The Value of Trying

As a kid, I always considered myself blessed.  I was undeservedly privileged.  That's not to say that we had money because we didn't, but I was loved and well-cared-for.  The Covill kids were not spoiled by any sense of the word; however, we were privileged by living in an intact family with old-fashioned values and were tight-knit.  Were it not for that, I'm not sure what would have become of us children.  We moved around so much with the Navy that there were no real roots except for my grandparents' farm that was always our home base.  As young people, all three of the Covill siblings had their own personal issues caused by circumstances beyond our control.  Still, through it all, we went places and did things that most American kids don't get a chance to do, and Mom made it her mission to point that out on a regular basis.  We had an enviably firm family foundation.

I, however, believed myself to be above the instability of the moving fray.  I endeavored to be the "good kid".  And I was, for the most part.  I always did what I thought I was supposed to do....what people wanted me to do...what was "right" and "good" to do.  It worked for me.  As it happens, I was in possession of some intelligence and some talent here and there.  Add that to the angelic attitude, and you have the makings of what my mother sometimes called the Model Child.  As it turned out, I was the Model Child, which became both a blessing and a curse.  Things came easy to me.  Even at a very young age, I observed that I didn't have to work very hard in school, and people genuinely liked me.  I determined that must be because GOD liked me, too.  God wanted me to succeed.  God gave me the gifts that helped me do it, and if God was for me, who could be against me?  That's what I mean about being undeservedly privileged.  I really didn't have to do anything to be on a pedestal of positive recognition in school or in life.  That was my immature reasoning about my life as a kid.  It truly was a gift.  If things went well for me, it must be because God had ordained it for me.

An example of this sort of thing came when I was in, I think, third or fourth grade.  We lived in Danville, Illinois.  (This was in the mid-50s.)  The Community Chest Foundation, or some such civic non-profit organization, held a yearly "Red Feather" campaign to raise funds for local charitable endeavors, like orphanages and the like.  Somewhere in town, there was a sign with a big feather painted on it.  As funds were raised, red would be added to the feather like a thermometer, showing how much money was raised each day.  The hook was that young women were nominated to be Miss Red Feather.  People voted for the gal of their choice by donating money.  Whoever raised the most money became Miss Red Feather for that year.  And, to squeeze as much money out of the community as they could, schools were encouraged to participate, with students bringing in coins to place as their votes for LITTLE Miss Red Feather.  It was a competition, of sorts, and somehow, I was nominated as one of the candidates.  (I have no idea why or by whom, or even if I was part of the competition just for my school or district-wide.)  I didn't know anyone in the school other than my own classmates.  I was quiet and not particularly popular among the kids.  I don't remember having to do one single thing to campaign or sell myself as a candidate.  Still, I was leading in votes during much of the week-long campaign.  I thought that was a pretty big honor.  I felt special.  Even better that absolutely nothing was expected of me.  If I won, maybe I'd get my picture in the local newspaper as Little Miss Red Feather.  If I lost, I wasn't out a thing.  Easy-peasy.  As the week was coming to a close, there was a last-minute push to get in the monetary votes to sway the election.  I was nosed out by someone I didn't know.  I didn't win, but I had learned an important lesson: I had to be the luckiest kid on the planet just to be that big a part of something I didn't even know about, and I didn't even have to work at it.

I developed an attitude that things should just fall into my lap because, well, for many years, they just did.  I'd let God guide me by allowing good things to come my way.  I wasn't aware it was happening or how very dangerous that was to my psyche.  Most people, I've discovered, find a passion in life.  They know what their dreams are and what they are striving for.  In short, they know what they want.  They set goals by which to achieve them.  It gives them a drive and motivation to launch into the adult world with purpose.  I, however, just did what I was supposed to do and let life just happen to me.  No plan.  No dreams.  No real idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up, other than just be a super wife, and super mom to children, with all of us supported by a husband/father who loved us and treated us as his treasures, because that was the way things were for my parents. (Oh boy!  Was I in for an education about the institution of marriage!)  I scratched many vocations off my list of possibilities as unreasonable.  I didn't really want to become a teacher, but that's what I became...because that's what my parents were.  (Mom always told me that teaching or nursing were "respectable" jobs for women.)  I wasn't encouraged to reach for the stars.  Just to raise my hand toward that which was reachable.

