Ah...snow days. Two in a row. For the homeschool mom in burnout, two unexpected days of non-teaching can bring a sigh of relief, regardless of how far behind we've fallen in English and math. (And for those who would wonder why a homeschool family is honoring public school snow days...try teaching with an autistic child wandering around the house, and no respite workers!)
As a child growing up in rural southern Indiana, snow days were commonplace. They happened every time Hanover got an inch of snow, sometimes less. During the blizzards of 1977 and 1978, we lost a month of school each January and never made up a single day during the summer. We lived in the country and, in spite of our four-wheel drive jeep (affectionately named "Godzilla"), trips into town were few and far between. We were stuck at home, with only siblings and a few neighbor children with whom we occasionally got along. Yet, somehow, we managed to entertain ourselves, with only network T.V. (let's hear it for "The Brady Bunch" reruns!) and a transistor radio.
My children have different expectations. On the second consecutive snow day, our house was filled with cries of "Mom! I have no one to play with!" "Can't you play house under the card table with me?" "I don't care if I'm not 13 yet, I'm going to open YouTube and Facebook accounts anyway!" And this is coming from two homeschooled children, who are supposed to love their siblings and eschew peer-dependency. Where did I go wrong?
But...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. People cravings can be medicine to the soul, or they can be the ultimate thorn in the flesh. And who can tell the difference?
In the midst of my winter burnout and subsequent depression, I made a telling comment: "I had forgotten I was a person." That has certainly proven to be the case, and the fallout from that telling statement has been significant.
Six years ago, Joe passed the earliest stages of homeschooling, and as he outgrew preschool childcare, adult social activities gradually fell by the wayside. Women's Bible study, which had been a steady source of friendship and spiritual food, was the first casualty. Sunday school was still on the weekly agenda, but I am the type of person who tends to slip in and out of gatherings without talking with anyone; and even though I did meet and speak with a few other homeschool moms in the group, Legacy class bore such little relational fruit that I eventually stopped going.
My pastor suggested that these things were happening because I take more than I give in relationships. I don't question for a minute that that is my faux pas. Our family has two children on the autistic spectrum, and we've found ourselves in crisis mode too many times (hence, the "wearing people out" effect that Beth Moore spoke about in Get Out of That Pit!). But I never wanted to make a life out of sucking off other people; I just couldn't fit in, and our family made its presence known only when crisis hit. I would sit on the outside of social functions, unable to make small talk in a group and never sure of social boundaries, as if I were uncomfortable in my own skin. Yes, Pastor, I would like to give to others--but how can I, when I can't take the first step in meeting the people I should serve? And what on earth do I have to offer?
Then burnout hit, and in depression, I found myself relationally bankrupt. People cravings came in the same way that David obsesses on pizza and crayons. In spite of my better judgment, I allowed my people cravings to go haywire. I began confiding in a female friend--not dumping entire truckloads of emotional garbage, as I had on my poor roommate in graduate school, but bit by bit--and with every piece of myself that I disclosed, I felt another nail being driven in my coffin of self-disgust.
Why am I doing this? I wondered. Am I turning into my former monster-self, the codependent brat I was at Wheaton Graduate School when my counseling issues became privy to everyone? I remembered a psychiatrist at GlenOaks Hospital who told me that I had no concept whatsoever of social boundaries, that perhaps I should go to counseling three times a week to avoid destroying relationships by revealing things that should only be told to a professional therapist. It then occured to me that it had been years since I let anyone see my heart, who I really was--including, in many ways, my own husband. And, when I remembered what had happened before--how I had overexposed myself, worn out relationships and found myself controlled by the people I had trusted--it was easy to see why I would never want to be close to anyone again. Ever.
Self-disclosure is a tricky issue. To begin with, the whole enterprise seems a bit pig-headed and selfish. Why would anyone care what I have to say? I remember a friend, years ago, taking me to task because all I did was take from others without giving back, and I cringe. Is this the person I want to be, an emotionally dependent relationship addict? By all means, no! No, no, no! Such a thought repulses me, yet I am also compelled by the prospect of letting another in, to dive below the surfacey small-talk of curriculum and housework, and share my heart.
Do I care about the inner lives of others? On many occasions, I find it hard to believe that anyone else would want my friendship, or could use anything I have to offer. I have failed so miserably, repeatedly, in ways that I would not want anyone to know. But, in my better moments, I believe that redemption is possible...
Is there a way to risk friendship without falling into the oft-repeated codependency trap? I have found a women's Bible study group, to expand the repertoire of people I interact with each week, and I am presently seeing a counselor to relieve the burden I place on social relationships. Homeschool burnout is still a very real part of my life (as evidenced by the backlog of ungraded worksheets), so interacting with other homeschoolers makes me a bit nervous. During long, lonely snow days, Facebook chatting becomes a temptation, but after the hurtful and destructive way I previously used it, I can't.
People cravings are real, perhaps something we can't avoid on this side of heaven--especially when you awaken from six years of social hibernation. The trick is learning how to navigate the world of people when you've made a life of avoiding them.
And, by the way, our social longings won out on this second consecutive snow day. We braved the elements, risking sliding on unsalted roads, and drove to McDonald's playland--an option we didn't have during the blizzards of the '70's.
