Like many, I’ve been working from home since March and cranking out communications for my health care organization employer amid a pandemic. Long hours but lots of meaningful work!
This whole time, I shuffled between my couch and an old $50 fashion chair intended for no more than 10 minutes of cradling your tush. When my employer announced that we will be working remotely until well into 2021, I declared it was time to invest in a proper home-office chair. My back was always hurting and, as a coworker pointed out, if you’re sitting on your couch, something’s wrong with your desk chair.
I recently bought the perfect new office chair but couldn’t let myself enjoy it until I kicked out the guilt and used affirmations to remind myself that I deserve a nice chair. Here’s how to use affirmations in your life to change your destructive adult child of an alcoholic (ACoA) thinking.
Let me share the story of this chair because it led to an important ACoA lesson. To internet I went, and learned more than I want to know about desk ergonomics. How are we all still alive with our terrible workspace setups??!! After that research, I concluded that the best chair for me is Herman Miller’s Aeron chair, which is widely regarded as one of the greatest office chairs ever made. I could get it at the right size for my body and it is extremely adjustable for a highly-custom fit. But the price tag is more than $1,000, which sent me into a laughing fest like the time I was in a Boston boutique and saw a holey t-shirt priced at $6,000.
As I shared in this video about money management, I rarely splurge on things for myself. In this case, I knew my cheapo chair was affecting my back, but $1,000? C’mon. Surely, I could find a chair that’s also good but more reasonably priced. I searched, and read hundreds of reviews, but couldn’t find a chair that felt right enough. Days passed, and every time I sat on the fashion chair, or relocated to the couch, I fantasized about the Aeron chair.
On video calls with colleagues, I studied their chairs and spotted the top brands. Is that a Steelcase chair? Why, yes, it is. In the recent vice-presidential debate, I noted that the moderator’s chair was none other than Aeron, the greatest chair ever designed. Alas, I figured I would go through life mildly obsessed with the Aeron chair but never actually own one myself.
Then the universe went to work. Turns out there is a Herman Miller discount through my employer, but the discount didn’t bring the price down enough. Then my employer gave an unexpected, small appreciation bonus to all employees, which would cover a large chunk of my Aeron bill. But Herman Miller couldn’t ship the chair until December any way, I reminded myself, but in an inquiry about another, cheaper chair, the Herman Miller rep said, “We can ship an Aeron to you in two weeks, Jody!”
My ACoA thinking tried to stop me from getting the chair.
The universe wanted me to have that chair! Everyone wanted me to have that chair.
I was out of reasons Aeron couldn’t be mine, so I clicked the Buy button and quickly walked away from my computer and ignored the confirmation email alert. I knew that if I waited any longer, I would find another reason not to go for it – and my adult child of an alcoholic brain is stubborn!
This chair will be the fanciest thing I own, I announced to coworkers who chuckled at my extreme enthusiasm over an office chair. Nearly all had splurged on something for their home office, or something for themselves through the pandemic – massages, new TVs, etc. – because, well, we’ve all been working like crazy! An office chair, they commented, wasn’t exactly what most people would consider a splurge. It was practical, and it has a 12-year warranty.
Then, my ACoA thinking tried to prevent me from enjoying the chair.
But remorse slapped me in the face within 48 hours of my purchase. Who the heck do I think I am? I bought a $1K office chair. To use as I work at my $75 Ikea desk. As I scarfed Cheerios the next morning, I crafted the perfectly polite, explanatory email to the Herman Miller rep to cancel the order, but I deleted it. I didn’t want Herman Miller to regret extending the discount to my employer, and, well, I did this, and I needed to accept responsibility for my irresponsibility.
Plus, now my purchase was a thing at work. Colleagues sent gifs and inquiries about the chair’s arrival in the days leading up to the delivery date. They wanted to know all about it – and they were smiling when they asked. My chair obsession spread a little laughter during a time in which we really need it.
Two days early, a delivery truck appeared in front of my house and I wondered what would happen if I opened the door and told the delivery man my order was all a pandemic haze-induced mistake and could he please return it? But I didn’t want to inconvenience him. Hi. ACoA people pleaser here; that’s a separate topic.
The chair shipped fully assembled, which was another major selling point for me, and the ginormous box, which took up half of my front porch, sat out there until my meetings were done for the day. Then I dragged the box inside, and found a home for it in the corner of my living room. There it sat for the next three days because opening it meant Aeron was a permanent purchase, even though my credit card had already been charged. Then, the inquiries arrived.
Friend via text: Did your chair arrive?
Me: Yes, it’s been sitting in my living room all week.
Friend: What? Open it!
Me: I will.
Friend: You’ve been waiting for it for weeks!
Me: I know.
Adult children of alcoholics do many things that confuse the people who care about them, and this is a great example.
So, I opened the box, and rolled out beautiful Aeron. Indeed, it was everything I knew it would be: a work of art, high quality and extraordinarily comfortable. Every time I slid my communication-manager butt into the curved mesh, I appreciated the comfort and unsuccessfully shooed away guilt.
In the 11 years I’ve been on this journey to heal from the effects of my mother’s alcoholism, I still learn something new about myself constantly.
I stopped my ACoA thinking, so that I could enjoy the amazing chair I deserve.
After a few days of having the chair in my life, I got sick of that lingering guilt that prevented me from fully enjoying it. I wondered: Why did I have these bizarre feelings about my amazing office chair? I work hard, and I deserve a high-quality chair. It wasn’t like I had made a hasty decision! The research was over the top!
Clearly, I determined, it’s all tied to my Adult Child of an Alcoholic Syndrome. My ACoA brain works differently. Deep down, I did not believe I deserved a nice chair, even though I’m a grownup lady who works really hard and can afford to buy it. It’s the way of thinking that was programmed when I was a little girl. I learned to think that all good things will be taken away, that something bad is always around the corner and that I am not worthy of nice things. Goodness gracious. How ridiculous, but totally normal.
How to stop your ACoA thinking through affirmations
When this old ACoA way of thinking arrives out of nowhere, I deal with it using one of the many tools I’ve picked up on my journey. In this chair situation, I knew a few affirmations would help. BTW, I used to think that affirmations were so cheesy and Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy-ish. But they’re powerful. They really are.
For a few days, every time I walked by the chair, or sat in it, I said this aloud: I am an author. I am a professional communicator. I deserve a great chair like this one so that I can write and do my job in a healthy way.
Now I love my darn Aeron chair, and I’m so grateful for it.
Adult children of alcoholics or anyone who experienced dysfunctional relationships in their lives may also have this challenge of feeling unworthy of good experiences and good things. Never underestimate the power of positive statements in the form of affirmations. Same them out loud. Write them down. Repeat.
Seriously, it sounds hokey and weird – and at first, you’ll feel super awkward about it. But this stuff works. It does.
In case you need to hear it today from someone other than yourself: YOU DESERVE GREAT THINGS.
Yes, that’s in all caps, because if we were standing together in person, I’d practically shout that at you and cause a scene.
Wishing you the best on your journey.
