply living life with ADHD and anxiety? Maybe it is the morning rush, trying to get three kids out the door, with lunches packed (that they may eat knowing that one will likely throw theirs out and lie about it) to various schools while also getting myself ready while simultaneously quieting inevitable meltdowns, locating lost homework, accommodating a dog nipping at my ankles to go out on a walk… 

Or you may think it was the afternoon getting everyone to their activities that are inevitably scheduled across town all at the same time during rush hour in a snowstorm up hills both ways...

Or maybe it’s making dinner, every freakin’ night? Can’t we just skip Wednesdays? Jews love fasting! Finding something that everyone will eat, a meal that aligns with all of their picky eating habits that fits into my diet of the month and my emotional eating desire, one kid’s life-threatening allergies, my middle-aged husband who has a longer and longer list of items that gives him acid reflux is all pretty darn impossible. Maybe, that’s it? That is all hard, truly it is. It’s not the hardest part of my day though. The hardest part of my day may not make sense to you, and that’s totally ok with me.  I know it’s hard because I live it, again and again. 

 If you’ve struggled with anxiety, depression or another mental illness, it may or may not make sense. But it doesn’t have to make sense. It’s my battle. The hardest part of the day is managing my own meltdown, power struggle and irrational behavior. Sure, maybe it’s exacerbated by a tough morning with the kids when I feel guilty that no one can find anything and worry that maybe my ADHD-induced lack of organizational skills has rubbed off on my kids.  Maybe it’s triggered by knowing that if I’m even five minutes late for one kid activity today it will set off a series of unfortunate events in which everything is late and everyone is angry with me yet again. But sometimes it’s not. 

From time to time my brain is celebrating some anniversary I’m not yet aware of, such as the last time it went to battle with “me”. Chemical misfires are akin to the fourth of July. Sometimes I’m about to make a really big change, and move out of my comfort zone and control as it puts me in a constant state of waking up mid-worry. Possibly one of my kids suffers from poor mental health or poor physical health, and I have so much rational worry that it’s triggered the anxiety to come out to play. These are the hardest parts of my day.

At other times the biggest inner battle happens during my drive to work.  The overstimulation of a sea of cars that I cannot control, and traffic lights telling me to stop when my body wants to go. Or, the fear that I may be triggered one more time than I can comfortably handle and will need to pull over in a full-blown panic attack about doing something I’ve done since I was 16.

Sometimes I am unable to stop crying. I’m beyond exhausted, though “exhausted” is the wrong word. In fact, to label this state as exhausting seems like an insult to my unraveling mind and body. When my anxiety is full force, I sleep. If sleep (by definition) means that my eyes close for consecutive hours, then I awaken tired. Frequently, I awaken in a cold sweat—almost as if I was physically wrestling all night with my thoughts. 

Once I had a boss inform me that I never smiled “enough” in the morning when I arrived at work. It never occurred to him to inquire about how I was feeling, or the reason I may not feel like smiling so early in the morning. Perhaps it had something to do with how I felt about my job, or my health, or my life. He just encouraged me to put on a happy face, assuming that my full range of emotions may offend others and label me “uninviting”. 

I remember thinking, “if only you knew the internal war I fought to get here”, then maybe he’d be applauding me rather than being so outwardly critical. Do you know what I did next? I wish I could tell you that I explained how sexist, short sighted, naïve, and incredibly ridiculous his statement was. That maybe I didn’t intend on being approachable within the first five minutes of my arrival. I would do best if I as afforded five minutes alone to organize my thoughts and set my intentions for the day. Then, I would welcome everyone in the most approachable way! But I did none of those things. I simply jotted down a memo, thanking him for his advice. Then I proceeded to enter the room with a stupid, fake BS smile on my face each and every morning for the rest of the time I worked there. That didn’t help my relationship with coworkers, which was strong from the beginning—moods and all. As it turned out, they all found me perfectly approachable, goofy grin and all at 9 am.  That’s a regret that I’ll explore later, in another chapter of my life and another essay.

Why am I relating this story, and feel compelled to share it? I am a career observer—an educator, educational consultant, behavioral consultant; and, most recently—a clinical social worker. I felt especially proud of the additional credits that I was able to add to my name during our global pandemic.  

 What I have learned during my career tells the whole story and is easily summarized. You must closely observe people multiple times, over numerous days and hours—even during weather patterns and on special occasions or events. Additionally, you must look deeply, arrive at more questions than assumptions, and don’t assume a fake smile or lack thereof. 

You may have noticed that this blog differs a bit from my more “instructional” pieces. I’m experimenting here with a bigger writing project I’ve been dipping my toes in. You’ll see essays on all things me. I’m affectionally calling it, “I Love Myself But I Don’t Always Like Myself” a tribute to my parenting book.

“I Love My Kids But I Don’t Always Like Them!”

I hope you will indulge me and read these essays that I wrote in the middle of the night the last decade or so. If you like them please share with a friend:

The chronological order of these essays are not important, but pay close attention to the stories and their messages, which comprise the meat of this book.  ADHD does not step aside when I write. I possess a “race car brain with bicycle brakes,” as my colleague Ed Hallowell frequently mentions in his work on ADHD.  I excel at starting projects, then begin to fall apart during the follow-through stage, and am pretty terrible at completing things.

The writing of this book began on one of the many nights when I had trouble sleeping. Because of my anxiety, and ADHD, and because . . . did I mention I have three kids? I scrolled through my computer and found several old blogs, which I had started and abandoned; also, a handful of domains purchased for the “perfect” project that I never saw through, and then some other business names and ideas, which were floating around in some data storage clouds.  A common thread existed: it is, hard to be me. A woman. A mom.  A woman, who never quite got comfortable in her own borderline plus-size body. An adult with ADHD. An adult with a lifelong anxiety disorder. An overachiever. An opinionated human. A passionate being. Someone who doesn’t always smile. Conversely, however, it also is a privilege to be me, a fact that I became more sure about as I entered my 40s.

Long before I became a therapist, I was lucky enough to know the magic of mental health psychotherapy. It is through a combination of therapy, hard work, medication, and that I am in a good place—rather, an amazing place. 

Still, the funny yet strikingly not very funny thing about these battles is that they always will be a part of me.  You don’t grow out of neurodiversity; if you’re lucky, you learn to celebrate it—at least, most of the time. As I become me, and in a way which I never expected, I’ve realized that what were once considered my burdens are actually why I am a successful entrepreneur. I no longer feel angry at the world, and God, and the planets for my unlucky lot in life. I now understand that this is my “why”. I love to observe, to watch, to listen, to be a therapist, to teach, to solve problems, and to wonder.  I know what my patients mean when they talk of battling a demon that makes no sense to anyone else. This is what makes me, “me”.

I hope that you enjoy these stories. I also guess that if you relate to the stories, then you, too, are amazing, and all of the struggles which I explain in the pages of this book will aid in the process of becoming the most incredible you.