It was recently suggested that I look into (or examine) the concept of Extreme Self Care. Actually, the first assignment called for me to exercise Extreme Self Care on a daily basis. Although I had good intentions, the entire concept of Self Care was an uncomfortable one for me, so I kind of, sort of, just let it go.
Since I didn't perform that assignment, it was reassigned two weeks later. And, finally, reassigned two weeks after that. But, because of my shirking, that third assignment became a strong suggestion to examine why the thought of Extreme Self Care was so distasteful to me. My coach calls this "Baby Stepping." Since I didn't manage the assignment either the first or second time, it was obviously a problematic one for me, and I needed to find out why. Only then could I begin the actual process of Self Care...or Wanton Hedonism, as I was imagining it.
In two days, it will be six weeks since the original assignment and, only this morning did I finally approach Extreme Self Care. Up until now, I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole...but, time is flying and I need a solution. Perhaps, more than a solution, I need a scapegoat, and the perfect one has just come to mind. Twelve years of Catholic School under a small community of St. Joseph sisters. The real ones who wore full black flowing habits, which included a veiled, tightly fitted headdress. When I think about it...not unlike today's controversial burkas.
I don't want to get carried away, but it is important to note that I was and, in many ways, still am a "Capital 'C' Catholic" versus an ordinary "small 'c' catholic." That means I absorbed every word of every sentence those well-meaning women uttered. Pulled them into my very being until they became part of me. I'm sure, today, they show up in my DNA.
And, so, being a Good Catholic Girl, I learned that my wishes, desires, wants and needs were less important than those of the people around me. It was my duty to assure that their lives were running well and, it was probably my fault if they weren't. If I performed those duties with a genuine smile and a joyous tone, I would be blessed. If I was a grouchy facilitator, it was all for nought. No blessings for me. More likely, condemnation was near, because anything less was selfishness, and selfishness was a shortcoming and a shortcoming could lead to a sin, and we all know where that takes us. So I tried. For years, I tried. I still do from time to time. It's not for nothing that I'm known as the person who never selects the dining spot.
And now, I'm 72 years old. I still can't help but look at Self-Care (not to mention Extreme Self-Care) as basically wrong. At worst, sinful. My joy (such as it is) must come from serving others. It will not come from plopping myself down for an hour with a good book. I am not a "Good Person" if I am not making sure that everyone else is happy and fulfilled and free to choose where we all have lunch. It's just what I do.
