I was born into a family of workaholics.
The first time I experienced the inability to match the work ethic of my dad, uncle, and grandmother, I was devastated. All I could see was where I had failed to measure up. As far as I was concerned, my life was over. There would be no more accolades and awards and admiring looks. That was a blow, but the bigger blow was that I found myself in the wrong. I was morally wrong for not having more will power to overcome my illness.
I was 23 and that illness wouldn’t get diagnosed for 12 more years. It was bipolar disorder and its depressive face had rendered me unable to finish most of my final papers in my graduate school classes that semester. When I came home my parents were perplexed. My dad actively avoided me.
At the time I thought my dad was shunning me because I had failed. And even if he didn’t quite blame me for what was going on, it was clear the lofty expectations—and the thought that I was capable of pulling them off—were gone. I ended up leaving grad school and taking a part time job teaching water aerobics.
The problem lay with his experience versus mine. He had never in his life not been able to push through an illness or anything else in order to accomplish his goals. When he was struck with polio in ninth grade, leaving one leg weakened, he designed his own physical therapy system and worked hard for months until the leg was strong. All so he could play football. His life was one story after another of pushing through, of overcoming, of achieving—despite whatever odds presented themselves.
Not to be able to do this was a character flaw. It was laziness. It was me.
Fortunately, I got better for a while and began to rebuild my status as a productive human being. My dad and I never talked about it and I hoped the incident would become something forgotten. I would make up for it. I hoped.
The next few years were up and down but largely I lived what looked like a productive, non-lazy life. I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder and got the right meds (luckily) which has given me stability for years.
Then I lived a shiny, golden life where even my defeats became breathtaking triumphs through the power of my will.
Not.
Instead, I got cancer and after successful treatment got sick for a solid 3 ½ years. I could barely work part time. This illness put me in bed for 2-3 hours every day for years even when I wasn’t fully sick with pneumonia or bronchitis or mono or a sinus infection. If there’s one thing that spells laziness, it’s being in bed every afternoon for a couple of hours.
Except I wasn’t lazy. And it turns out my dad didn’t think so either. He never had.
I was diagnosed with an immunodeficiency. My body has trouble fighting off illness because it doesn’t have enough antibodies. It’s always fighting off illness even when it’s not “sick,” which can make me very tired. This is something I was probably born with, but my immunologist thinks my cancer treatment might have made it “full blown.”
Even before I had a proper diagnosis, though, my dad and mom, who had been supportive during my cancer treatment, continued and even increased their support while I was so ill afterwards. A few years after my immunodeficiency diagnosis, my dad told me multiple times how proud he was of me. I thought it was because I’d opened a Pilates studio and finally started to look like a real adult.
That wasn’t it. In his eyes I’d never failed. Not once. Even when I came home from grad school severely depressed. He’d been scared. He didn’t know how to help. Mom could handle this better. He let her.
Later, when I was ill again, he dove in with his support. He told me recently that it was astonishing all I had overcome. He didn’t mean because I had become the poster child for the Protestant work ethic. I hadn’t. He meant because I had kept going all those years, choosing every day to work with where I was and what I was given.
My condition doesn’t allow me to become a workaholic. If I work too much, I will be sick. Period. I can’t join the legacy of workaholism in my family. I see this as a gift now. And I’m also starting to believe that I can be proud of what my life has become.
Have you experienced times you’ve felt you’ve not lived up to familial or societal expectations because of an illness? Did you find a way to think differently about the situation (and be kind to yourself)? I’d love to hear about your experience in the comments.
Radiant Pilates 