Gift : 12 Lessons to Save Your Life by Edith Eger (ebook voice reader .TXT) 📗

her early patterning I often ask, “Is there anything you do in excess?” We often use substances and behaviors to medicate our wounds: food, sugar, alcohol, shopping, gambling, sex. We can even do healthy things in excess. We can become addicted to work or exercise or restrictive diets. But when we’re hungry for affection, attention, and approval—for the things we didn’t get when we were young—nothing is ever going to be enough to fill the need. You’re going to the wrong place to fill the void. It’s like going to the hardware store to buy a banana. The thing you’re looking for isn’t there. And yet, many of us keep going to the wrong store.

Sometimes we get addicted to needing. Sometimes we get addicted to being needed.

Lucia is a nurse, and she told me she thinks it’s in her genetic code to focus on others, to ask, “What do you need? How can I help?” It took decades of marriage to a demanding man, stepping in to raise his children, including a daughter with disabilities, years of being told “Do this! Do that!” before she started to ask, “What about me? Who am I in this situation?”

Now she’s learning to be more assertive, to stop disconnecting from her own preferences and desires. Sometimes it garners a rocky response from others. The first time she set a boundary with her husband, refusing to get up from the couch to fix him a snack, he yelled, “I ordered you!”

She took a deep, stabilizing breath, and said, “I don’t take orders. If you speak to me that way again, I’ll leave the room.”

She’s learning to recognize that the clinching feeling at the top of her gut when she starts to say yes to a request is a signal to stop and ask herself, “Is this what I want to do? Will I be resentful if I do this?”

It’s good to be self-ish: to practice self-love and self-care.

When Lindsey and Jordan were young, Marianne and Rob made a commitment to give each other solo nights away from the family scene. On Marianne’s night out, Rob agreed to be home with the kids, and vice versa. One week a famous economist was going to be visiting from London, and Rob wanted to hear him speak. But the event was on Marianne’s night out; she’d already purchased tickets to see a play with a friend, and he’d already made a commitment to be home with the kids. When he told Marianne he couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice, she could have called her friend to reschedule, and contacted the theater to try to exchange their tickets for another night. We can always make the choice to accommodate, to be flexible. The problem is that many of us rush to fix and adjust out of habit. We take too much responsibility for others’ problems, training them to rely on us instead of on themselves, and paving our own way toward resentment down the road. Marianne gave Rob a kiss on the cheek and said, “Gosh, hon, it sounds like you have a dilemma. I hope you can figure it out.” In the end, he brought the children with him to the lecture and they played under the auditorium chairs in their pajamas.

Sometimes life requires us to go with the flow, sometimes it’s the right thing to prioritize others’ needs, to modify our plans. And of course, we want to do everything in our power to support our loved ones, to be sensitive to their needs and desires, to engage in teamwork and interdependence. But generosity isn’t generous if we chronically give at the expense of ourselves, if our giving makes us a martyr or fuels our resentment. Love means that we practice self-love, that we strive to be generous and compassionate toward others—and to ourselves.

I often say that love is a four-letter word spelled T-I-M-E. Time. While our inner resources are limitless, our time and energy are limited. They run out. If you work or are in school; if you have children, a relationship, friends; if you volunteer, exercise, or belong to a book club, support group, or house of worship; if you’re caring for an aging parent or someone with medical or special needs—how do you structure your time so you don’t neglect yourself? When do you rest and replenish? How do you create a balance between working, loving, and playing?

Sometimes the hardest way to show up for ourselves is to ask for help. For a few years I’ve been dating a gentle man and a gentleman, Gene, my wonderful swing dance partner. When he had to be in the hospital for a few weeks, I visited every day, and he was happy to let me baby him a little—hold his hand, spoon-feed him meals. It’s wonderful when someone gives you the gift of giving. I was sitting with him one afternoon and noticed he was shivering. He admitted he’d been quite cold, but for Gene, kindness is number one, and he was so worried about coming across as demanding that he’d decided not to ask for a warmer blanket. In trying not to be a burden on anyone else, he neglected himself.

I used to do that, too. In our early immigrant days, Béla and I lived with Marianne in a tiny maid’s apartment at the back of a house in Park Heights, Baltimore. We had arrived in the country penniless—we had to borrow the ten dollars to get off the boat—and struggled to feed our family. In tough circumstances, I held it as a point of pride to put food on Béla and Marianne’s plates first—to serve myself only if there was enough to go around. It’s true that generosity and compassion are vital to foster. But selflessness doesn’t serve anyone—it leaves everyone deprived.

And being self-reliant doesn’t mean you refuse care and love from others.

Audrey was home for a visit during her college years at the University of Texas, Austin, a hotbed