Competent

A performance review

Webster’s definition of “competent:” having requisite or adequate ability or qualities: FIT

My definition of “competent:” A word I’ve never applied to myself.

If you spend 20 or 30 years in deep depression, not really understanding what the world wants from you, or how to meet those needs with the faulty understanding you have, the last word you apply to yourself is “competent.”

Or “capable.”

Webster’s, again: having attributes...required for performance or accomplishment; Having or showing general efficiency and ability

Imagine my surprise when I stood in my apartment, two days after knee surgery, and realized I had done a very competent job of prepping for this event. And I was truly surprised by my choice of that word.

I foolishly delayed this surgery for about six years. I’ve had bad experiences with hospitals, and have had to lean very heavily on my sister for support as a result. She didn’t mind; in fact she volunteered, and has always been generous with her time and energy.

But I minded. Oh, god, i hated to ask for her help, or anyone else’s. And it wasn’t until this week, after the surgery, after thinking about the writing I’ve done here on substack, that I realized my fear of dependency was built upon my fear of exposure - of being seen for the inept person I feared myself to be.

I’ve written about my very strong sense of privacy, particularly in the refuge of my own home. I’ve written about the exhaustion of trying to maintain some form of “normal.” And even though she knows about my bipolar disorder, even though my siblings have a tradition of helping each other in times of illness - the idea of letting someone - anyone - into my environment, especially when I am ill and at my weakest, just flattened me. And I didn’t know why; couldn’t explain it to my kind and generous sister. My reluctance must have appeared as a massive lack of trust in her, when of course my problem was a lack of trust in me.

What to do?

Without any foresight or organizational plan, I began to identify areas where I’d need help during my recovery, and I began problem-solving.

Concerns about independent dressing resolved into a pile of soft, loose clothing I could pull over my head. I stacked a week’s worth in a basket by my bed. I made a pile of books of varying levels of difficulty so I’d have something to read at whatever level pain meds allowed, and picked up streaming subscriptions in case reading was impossible.

I found long-handled tools that would allow me to tend to the cat’s needs.

I cooked easily twenty meals and stuffed the freezer. Just before surgery I bought fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh milk, deli meat for sandwiches, knowing I wouldn’t want heavy meals at first. I even made a vat of potato salad. I stashed various kinds of sweet and salty snacks around the house, and filled a fruit bowl. I washed and stemmed a couple of pounds of grapes, knowing them for the good little thirst-quenchers they are. And I cleaned the apartment for a full week, knowing I needed the physical and mental distraction from worry in the days leading up to the surgery as much as I needed a clean, orderly environment in which to recover.

A few days after the surgery, I looked around and realized - I hadn’t missed a trick. My apartment was provided with everything I needed, and almost everything I wanted. I had taken care of myself, addressed every question about surgery and recovery, and no unmet needs have popped up.

I was astonished, stunned, because, maybe for the first time in my adult life, I felt, yes, competent. It felt incredibly good.

And the by-product is that, having eliminated all the annoying tasks my sister would have otherwise ended up with, I don’t feel bad about asking her to drive me to the doctor, or stop at the pharmacy, or help me move a heavy chair - the very few things I really need help with.

It was only after I’d written the first draft of this article that I was hit with another thunderbolt. In working on this preparation - this project - I had, informally and completely without knowledge or intent, applied the skills I used in my working life as a systems analyst. I identified problems and developed solutions. I built timelines that scheduled tasks in the order in which they needed to be performed. Had I intentionally used this approach, I think I would have stumbled over my own fears.

If I could - and did - use these skills almost naturally - they must have been here all along. I must have had them, and used them, in the years before I burned myself up in job stress and repeated bipolar episodes. Maybe - maybe - I was competent then, and not just the hopeless muddle I’ve come to believe I was. Lots of pondering to do here; have I found a perception of myself that has been out of focus for years?

That unexpected word, “competent,” arising without warning from my recovery plan, has opened a new view, a new window to myself.

I can be competent. I’ve proved it to myself.

What a gift!