The Death of Self

If two years ago I was asked to write an autobiography of my life thus far, it would have been easy. Before even typing the first word, I would already have a carefully-constructed narrative in my mind about who I am and what my life is about. I would detail the thankless jobs I worked, from sweeping popcorn in dirty movie theaters as a teenager to waitressing my way through college. I would brag about the countless nights spent studying that earned me a college diploma with distinction. I would relive my most vulnerable days as a teacher at an inner-city school that almost broke me (but didn't!). My laundry list of accomplishments would paint a person who believes in hard work and self-discipline. Someone who values literacy and education. A citizen who contributes meaningfully to her community. And when it comes down to it, that last one is all I really wanted to be: a person who was useful. Fast-forward two years, and this goal that I gripped to so tightly suddenly escaped me entirely. Chronic pain attacked not only my physical body, but my entire identity and notion of self-worth.

The attack began about a year and a half ago. It was fall, just a couple months after the school year began, and I found showing up to work every day increasingly difficult as the pain grew. After many tears and days spent in total denial, I agreed to take a leave of absence. This alone was a tough decision because I felt I had failed. In the past, when the going got tough, I pushed harder. But now, here I was, waving the white flag of surrender, quivering in my boots. It made me not like who I was, and I felt I needed to fix that.

In the hours between migraine attacks, I found myself constantly reshaping my narrative, desperately clinging to my meticulously-created identity. I did my best to push aside the guilt and try to be reasonable: "This is just a rough patch. 30 days of disability, and then you're back in action, stronger than ever!" I even visualized myself coming back to work the first day. I would have to explain to my kids why I was gone and they'd probably have some questions. But then I would assure them, the parents, and the rest of the staff that I was better now. And within a week everything would be back to normal: teaching, lesson planning, grading, meetings, repeat. Gradually more coins would replenish my bank of self-worth and I'd be myself again.

As time progressed, the failures only accumulated beyond my control while the pain continued escalating. The following January, I formally quit my job (ouch). I worked at a different school part-time as a paraprofessional, which basically just means I stood around in the classroom watching teachers do what I used to do. The following May, my doctor filled me with great hope that the headaches would diminish over the summer. Therefore, I had excitedly arranged with the principal of my former school to come back as a part-time teacher. The next month, that same doctor had already "given up" on being able to help me since I wasn't responding to treatment. Therefore, I had to quit that job before it even began. Next I found a family who hired me as a tutor for their high-school aged son, just two times a week.  Then, that got to be too hard also, so I quit that too. Even more desperate to feel useful, I began just volunteering at the school where my mom teaches...and yes, you guessed it: that also became too much of a commitment. Within just a year, my life accomplishments had seemed to unravel before my eyes and had been replaced with a list of failures.

Of course I would still try to be kind to myself. I would tell myself my pain is legitimate despite what the skeptics think. I would ensure myself that my unemployment doesn't mean I'm a "bad" person. I would still dream of a future where the pain would dissipate and I could get my life back on track. But with each failure, the words lost a bit of meaning until they were obsolete. As hopelessness prevailed, two great chasms had developed.

The first chasm was between me and my family, friends, and community. I remember one day I was at the grocery store and suddenly felt really sad. I looked at the other shoppers and realized that most of them probably were not in chronic pain. I realized that I had forgotten what it was like to be like that-- just to feel no pain. To be able to go grocery shopping without the dull throb in my temple and the dread of it inevitably escalating to full-blown migraine status. My local grocery store felt like a different planet. I used to be like them, and now-- suddenly--  I was not. A wave of isolation struck. I would feel that same, cold wave on social media when reading updates of my former classmates. They'd be embarking upon their fourth year of teaching and several had already received a master's in education. They were sprinting to their dreams, to the best versions of themselves, to their ultimate and actualized identities. Meanwhile, I was trudging through the mud, barely surviving on a day-to-day basis, let alone achieving anything that mattered. I felt highly embarrassed.

The second chasm was between me and myself. The identity I had spent my life constructing was  ripped away from who I actually am now. I am not a teacher. I am not even an employee of any place. I guess I still have my degree, but what good is it now when I spend 80% of my life sick on the couch? Now when I say things like, "When I get back to work..." it's the same way someone else might say, "When I win the lottery..."

This psychological pain (along with the physical pain) never seems to heal. If anything, it just worsens with time. I still grieve my old job and my old life. I feel a little twinge in my stomach when a creative English lesson plan comes up in my Pinterest feed. I look at old photos of myself, especially ones when I was on a hike or something I would never be able to do now, and I'm overcome with grief. That was the "before" time. I think about how how great things were and how I totally took it for granted. I think about how I had no idea my normal life would soon be replaced with debilitating pain that would destroy everything. As more time progressed, I felt like a shadow of my former self.

