The People Pleasing Saga

I am a people pleaser. I lie to make you feel good. I apologize for taking up space. 

To do things together feels tricky because it means working with others. It means wanting them to believe I like them, so they will like me. This often translates to how can I drop everything to solve their problems and be available. I realize that it does create lasting connections, but since I was a child, I have thought that if I "do enough" people will acknowledge me as a somebody.

So the alternative to fooling you is deciding what I want and showing up as me. I choose not take on your burdens so you will like me. I will pray and help, but not be consumed by my impulse to fix it. I want to find what matters to both of us and share it with you. It means believing others are honest in choosing to be my friend, so we can be ourselves together.

The work of being "good enough" or not embarrassing myself too badly is hard. I look at anyone and see the ten things they have that I don't. I wonder why I can't get my kids outfits coordinated, do my hair, carry the right snacks and instantly engage you about something you have done or care about. 

I even went through Dale Carnage's 12 week program on Winning Friends and Influencing people and it backfired. It taught me how to get people to talk, but not me how to speak. My goal today is to stop and listen to what I want so I can relax. I will tell my guests my schedule, my family members what I can commit to, and overall let go of the conflicts within myself.  If I want to hang out at home all day, I can declare my plan with confidence. 

Further, my stretch for this week is to deal with the anxiety of working with a therapist. The conflict is between seeking change or attempting to make her feel good. To pretend I am "bad enough" to justify her time. To do what I think she wants in order for her to feel good. And my pattern continues. 

How do I break this habit? Decide to say what I want to myself before entering the scene. Then I don't have to live in dissonance when I am around you. 

God, help me to speak my heart so I can experience real relationships.

Passive Characters

As I begin to write about my middle aged woman living in NYC,  I have to force her to act! The word on the writer's street is that no one is interested in passive characters. A deeper question this morning is if people are interested in passive people, i.e. myself? The best fictional example of a passive character is Muriel's mother in the movie Muriel's Wedding. This woman is flat, large, and does not react to anything happening around her, even her husband's affair. We keep watching because the tension of the story is that something big is going to happen to change her and are not disappointed. When feeling like a nothing to her own daughter pushes her over the edge, we see her finally wake up and respond.

When I think about my own life, I find that action is the most energizing thing to contemplate. I love to run and talk about running. I love to relay what is happening in my kids brains and with their friends around our Co-housing neighborhood (always dramatic). I love to write. The act of pen to paper gives voice to what I care about, on days I am not stuck behind a Muriel's Mom complex of ennui or thoughts that I am powerless to choose my own adventure.

So it is Friday morning and I have two hours to write about anything. I wonder what my characters want? What they must go through to frustrate the hell out of all of us to the point that we jump out of our beds in the morning to respond to what our dreams tell us need our attention.

My dreams were about transvestite clowns running around an apartment complex while a camera followed them in hopes of capturing humor. Nothing funny was happening which created a lot of tension for the audience, i.e. me.

My morning conflict is this, pray that I can stay in bed for as long as I want or respond to the yells of my one year old in his crib saying, "Ma ma ma ma ma," on repeat from six thirty am on. [Special note here: If you ever want to come to my house and take my kids at 6:30 am, I will do almost anything in return!] Do I write about this character who ignores a baby for her sleep? I think my answer is to let her snooze for 5 minutes, scream in her head about the competing screams, then get up and respond. The action could be drinking the coffee, burning the grass in the backyard, running around our little road two times like it is the last chance you will ever get, and then snuggling all my guys and letting them into the spaces that make me come alive.

I would like to take my love of great conversations, good dark chocolate cocoa and tickle wars and combine them with a ten mile run in the woods or a sensual story I will write down later. To push the insert button and let those moments override my house chores and grocery trips to prepare for a house full of guests. I want to be the freedom girl who welcomes strangers, lets them rummage through her cluttered closets, without apologizing. I want to sweep out the passive work of solving everyone's problems and being the proper friend so I can freely "chew on pomegranate seeds" for ten minutes without caring that I am different.

Facing Off

I can't help wondering why we are so averse to pain or death, after watching a crazy scene from a movie recently.

Here is my version of the scene:
A man stands, six foot seven on a roof top, wet with rain, pointing a hand sized gun at the eight year old girl.
Girl: "Will it hurt a lot."
Man: "Just for a second."
Girl: "Ok, I'm ready."
Man: "Now brace yourself. One, two, three," POW! (shoots gun)
The girl flies backwards and hits the cement, disappearing from view.
The night is silence for several seconds.
Then the girl hops up and says, "That wasn't so bad." She pulls open her sweater to look at the bullet imbedded in the black vest.
Man: "So only two more times and we will get burgers at Five Guys and Fries."
Girl: "Okay, but I want a shake with that."
Man: "It's a deal."

***
The scenario haunts me. I watch and fear for the little girls life. A child not aware of death and a man who actually shoots her. I wince at the idea of death. My real fear, however is believing I am worthless. The gun pointing at my head is my vision of what everyone else is thinking about me. The bullet will knock me over with a "Don't take up any more of my air." I wonder if people notice my eyes flying down, left, my limbs bracing for a fall. The worst thing that could happen, would be losing God's eyes locked on mine; his attending to me with a soft smile on his face.

