Today I did a puzzle. I bought a puzzle with no regard to my children. No this wasn’t a present/ activity for them. It was for me. Doctor ordered.
I’ve learned I like to fix things. I like to solve. I’m a “fixer” at least that’s what my new therapist thinks. I want to fix everyone and everything. It’s an addiction and way less fun than alcohol and there is no rehab for it, at least one that I can find.
The addiction is real. Big to small, my day fixing the world and everyone else’s problems has become a drug. Think education needs to change? Change it! Told your child has incurable cancer? Cure it!
But I should be sticking to puzzles. Being a fixer is unforgiving. And I fear I’ve been sucked dry. Turns out fixing is a one way street.
Before puzzles, I would scratch that fixer itch by taking on humans. Real ones with blood and everything. I took on my nephew that showed up at my home unannounced, penniless, and addicted to drug. Took him on. Only to find myself being extorted days later. A whiplash of pain, sorrow, and just plain fear. After all the love I gave to only have it thrown in my face.
But I don’t draw the line of the family as I’ve learned most fixers/ women do, although they are all included to fix.
I’ve taken on strangers’ children. Multiples of them. Yep. I’m on the other end to countless mothers and fathers calling in desperation for my help. I get calls from students at hours during the night. Sure I get the now and then “thank you for changing my life email” and that does make some of those night worth it, but lately the game has changed. This generation expects the world to stop and put them first and see “helpers” as mere servants in their individual journey. The letters come less frequently and instead I find myself speaking with mental health practioners and the police more often. Advoating for children who honestly don’t care if I do or don’t.
But yet I keep going.
Puzzles it is.
This girl needs a rest.