The Part of Me I Loved to Hate

I'll never be cool Sara

I’ve been called a control freak by every romantic partner in my entire life. And quite a few family members, too. A travel agent for guilt trips. A nag. A bitch. A Karen who will most definitely talk to your manager.

I’ve been the crazy ex-girlfriend, the overbearing sister, the domineering wife, and the partner who loses her shit on you in the middle of the night, turning on all the lights and following you around the house, screaming about what a fucking asshole you are.

I’ve hated this part of myself. So deeply ashamed of the desperate, needy monster inside. Why can’t I be cool Sara in the tie-dye dress who’s just so chill, bro?

The incessant need to control people, places, and situations has been with me since the childhood that wasn’t a childhood. I recognize myself whenever I meet other people who never got to be kids:

• the serious ones who can’t take a joke, because their parents viciously criticized them every day

• the clowns who can’t stop joking because their mothers were depressed and needed constant cheering

• the peacekeepers who learned to accommodate everyone trying to pacify violent drunk partners

• the martyrs who don’t need anything, thank you-I’m good-I got it, who flip quickly to I’m the only one who ever does anything around here

• the perpetually cheery pleasers who are deathly afraid of acknowledging or expressing “negative” emotions

• the chameleons who have no identity because they were always expected to be whatever someone else demanded

Controlling Karen and cool Sara are the same. Whether I hold on too tightly or not at all, it’s born of the same desperation to get my needs met by people who can not or will not.

A couple of weeks ago I did an IFS meditation, some of the most woo shit I’ve encountered in my entire life. Internal Family Systems or IFS is a psychotherapy approach teaching that every person is made up of a capital S Self and multiple parts that function to protect us and keep us alive. We can think of these parts as inner children and critics, or classify them as managers such as my inner Karen, or firefighters who might soothe any flames with our preferred coping mechanisms such as drugs, food, sex, or adding random shit to our online cart.

These parts have kept me alive, but when one of them runs the show, I don’t feel like myself. I feel out of control and like I can’t stop what’s happening, whether I’m crying uncontrollably like an abandoned child or losing my shit over someone not using their turn signal.

IFS teaches that we can engage with our parts, talk to them, ask them questions, and make them feel understood, so they’re more likely to trust us leading from our capital S Selves.

It sounds insane, I know.

But.

That IFS meditation a few weeks ago instructed me to visualize the part of myself I’m most annoyed with, embarrassed about, or ashamed of. Karen raised her hand like the annoying gold star, A+ student she is.

In my mind’s eye, I saw “crazy ex-girlfriend, control freak, naggy bitch, guilt-tripping Karen” on the floor of my childhood bedroom, trying desperately to close the zipper on a giant black duffel bag. It was going nowhere. There was way too much stuff in the bag, but Karen was as determined as her efforts were pointless.

The meditation guide asked me to tell my judgmental parts hating on Karen to go to an imaginary waiting room so I could allow my curiosity to take the lead and have an open conversation with Karen.

Me: What are you doing, Karen? This will never ever zip. Why are you trying so hard to make this work?

Karen: If I don’t make it fit, all this shit is going to fall out and make a huge mess.

Me: I see. But what if you didn’t have to spend all your effort on trying to make something work that’s never going to work? What would you want to do instead?

She looked up, face slightly softening: Well, I guess I could help you figure out what actually goes in the bag, and what we can get rid of.

I responded, okay, let’s try that instead, but for now, how about you just relax and let me deal with the bag? It’s not going anywhere. She nodded.

I dragged the bag out of the room and told Karen she could do whatever she wanted without worrying about this impossible job. She just sat on the floor, the lines on her face melting, her shoulders dropping in relief, the tiniest smile around her mouth.

I realized something then.

She’s not bad.

Or mean.

Or a bitch.

She’s tired. So very tired.

She’s been putting in overtime every day.

She hasn’t had a nap in 40 years.

Yesterday at yoga (not the sweaty kind, but the laying around, I mean, restorative kind), I checked on Karen.

I found her lying on a fluffy couch, reading a dirty novel and drinking milky coffee.

I said, hey, Karen, just checking to see if you need anything. You don’t have to get up. Just stay right there and let me know if you want a new book or a fuzzy blanket or a flaky almond croissant. She didn’t need a thing, just waved me off while burrowing deeper into the pillows.

I know she’ll help me figure out what goes in the bag, and what we can get rid off, when it’s time.

For now, I’ll let her rest.

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Juicy life bits:

The first “Not Your Mother’s Writing Lab” I hosted for paid subscribers happened today and I’m still totally overwhelmed with love and gratitude. This is one of the messages I got right after:

“HOLY SHIT THAT WAS THE MOST AMAZING EXPERIENCE. I’m so blown away by the beautiful writers you gathered together and how incredibly cathartic it was to read and be witnessed and see reflections on the work. Thank you for putting this together!!”

If you want to experience it for yourself, I’m already planning the next one for May. You can sign up below.

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This made me laugh, because facts:

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I have a major sweet tooth recently, and made these babies for my funeral friends. We are varying combinations of dietary restrictions, so I baked these vegan, gluten-free scones that don’t taste like shit.

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I hope your week doesn’t suck! Talk soon!