IKEA Therapy

These six IKEA patio chairs surfaced some of my deepest issues today.  I struggled to get the six flat-pack boxes and 12 giant cushions into my car, with two discontented and hungry children at my side. But I did it, then fed them and thanked them for their unflagging support.  I then drove home, unpacked my car and started assembly in the blazing sun.  As I fumbled with the million screws and Allen wrench, all of my self-loathing about my inability to negotiate the men in my life emerged.  Why didn’t I have someone in my life to help me with this?  Who would I even ask?  Why do I think I always have to do everything myself? What is wrong with me that I ended up without a husband who would take care of me, support me and my children and build IKEA furniture for me in the happy home we’d joyfully share into our retirement years?  I’m cute, I’m fit, I’m funny, I’m smart.  Isn’t that enough?

It always comes down to, “what is wrong with me?”  Bleck, sometimes I hate me.  This competent, capable and “strong” person I’ve become.  That shit is kryptonite to dudes, I say to myself.  More than one of my uber macho male friends has told me that I am intimidating.  One even said that I scare him to death.  It is worth noting that I am 5’2” and he’s at least 6’3” and about double my weight.  He’s punched police officers and brawled with gang members solo and survived.  But I scare him to death.  Yes, what is wrong with me?

By chair five, I was in tears.  None of this was hard mind you, just tedious, but in my frail mental state it was more than I could handle. I took a break, hid in my bedroom and ruminated on the matter of my inner vulnerability and seeming lack of outer feminine appeal.  I simply lack the skills involved in exuding an air of vulnerability that I think guys want in the needy fragile birds they adore.  I once tried to pretend to be needy with a guy I was dating and it made him snortle.  He said, “yeah right, I don’t buy that from you.”  So I am a bad actress too.

The truth is, I don’t really know how let myself be vulnerable.  I have carried the weight of a ton of shit in my lifetime, much more in recent years, and I know how to focus on the finish line and muscle through.  That makes me a badass, and badasses generally don’t get the attention of the chivalrous testosterone-y “let me do that for you” types I’ve read about in the unicorn chronicles.

After a brief period of moping, my neighbor-friend Dan came over and saved me from my self-flagellation.  He helped me finish chair six, unpacked all the cushions, put the chairs into place, moved some planters around and threw the trash out.  He also mentioned his wife never lets him help with these kinds of things so he was glad to lend a hand.  (She’s obviously an ungrateful shit-head.)  I did not feel entirely comfortable with Dan’s help, but I got the fuck out of his way and let him do it all.   I let myself be in a surrendered state for a few moments and I kind of liked it.  I’d like to imagine myself being that way more, but I find myself fighting it every day.  I’m better about it when I’m not sober, but that’s no way to live. 

Most people struggle with being strong an empowered in their lives.  I struggle with being vulnerable and surrendered.  I want to believe there’s someone I’d be willing to give up some of my power to.  But I fight it every day.  Maybe I’ll try to stop fighting it tomorrow.  In the meantime, I have a new lovely seating area in my garden in which to reflect upon such matters.