We Are the Special Occasion

For most of my life, I’ve spent a lot of time waiting for a special occasion. Feeling worthy of self-care or a little self-indulgence didn’t happen very often, so that was a special occasion too.

I’m sure it’s from way back when I was homeless and hungry.

Even once we weren’t homeless anymore, my useless first husband loved to ruin us financially. It didn’t matter how well I did at work. I worked so hard to try and get our little family a little bit ahead, but it was pointless. If I took one step forward, he’d drag us three steps back. I was always accused of not doing enough. So what that I’d taken care of a baby starting at dawn? Yeah, I’d cleaned the house, did the laundry, and made all the meals. I also worked all day. That didn’t mean I had any right to have a hot bath before going to bed to get a few hours of sleep before the cycle repeated, who did I think I was? That was uppity.

How did he contribute, you ask? Well, working was a crap shoot because he’d get a job then lose it in a few weeks. He showed up late, didn’t show up at all, or did shoddy work. Contributing to the care of his child wasn’t his job apparently, cooking and cleaning was women’s work, and doing laundry? He had more important things to do.

Some of those things eventually got him sent to federal prison, but that’s another story for another day. (Spoiler alert: it’s not a competition but when people play ‘my ex is the worst’, I generally win.)

Money was scarce for many years.

I had a baby and no help or support. Useless husband not only wasn’t a nice guy (wish I’d known that sooner) but he was lazy and one of the stupidest people I’ve ever known. I don’t say that to be mean, he was just intellectually challenged and incapable of critical thought or logic.

One time, he met a really nice guy outside PayDay Loan. Guy was new to the city and didn’t have a bank account. Maybe Dipshit (as I like to call him) could cash the check for him at the ATM? He could keep twenty bucks for his trouble.

Dipshit said yes, because getting money for little effort was totally his jam. He put the 500 dollar check into our account through the ATM and withdrew the cash. After all, it was payday for lots of people which I’m sure the other guy was well aware of.

The cheque bounced of course.

There went most of our rent money for the little basement suite we’d managed to get in the last trimester of my pregnancy, just in time. The same day we signed the lease, the car we’d been living in was impounded. Dipshit had let the registration expire and hadn’t paid the insurance in months. Between the fines and the impound fees, we couldn’t afford to get the car back.

When my daughter was about two, I got a bursary for poor AF people who wanted to go to school. I was so excited to start school. Like, real college. I was going to go to college and start working towards my dream of being a Paramedic. Things were coming together! I hadn’t been able to finish high school because reasons, but I’d been accepted into the program anyway. I had the necessary grades in the required senior level courses AND the government was giving me a money gift to go! How splendid. I’d be able to provide more for my daughter, maybe get an apartment in a nicer part of the city…the future was looking brighter.

Dipshit spent every penny of it almost the moment it hit our bank account.

First, he bought a video game console (frequent unemployment gets boring). I’d managed to scrape together enough money to buy an old hatchback car so he’d have an easier time getting to work. (Hahaha.) He’d once again left his construction tools in the car overnight, in full view. He’d left the car unlocked as usual, and we lived in a seedy neighbourhood. Once again, all his tools were stolen and once again, he went and replaced them all. This time, with my tuition bursary.

He once again lost his job a few weeks after that, but I digress…

Every penny earmarked for our future, gone for stupid things. I had to withdraw from the program before it even started. It was one of the worst times in my life, which says something. I was trapped in a relationship with a loser who had a mean streak. If I wanted any kind of decent, stable existence for my daughter and I, I had to figure out a way to get untrapped in a hurry.

Back then, money was so tight there was never any left over for little niceties that a lot of people take for granted, like bubble bath or a haircut, or buying a coffee. I remember having to take a calculator to the grocery store to make sure I didn’t overdraw the account. Anytime I swiped my debit card, I was a mess of anxiety that the card would be declined. Being off in my math so much as fifty cents would bring a flood of humiliation.

To this day, I’m very good at math.

Over the years my situation improved. It got easier to go eat at a restaurant with my friends on occasion. I’d get a haircut once or twice a year, or buy cheap flowers when I went to the grocery store. Each time I spent a little money ‘frivolously’ and didn’t end up back on the street, it felt like progress.

But I still always had anxiety about money, and I felt like scarcity lay in wait for me. If my bank balance dropped even a dollar below a certain threshold, it kept me awake at night. I was terrified of losing my financial stability and ever being homeless again. That actually worked out in my favour; I had quite a bit of money in reserve (or ‘savings’ to make it sound less neurotic). When my life fell apart in 2019 and the world followed in 2020, I had enough money for groceries and bills for quite awhile. It was incredibly stressful, but definitely would have been worse if I hadn’t been driven by fear to stockpile money for years leading up to the disaster than began in 2019.