At my darkest moments, the words, "You are worthless," cut me with their jagged blade. Once I hear and actually believe these words, it's a scary road paved with irrational guilt and self-loathing.

After I am able to calm down and regain some sort of equilibrium, I feel ridiculous for ever feeling that way. Of course I don't believe my life is actually worthless. On my good days, I can even recognize the beautiful gifts pain has afforded me, and feel weirdly grateful. Call me crazy, but the only rational explanation I can think of for ever feeling utterly worthless is that Satan is telling me that I am. That would explain how jarring those words always feel, and he is the "the father of lies" after all (John 8:44). Yet I can't dodge total responsibility. If I actually believe and feel Satan's false words, then I have clearly put myself in a dangerous place, vulnerable for spiritual attack.

 The biggest problem is not that I hear these words, but that sometimes I really feel they are true. No matter how much this situation genuinely stinks, I can't shake this underlying notion that it shouldn't be utterly destroying me.  My emotional pain is undeniably real. I am not trying to lessen that one bit. However, I'm learning that it's inherently problematic that I feel so much emotional pain in the first place. If unemployment truly annihilates my identity, then what does that say about how I chose to construct my identity in the first place?

I've created my identity based solely on my ability to achieve. But once that ability no longer exists, my identity dies. It really is not a stretch to say I am mourning the death of myself...or at least the death of who I thought I was. This is a very a real and painful grief. However, this emotional pain demands a new way of constructing my identity from this point on: a more genuine way with richer soil and deeper roots. Something that can't just be entirely demolished by a single life event.

Sometimes it helps to look at an outside example. I've recently read an article  about Utah mother of six who had to have all four limbs amputated due to pneumonia. This story especially struck me because I, at one point, even said, "I feel like my arms and legs have been cut off," in relation to my disabled condition and feelings of uselessness. If you read this article, it becomes apparent that this woman surviving fatal pneumonia, a coma, severe medication, and surgery is an absolute miracle. The amputations are extremely unfortunate, but really, this is a story of triumph and resilience. It proves life is always precious and worth fighting for despite pain and disability.

Now, is this woman's life worthless now? Has it at least declined in worth? Without the help of prosthetics, she can't even brush her teeth by herself, let alone raise her children or work in a career setting. If you say, "Yes, her worth has declined," then the assumption was that her worth was, at least in part, based upon her arms and legs...And doesn't that seem extremely shallow and unsatisfying? Wouldn't that assumption call for a radically new way of determining her worth?

Of course I have no idea how this woman is coping on psychological, emotional, and spiritual levels. But it does make me wonder that if she is a Christian, this loss, though still extremely sad and frustrating, shouldn't be this life-shattering event. If this woman truly believes that an all-loving and powerful God is taking care of her, then very little could truly shake her.  The same, of course, goes for me. If I truly believe that a perfect and eternal Heaven awaits me at the end of my earthly life, then no amount of pain or disability can really matter that much.  In other words, "If God is for us, then who could be against us?... Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?" (Romans 8: 31-35). In this way, earthly burdens are, at worse, a huge inconvenience. And with that, my identity's foundations would not be based upon any earthly accomplishment, but rather, upon the infinite worth of Christ. (How's that for constructing my identity in a radically new way?)

Sometimes, when I am feeling like I've lost my identity, I like to listen to Christian musician Tobymac's song Lose Myself.  The first verse and the chorus goes:

Take all of the good and all of the bad
'Cause all of it's on me
Take all of my ways, the things that I chase
The things that control me

And all that I hide, could you bring me to life?
Could you open my eyes and show me?
Take all that was me and shape it to be
Reflecting you solely

I wanna lose myself, lose myself to find you
I wanna lose myself, lose myself to find you
I don't care how it sounds
Burn it up to the ground
Your kingdom, my desire
I wanna lose myself, lose myself to find you

I love the irony of having to completely lose myself to find God and as a result, find my truest self.  When my self-constructed identity "burns up to the ground," it is a loss and it is appropriate to undergo some sort of grieving process. However, the conflagration only exists to make room for something far more beautiful and lasting. Just as Jesus surrenders his earthly life on the cross, I need to willingly die right alongside with him.  Only when I can gracefully accept and wholly embrace this death, I can recognize and build upon my truest identity as a child of God: a person of infinite worth who is designed to reside in God's glory for all of eternity.