Superheroes Need Love, Too.
By: Turea Hutson
Tags: Short Story, Love Yourself, Rest, Burnout, Self Improvement

Photo Credit: DC Comics

Right after the holidays, my kid sister (now 20) asked me if she and her significant other could move into the basement of my house. I politely and lovingly told her hell no. In our conversations since, she would pitch the idea again and again much grander than the previous time. My response would remain the same. Recently, I was talking with my mother on the phone and she recounted a conversation that she had with my sister about the matter. My sister asked my mother to once again pitch the idea of her moving into my basement. Her only request was that my mother relay to her, in detail, exactly what I said. My mother indicated that she had a pretty good idea about what my response would be. My sister just laughed.

“Oh, mom. I do, too.” She giggled. “I just like it when I ask her and she does that thing where she cusses me out without using cuss words. It’s hilarious and so cute.”

I burst out laughing when my mother told me that story. For one thing, the idea that the sister who was thirteen years my junior thought that something I did was “cute” was wildly amusing to me. The other thing I realized was that I was touched for two reasons: My sister revealed that she had a true knowledge of who I was as a person. I do have a tendency to “cuss people out without using cuss words” in situations where I do not overtly want to swear. The most touching thing I took away from this situation was that I did not need to do anything in order for her to love me or find joy in me. Just being myself was enough for her.

Over the years, I have prided myself on service to others. It was something that I watched my family members excel at over generations — from my grandmother’s Thanksgiving dinners where everyone in the neighborhood was welcome, to my parents taking in children who needed loving homes. Serve, pray, fight, persevere — if my family had a motto, that would be it. I assumed that mission and carried it on without a second thought. I had always considered it my duty to make the world a better place, no matter what the cost. My purpose was to fix things, whether the possible or the impossible. My purpose was to absorb the pain of those around me so they did not have to feel it. My purpose was to slay dragons and combat injustice. I was a superhero, born of a lineage of superheroes. Until the day I first encountered my kryptonite.

On that day, I realized how much of myself I had given away in exchange for the acceptance of others. I had given away my solidarity to causes that were not my own. I had given away my time and energy to institutions that were not aligned with my values. I had given away my loyalty to people who did not value it as a gift. I had wasted my voice on people who had willfully chosen not to hear me. I had lovingly shed tears into chalices and passed them out to those who consumed them and moved on without a second thought. I had given my ideas to those who had turned a profit on my existence without so much as an acknowledgement. To quote the Bible, I had “cast my pearls before swine” in an effort to be wanted. To be needed. To be valued.

I recently took a moment in solitude. I laid what was left of myself out on my bed and surveyed the disjointed pieces. I tried not to cut myself on the jagged edges of my disillusionment. I was shocked to find there was not much remaining for me to survey. I had given so much away to others that what was left of me did not resemble the me I thought I knew at all: Chronic pain. Interrupted sleep. Poor eating habits. Resentment. Bitterness. Fatigue. Lashing out. Dehydration. Dark circles under puffy eyes. Difficulty concentrating. Hair falling out. Limited joy. No peace. Perfect little Turea, the superhero, the fixer, the healer, the mover and the shaker, had finally reached the point where she was not able to do it all. In fact, she was not able to do much of anything. I was a shell of my former self, and it was far from pretty.

When I reached the bottom of my cup, trying desperately to manufacture some sort of energy from the dark, useless sludge that resided there, I came to an important conclusion: Pouring yourself out and trying to fix broken things are admirable desires. However, there does come a point when you run out of steam, even when you have historically been able to do it all. Giving of yourself without giving to yourself always comes at a cost, especially when you pour out to those who do not value you or replenish you, or the vessels you are pouring yourself into are not in alignment with your values.

I have reached the point where I need to acknowledge that I am tired. This strong woman is spent. I have very little left to give away in this moment, and am going to need to ration what is left until I replenish. I am going to have to make some tough choices about when I am able to give and when I am unable to give. I will need to do better in the future about giving back to myself so that I do not reach this point again. Acknowledging my own limitations has never been easy for me, and this is worsened by a world that feels entitled to my compliance, solidarity, time, space, loyalty, energy, blood, sweat and tears simply by virtue of its demand for those gifts. However, as I survey the disjointed pieces of myself that I laid out on my bed, jagged with disillusionment, I have realized that I simply do not have the luxury to give of myself with reckless abandon anymore.

I have realized that I need to fold up my cape sometimes. I need to laugh sometimes. I need to dance sometimes. I need to write sometimes. I need to scream sometimes. I need to be held sometimes. I need to cry sometimes. I need to sleep sometimes. I need to ask for support sometimes. I need to be still sometimes. I need to heal sometimes. That doesn’t make me any less strong or any less valuable (and the people who believe that it makes me less strong or less valuable are encouraged to go explore the great pleasure that they are capable of bringing to themselves — my sister would appreciate this line). It makes me human. And that is ok.

So, today I have decided I am not going go be the superhero. I am not going to be the healer. I am not going to be the fixer. I am not going to be the defeater of villains, nor slayer of dragons. Today, I am going to fold up my cape and leave it at the foot of my bed next to the pieces of myself that are left. Today, I am just going to be Turea, an exhausted mere mortal with very human limitations. I am going to have wants and needs and hopes and dreams. I am going to laugh, dance, write, scream, be held, cry, sleep, ask for support, be still and heal. I am going to lovingly gather the pieces of myself that remain, gently sand and weld the edges of disillusionment, cobble them together the best I can, and go thank the goofy girl who reminded me how amazing it feels to be loved — simply for being me.