Self-Story and Identity
I never thought much about it; it was automatic. I'd proudly announce that I was a full-time caregiver, trying to elicit some sympathy. I was turning my situation into a ballot measure for pity. Each encounter was a little campaign: please admire me, please lower the bar, please feel sorry for me.
I see where I use caregiving as an excuse to withdraw, as a reason I won't participate fully. I am trying to become a special case. Part of me hopes that someone will see my exhaustion without me having to say anything.
I should say, "I'm caring for Mary, my wife, more now," instead of "a full-time caregiver." I switch the noun "caregiver" to the verb "caring for." This softens the identity "caregiver." When I focus on what is actually happening, I see that I am not a "caregiver" as a fixed identity.
I am caring for Mary in this moment, under these conditions, with this much strength and this much frustration. Mary laughs at small things, forgets certain things, needs more help now, and still exceeds any label I put around this situation.
What will happen when circumstances change? If I build my identity around being a caregiver, what happens when I am no longer needed in the same way? Who am I then? And what parts of myself am I postponing by hiding inside the role now?
The dance we do each day reveals that everything is temporary. Mary changes. I change. The care changes. Change is not the lesson exactly. It is that change is inevitable, and I keep forgetting.