the problem with being a fixer
when there is no solution
i’ve been having problems crying lately. the tears feel stuck, lost in the unreachable abyss in my chest. i stretch my hip flexors in hopes that it will open up a flood gate. i write feverishly in my journal hoping wisdom will grant my heart permission.
yet, i continue to choke on teardrops that won’t come.
i have tried talking to friends about the unmistakable ache, employing different tactics: in person, voice memos, a string of incoherent texts, and logically sound paragraphs. nothing has worked. only frustration has surfaced when coming to face the question: if my mind knows i’m mourning, why can’t my body follow suit?
so, i opt to take a nap instead, wishing for subliminal messaging to give me any sign.
my therapist says i am repressing something, whether it’s intentional or not. i didn’t need an hour long session to uncover this. but, i did need the space to interrogate a solution out of her. it turns out, there is none.
the label “fixer” felt synonymous to my own government name. if i didn’t grind and hustle my way out of problems, i learned how to talk my way through them. i could foresee issues before they even appeared and created plans to ensure that who and what mattered to me would be protected. i am my father’s daughter after all.
but, when he passed, the title became more official than it ever had. rather than staring at a wall dissociating or wailing until my lungs gave out, i became the point person for finances, cultural ceremonies, and legal matters. the animalistic form of grief — the kind that tore you to shreds and left you bare never came. instead, i scoured people, places, and things for answers. fixing became an alternative to feeling.
when you are raised to solve problems, it can quickly become a crutch. we treat our emotions like puzzles to be cracked rather than a friend we can sit with. it becomes easier to move a mountain of tragedies rather than accept that sometimes there is nothing to do. that experiencing is valuable even if we do not understand its meaning.
my therapist tells me that i should have no expectations for my grief. that my only job is to experience the hole that loss has hollowed from my heart even if it doesn’t make sense. even if it is quiet, unnerving, and looks nothing like how i imagined.
when i am stuck at a crossroad, she sometimes asks me, “what do you think your dad would tell you?”
often, it is easier to cry with my therapist than it is with people who know and love me. with her, there is nothing to repair. there is only a mirror to look at. a reflection to accept.
today, i could hear my dad clearly saying, “i’ve accepted it, now you need to too”
some extra nuggets (mainly for myself, but sharing in case it resonates with anyone else too). take what you need. leave what you don’t.
hold yourself accountable for one thing each day. whether it’s going to work. taking a nap (or not). seeing a friend. one thing is more than enough.
sometimes you need to release a pattern that once served you. your body and mind can do a lot to protect you from pain. but, over time, it can leave you feeling stuck. it’s okay to let it go once it stops being an anchor and is becoming the reason you are sinking.
processing internally is okay. not everything needs to be talked out. your body will give you signs — are you feeling fulfilled or frustrated with this conversation?
during low seasons, do the minimum. what can you leave off the table? what is essential? be brutally discerning with how you expend your energy.
❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