I just read a great novel by Margo Raab called Cures for Heartbreak and in it, the main girl loses her mom at fifteen and regularly worries about her dad's heart disease. She wonders what to do while alone, beyond reading romance novel and dreaming about real love. She meets a few boys who act interested without knowing anything about her, leaving her suspicious of men. Each time she interacts with a hot guy, she tells herself they are not interested in her. At one point there is a "good one" that comes along and invites her into his space. I chuckle at my own desire for them to be together, because it never gets old. It is the fantasy of a relationship where they can say anything and be accepted.  

There are two places that I can relax, journaling and running. Alone, I don't have to wonder what I have done to cause them to be happy or sad and what I need to do to fix them. That game is exhausting. I can't change others, especially, when I don't take care of myself.

As I anticipate this, I become the little eight year old girl locking eyes with you. I say, "reject me." I fall backwards and rest for ten seconds and then stand up and say, "ok again," until I no longer duck at your potential to see me and can listen to the voices that wants our best.

Editing A Life

I attended a local writing conference this weekend to find inspiration in the process. What the leader of my workshop, Margo Rabb and others seemed to repeat most was, there is no easy way in or out of the process. It is all hard! Without saying anything about the choice in being a writer, someone who knows my tendency to quit after a given amount of time, recently encouraged me to stick with it.

Stephen King's definition of a writer is, "She who shuts the door." This idea comes back to me this week as I think kick my fists against the table, because I said yes to everything except my writing time. My best friend writes daily and when I talk to her, I hear the rich calm, that comes with congruence between action and belief.

I find myself wanting to be like her or Margo Raab or any number of committed writers, who have a novel under their belt. I think, maybe if I write something profound, people will stop and say, "I want to know her." This idea moves me away from sharing my stories and stuck in the pursuit of get people's approval.

I read an article by David Mills entitled, "Overcoming 'Self-Esteem': Why our compulsive drive for 'self-esteem' is anxiety-provoking, socially inhibiting, and self-sabotaging." The writer spends several pages explaining why action based self-worth creates high stakes and performance based mood-swings. His answer is that if you eliminate ratings you can observe the world honestly and live freely.

So I sit here observing the world in hopes that I can enjoy this moment. I can play the role of me as me, let you be you as you, without any pressure to be anything more than that. As Bridget Jone's man says it, "I like you just the way you are," or said another way, "I like me that way too, sweaty armpits, wild fly aways in my hair and fictional shorts with titles like "Intercourse" and "Gonorrhea" that I may never be brave enough to let anyone read.

Alzheimers

My teacher, Deborah Bayer wrote the most beautiful Reader Response for The Sun Magazine on the theme, Rites of Passage.  I hope everyone will read it. It is about her mother finding joy in a duck flying, as if she is a child and she ends with, "suddenly her condition seemed less like a downward spiral and more like a coming full circle." I am Inspired by her beautiful connection with loving her mother's joy in her altered state. Here is a story I wrote about what my mom might be thinking as she battled with dementia.

Cutting “Mom” Hair
(Note: This is a fictional story based on a visit I had with my mom, where we cut her hair and she ended up falling out of bed in the night, which we discovered because her head was bloody in the morning.)

            I feel someone pulling my arms. I can’t see the faces in the light box [TV], against the wall.  Hands touch my shoulder. I hear, “mom.” I squint. I crinkle to move the smudged glasses that hide my eyes.

            I am lifting. Where am I going?  I look to the light in the ceiling but it hurts. I sit in a hard chair with a table at my chest.  Am going to be fed a slushed salad? A small hand grabs my pants. I move it off. What is it?

            I listen to sounds. “Mom. . . mom. . . mom. . .”, “hair,” and “eyes” and “love.” What? Blurry blue eyes look in. I feel warm air on my cheek. I try to shift away. A cloth tucks in my neck. Fingers move my head. I raise my shoulders. Zips and pulls and hands.  Dust falls. Get up! I lift my head and shoulders forward. I am pushed down. Is Lou [husband] rubbing my shoulders? Now the touch is gone.  

            A dark haired girl has sharp pokes in her fingers. I know what she is doing.  Remember how to say it. I touch my head. She keeps moving. Read letters in front of eyes, “B. .ee .E. tt. . T. s. . S. . ..” An eye is close to me, looking.

“Yes. . . me,” it says.

            More noises, words, “down,” “do this. . .” More dust falling. I rub it into the sticky crinkles of my neck and keep my shoulders up. Itchy.

            “Mom.” What say? “look . . . nice.” Little person is running away.

I am lifted. Wet?  Cold air. I want to move. Stand. The weight is there pushing me down.

More hands and wet. I shut my eyes. My shirt is catching on my head, pulling me into the dark inside and then naked. Water on my neck. Hands touch my shoulders. Cold.  Shiver. Bat the arms away. Hands rub face. Look at eyes. Who are you? I let my shoulders fall, eyes close.

            

***

In dark. I hear the sound of “mom” over and over and know I am mom. The voice is high and scared.  The eyes tears when I sing . . .”Jesus love me” and I say, “yes.” I want those blurry eyes, want to say, “Betsy.”

Where is she? Move forward, pull arms to the surface. My legs lumber, weighing on the sheets. “Betsy, I know. I remember.” Where do I find you?

***

Noises and fuzzes at the TV box. The faces close in on me and the little person hops. There is excitement. Fingers poke. “blood. . . wet. . hands?” I relax and hear “found. . . floor. . . mom.” You heard me and came back. It is you. I slouch back, letting people fuss with my arms.  My feet lift and hands cradle them. They swish my toes in circles. I close my eyes and breathe the smell of fresh shampoo.