Who’s taking care of you?

There’s no “guilt” in self-care

I feel guilty every day I’m not there.

My therapist waits for me to continue, her expression contemplative.

Mom’s been caring for dad for years and instead of helping I use my mental health to justify not being home. It’s selfish, I know. I’m putting myself first.

My therapist finally speaks: You feel guilty you’re not taking care of your dad.

Yes.

But who’s taking care of you?

I look up, surprised first by her question, then my answer. No one.

Who’s taking care of you?

I come from a communal society where, whatever stage you are in life, someone is culturally assigned to care for you. As a child, that burden falls on your parents. As you grow up and form relationships, the burden of your care shifts to your friends and, if you have one, your spouse. Then, when you’re old and decrepit, your children are expected to take up the mantle.

Taking responsibility for a friend in need is common practice. Getting embroiled in a spouse’s family disputes isn’t frowned upon. Ditching everything to care for aging parents is the norm. To the point where a friend with two daughters once told me, in all seriousness, she would keep having children until she had a boy because men take better care of their parents.

At first, I did not question these conventions. Then I learnt about boundaries and now I can’t unsee the absurdity of this set-up where everyone is expected to be responsible for everyone else, but not themselves, never themselves.

She’s abandoned wholesome Thai values in favour of selfish Western ones, is the affliction my Thai elders have undoubtedly diagnosed me with. But the blinders have been lifted and the more boundary violations I observe amongst friends and family, the more entrenched I become in my supposedly Western views.

When you’re a child, of course, you can’t take care of yourself. You need your parents to feed you, clothe you, put a roof over your head, school you in the ways of the world. But surely there must come an age when you develop the ability to care for yourself, to find food, buy clothes, pay rent, refrain from breaking the law.

Why, at the age of 20, 30, 40, or even 50, would you expect your friends or spouse or children to take care of you when you yourself are perfectly able to?

To me, this society-wide expectation that there will always be someone to care for you is a collective abdication of responsibility for yourself. I will not take care of myself because my parents/friend/spouse/child will. Which leads us to ridiculous situations where a 30-year-old expects their mother to do their laundry, a 40-year-old calls their best friend at all hours expecting to be coached through their latest marital spat, a 50-year-old demands to move in with their adult children because they’re lonely.

These are made-up scenarios. But speak to enough of my compatriots and you’ll find the truth in my fiction, this fiction I’ve distanced myself from by becoming an expat, thereby removing myself from the social norms of both my native and adoptive countries.

The norm I advocate, in their place, is this. Provided you’re above the age of 18, 20 if we’re generous, your answer to “Who’s taking care of you?” shouldn’t be, should never, be: my parents/friend/spouse/child. It should be, “No one.”

Scratch that, it should be: “Me.”

No “guilt” in self-care

Do you feel the need to justify taking care of yourself? My therapist asks. I nod weakly. Well you shouldn’t. I hear her next question before she asks it: Why do you need to justify doing something for yourself?

For someone who has wholeheartedly embraced the concept of taking responsibility for myself, I am incredibly inept at not feeling guilty when I actually do it.

I feel guilty when I take an afternoon off work because I feel overwhelmed. I feel guilty when I take a day to myself while my partner is grieving. I feel guilty when I tell my father I’ll only visit him twice a year because more frequent trips home would derail my life.

I feel guilty when I do all of these things. Not crippling, devastating guilt. Just enough to hum unpleasantly in the background and prompt me to always justify putting myself first, and occasionally write a newsletter about it.

But why?

If I accept that I am ultimately responsible for myself, which I do, then why do I struggle to embrace manifestations of that responsibility?

It’s as if I’m wired to be abhorred by doing nice things for myself. Going to a café to read, getting a massage, saying “no” to a work task that doesn’t have to fall on my plate, accepting a free drink from a friend.

Has “self-care” become too much of a buzzword that I automatically respond to it with scepticism? Did my school of thirteen years embed our school motto—serviam, to serve—into my psyche so thoroughly there is no space left for me? Or do I harbour a hatred for myself so secret I only become aware of it in idle moments?

At the end of the day, I have little idea why I am the way I am. But I do know my therapist is right: there is, should be, no “guilt” in self-care.

Taking care of ourselves—whether that means exercising, eating well, or simply getting a hand massage—is the ultimate expression of adulthood. It is us taking responsibility for our well-being and not expecting anyone else—not our parents, our friends, our spouse, our children—to bear the burden of our care.

It is, I believe, the only way to live.

What do you think?

Thus ends my commentary-confession-manifesto for a way of life I’ll defend to my death. Now for this week’s question:

Do you feel guilty putting yourself first?

Do you feel the need to justify self-care in all of its incarnations? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who takes care of themselves unapologetically.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val