On rare occasions, someone would give me a cheap bath set for a hostess gift or maybe a secret Santa present at a Christmas party. You’ve never seen someone more thrilled with a twenty dollar drug store bath basket than I! I’d use a tiny little bit of bubble bath or lotion, but only a tiny bit because the thought of running out made me anxious. What if I wouldn’t ever get bubble bath or cheap watery lotion ever again?

I know, I know. I had gigantic issues, but I was aware I had them.

Identifying them was one thing, fixing them was quite another.

Before the pandemic, I was getting more comfortable spending money on myself just because it made me feel good. But then I hoarded the things instead of using them! I was saving them for a special occasion. I couldn’t just use the things! What if I ran out and once again was so broke that I could never get more? As I worked at pulling the threads of my tangled psyche, I realized there was also a part of me waiting until I did something really good that made me worthy of indulging and rewarding myself.

I bought a beautiful smelling lotion in a beautiful bottle and held on to it, unused, for so long that the lotion separated and became gross.

I bought a nail polish and waited for a special occasion. It thickened and ruined.

I didn’t use my fragrance warmer very often because what if I used all of the wax melts? I might not have the money to replace them.

Turns out, like most things, fragrance wax doesn’t last forever.

Some scents dissipated before I used them and then smelled like nothing, some had oil leach out of the wax in a huge mess. By the time I’d talk myself into using them, I’d have to dispose of some.

I did the same with several facial sheet masks from the drugstore, saved them until they were dried out and useless before I decided I’d been a good enough girl to ‘earn’ using one.

I had my own food bank stored downstairs on shelves, carefully stockpiled and only to be used in case of emergency, like poverty. (Is returning to the poorhouse a special occasion?) Somehow, it made me feel more secure if I bought things and held on to them just in case I lost everything. Weird, right? I bought things and waited for that ‘special occasion’ to warrant using it. Using it just for myself on a Tuesday just because? Sacrilege. I’d progressed to where I could buy minor things and have them in my possession, but I wasn’t at the place where I actually felt worthy to use and enjoy them.

If you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, you’ve noticed that not feeling worthy of good things, happiness, rest, or relaxation until I collapsed from exhaustion has been a recurring theme.

I decided a few months ago that I am a special occasion, so not only can I buy things for myself, I should use them too. I deserve to take care of myself and do things that make me feel good. Not because I’ve accomplished amazing things (but let’s be honest, I sure have) but because enjoyment, happiness, and peace shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be a human right.

Isn’t it strange how we adapt to situations so we can just get through each day, and we end up holding unconscious beliefs that shape our mindset and behaviours long after a situation has changed or ended?

My ‘saving’ of things for special occasions was stupid, and wasteful. I wasn’t using things in case I went broke again, but by refusing to use them without a ‘special occasion’ I ended up wasting the money I’d spent when I had to throw the things in the garbage.

I was never a serious hoarder, certainly not one that needed an A&E camera crew to show up on the doorstep. It sure made me wonder about the psychology of hoarding though, if a fear of scarcity can start it off.

Recently, I ordered a five dollar bottle of vanilla bubble bath off Amazon and I used it the day it arrived. I put a little bit under the running water when I was getting ready for my nightly soak. “Just a bit, don’t be so indulgent.” Then I told that little voice to shut the hell up and poured in a normal amount because I wanted a normal amount of bubbles. How bizarre that it took me 40 years or so to realize it wasn’t a statement about my character deficiencies to have lots of bubbles in my bath, three dollar face masks, and a house that smells of fir trees and sandalwood for no other reason than I like it.

Anytime is a special occasion, all we have to do is decide it is.

Why can’t my life be filled with special occasions in which I watch the movies I’ve been waiting to watch, eat the foods I’ve wanted to try, listen to the albums I’ve been meaning to, put a little makeup on if I feel like it even if I’m not going anywhere and nobody else is home? Can’t every day have special occasions with copious bubbles in the bath or a glass of wine in front of the fireplace? Why can’t Tuesday be a special occasion? What exactly am I waiting for?

I’m sad for a bunch of us in this part of the world, because I know it’s not just me. How awful that so many of us constantly feel that we haven’t worked hard enough or accomplished enough, that we aren’t worthy of the smallest luxuries so we have to wait for a special occasion. We feel guilty when we want to rest, brainwashed to think we need to be constantly ‘on’ and accessible to everyone at all times, especially our jobs, our and we struggle to turn off. Then we wonder why we’re exhausted, burnt out, sick, and anxious.

Or maybe it’s mostly a woman thing. Either way, it’s complete BS.

It’s time to view my very existence as a special occasion and behave accordingly. It’s just bubbles and scented wax, ffs.

Over the last little while, I’ve realized that being selective about who gets access to us and when, resting, saying no without justification or explanation, and grabbing onto tiny (and rare) bits of joy whenever we find them, are all radically rebellious acts.

I’ve always had a tiny bit of a rebellious streak.