As a result, it is inordinately difficult for me to fill out, say, dating profiles because I don't know what I want.  I only know that I will recognize it when I see it, and that won't come quickly.  If I were asked the cliche' "If you could go anywhere in the world that you wanted, where would you go?", I wouldn't be able to answer.  I want to go everywhere...and nowhere.  It's too complicated a question for me to take lightly, and I would second-guess myself out of any choice I made just before I gave up in frustration because, God knows, I would never have that pot of gold at the end of my rainbow to make it possible.  It's nonsense anyway.  Totally not feasible because I am old and poor and...well...why put myself through the agony of pressing my face to the window and drool over what's inside when I know I can't have it?  I wouldn't even try.

Just before I retired from teaching in 2009, my daughter challenged me to think about a dream of what I wanted my retirement to be like.  "What is one thing that you've always wanted to have or do?"  Honestly, I couldn't think of a thing other than just getting through the time before I could finally retire.  I think I mumbled something like, "Well, I've always wanted a piano..." which was followed by, "But I don't have room for one, and I can't play well enough to justify the expense of getting one."  I knew my daughter was looking for something more ethereal in thought; something more grandiose and bucket-listy.  Part of me wondered if she thought she could supply me with whatever my dream was.  For that reason, and others, I simply could not commit.  And even if she were in the position of granting my wishes, I didn't have any idea what I wanted.  Still don't.  It's almost a mental illness with me.  I can expound on all of the "should's" in life.  I generally have an opinion about nearly everything.  But I can't tell you what I want for my own future.  God quit making my path easy many decades ago.  I grew up.  I became a realist...or maybe a fatalist, still letting life just happen as it will without any push or drive from me.  In some respects, I gave up trying to make things better for myself because...well...if God wanted it for me, it would happen without any effort from me, right??  I gave up trying to have or do anything other than what was my lot in life.

As I've grown older and must contend with the infirmities that come with the "golden years", I have considered myself somewhat of a victim, partially because of the pervasive lack of mind control that I've been discussing.  I had a ruptured brain aneurysm, then I had a heart attack, then I developed back problems that have affected my mobility and ability to do many things without help.  With no exercise and my love of food, I allowed myself to get heavy.  What else did I have in life?  I took it all because that's what I was supposed to do: endure without complaining, like my mother and my grandmother did.  Just keep plugging with no plan.  Joined with the indignities of a major scar on my head with little hair to cover it, and having to take pills every day of my life, was the fact that I hated the way I looked.  It colored everything about how I felt about me, and about my life.  I had to accept that I wasn't young and sexy anymore, nor was I in the least bit easy to look at.  I couldn't even look at pictures of myself.  Not even the good ones.  I believed myself to be totally lacking in will power, so why even try?

I don't know what got into me.  Back in late May, something just came over me that said, "You don't have to live like this.  You don't have to be a victim of your own weaknesses".  I decided to put myself on a diet because my weight is something I CAN control.  Oh, I've dieted before--usually Weight Watchers--but I never, ever stayed with the program long enough to lose all of the weight that needed to come off.  It wasn't long before all of the weight came back on because I wasn't even trying to be good anymore.  I still had my WW materials from my previous attempt years before.  I can no longer afford the meetings, but my daughter and son-in-law can, and they are succeeding nicely.  I figured I could rely on them for the moral support that meetings would give me.  So, I gathered the old WW program information I had stashed in my bookcase, set a day of the week to be my official weigh-in day, went grocery shopping to stock up on the things I knew I would need, and began a journey to lose weight.

As ludicrous as it sounds for someone who has just floated in life, I have discovered strength I didn't know I had.  For some reason, I'm still on that diet.  I'm still losing.  I've not let myself stray far from the regimen, nor have I lost heart or given up.  For once, I'm TRYING.  And it's working!  I've lost 27 pounds (with many more to go), but far from feeling like I am being cheated out of the things I love to eat, I feel empowered by every ounce that comes off.  I look better.  I feel better.  I can reach parts of my body that I haven't been able to reach well for quite awhile.  I know I have lowered my risk for diabetes and have probably helped my blood pressure considerably.

Best of all, I have come to understand the intricacies of the emotions that have defeated me at my core for a lifetime.  It only took 70 years to get there!  Those complications that took so long to develop probably won't be resolved in what's left of my life, but at least I comprehend them better.  I accept that God hasn't singled me out for special treatment, and that He isn't going to save me from myself.  That part, I must do alone.  As Dr. Phil would say, "If you are in a boat that is sinking, pray to God...but row for the shore."  There is value in trying.  Finally, I'm rowing!