On not meeting expectations

I have a massage appointment today. I’ve pushed it back twice. I wanted to cancel it. I am filled with a feeling close to dread that has been slowly getting worse over the course of the week as the appointment approached. It’s in 90 minutes. My brain is clinging to a possibility that I will cancel. But I’m making myself go. I am forcing myself to face the relaxation. There are many factors involved here and you might think I’m being hyperbolic about massage dread. I am not. Nope, I’m just PDA. And the massage comes with expectations that make me want to crawl out of my own skin and peace out to a place where there are no expectations.

Specifics that matter include the fact there were exercises assigned to me. They were emailed in December. Along with ones emailed in November. And October. Have I done the exercises? No. I havent. Have I even opened my email to look at the exercises? No. I haven’t. So, I’m not meeting the ideal expectations of my massage therapist. Being less than ideal in another’s eyes makes me vulnerable to their judgement, which I feel deeply. Avoiding people’s judgement or the perception of judgement has been my life’s work. As a child I carefully constructed an exterior that met or exceeded all adult expectations. I had more trouble meeting peer expectations but I still tried and faked an external version to hide my vulnerabilities. But the ideal me was only for others; inside, the deep me, has always been less than ideal, unappealing even. I have always kept secrets where I avoid society’s expectations and demands. I have never wanted to show how much effort it really takes me to exist.

But I’m trying desperately to fight my own lack of security in the face of judgement, to stand my ground and not wither. I am learning at 44 to not care if I am less than ideal. I am learning that embracing my disabilities and showing up anyway is ok. I plan to go to my appointment and I plan to not lie. I will not lie and say I’ve done the exercises. I will be honest and say that I’ve barely been able to feed myself the last 3 months. I’ve barely been able to answer texts, or meet my kids needs so no, I didn’t do daily squats or whatever else I was supposed to do. I’m struggling to form a daily routine that doesnt leave me rocking and biting my nails for hours. In between my struggles I have moments of clarity and creative genius. But most of my time is spent trying to get myself to do the things i’m supposed to do to be a person and mom. Self portraits taken before performing hygiene demands.