WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK

I’m living a lie. Every day, I get up, put on my work clothes and beg, bribe, threaten, cajole my girls to get ready and off to school. I tell them I need to be on time because my new boss is super strict and won’t understand if I am late again due to hairstyle dramas and outfit tantrums. My girls believe I go to work every day and use my lunch hour to run errands, color pictures for them, and wash their favorite clothes so they can wear them the next day. I have really…really…long lunch hours.

I believe this lie is ok for several reasons:

• It helps them with their day-to-day. When they knew I was off work and seeing many doctors, they became extremely clingy and tried whatever excuse they could find to stay home. School drop offs were more difficult. Lily would go to bed every night begging me not to go to daycare the next day. And, while they never said it, I believe they were scared that I was really sick. I tried to explain my health issues in ways they could understand (“the doctors are helping mommy eat more”) and reassure them (“I’m not going anywhere”). I even involved them in making a sticker board to track my food intakes (6 intakes per day gets you a sticker). Still…it was a hard time for them. And, since I’ve “returned to work”, they are back to their old routine. Lily has settled back in to daycare. There are less tears, less hassles and it works for us.

• It actually isn’t a lie. I AM going to work every day. It may not be in an office and it certainly does not bring in a full pay cheque (though insurance coverage is admittedly good). The output of my work may sometimes be harder to see and the projects are more long term, but this is certainly work…hard, physically and emotionally draining work. Internal politics exist, power struggles – albeit of a different nature – abound and we get weekly performance evaluations – courtesy of the almighty scale. We give and receive constructive feedback, we lead discussions, we facilitate problem resolution and we team build. I’m still trying to figure out how to convince everyone, therapists included, to participate in a lip synch battle.

• It makes me feel better. I think that sometimes you have to dress the part. Over the years, I have developed my sense of style at work. The clothes and definitely the shoes gave me confidence, added a spring to my step. When I went off work, my uniform became yoga pants and sweaters. I started to wear my “skinny” like a wet blanket. My clothes reflected my spirit. I could feel my shoulders sag when I wore my comfy clothes and, at the time, it felt good.

But after I regained my fighting spirit in early September, I started to explore my closet again. Jeans, dresses, skirts and heels were all welcomed back in my life like beloved old friends. And, I started to see my mood shift; my swagger reappeared. I found the old – but also new – me. And then I started receiving comments from strangers about my appearance, my shoes, my looks. I’m not used to getting stopped on the street but it has happened more than once recently. And it was all down to my newfound confidence and the greater happiness I felt. And, like a positive cycle, these comments made me smile, sing a little louder, dance with a little more abandon. I’m not suggesting wearing a mask and pretending everything is ok. Doing that will crush your soul. And, this certainly won’t work for a person with depression. But, I am suggesting that, if you can, add a little color to the shadows you see. I still cry when I’m hurt, whether I am wearing yellow shoes or not. The idea is to find the things that help boost you, that tease out the authentic you and help you see the beauty in the world – even as you acknowledge your pain or voice your frustration.

So week three is well underway. I’ve reached my target weight for last week and done my celebratory dance. But, there is more to do. Time to put on my polka dot dress and orange pumps and head to the most important job (other than being a mom) I’ve ever had: healing.

Can’t be late, girls. I can’t…be… late.