Confessions of a Secret People Pleaser

Shameful confession number 674: I am a secret people pleaser. Now, before you go getting all judgey-judgey on me, I’m confessing to being a secret people pleaser, not being any good at it. My competence and proficiency in the people pleasing arts are an entirely different topic for an entirely different blog. I think the operative word here is secret, since I like to pretend I’m kind of a badass, and I certainly don’t mind going toe to toe with anyone who deserves a thorough verbal lashing. (I have occasionally been known to lash out at those who may not entirely deserve it, a fact I’m compelled to share here because there have been witnesses. Applebee’s waitress, I’m talking to and about you. Little jerk-off in the Chevy Malibu who cut me off in the parking lot at SDSU, you were asking for it and I refuse to apologize. May you never, ever need to come to me for a job) Nonetheless, at my unengaged and chubby core, I am nothing more than a middle-aged people pleaser with codependent tendencies. Thank you, therapy, for providing me an entirely new vocabulary to use as I berate myself for my shortcomings.

Beyond the therapy-inspired lexicon, my time on the couch has also provided me ample opportunities to climb into the Delorean time machine to revisit the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of five year old me and ten year old me and 14 year old me, not to mention the me’s at all the ages in between. As you might imagine, I have limited tolerance for these activities and walks down memory lane because I’m trying to build a better future, not rehash a past that I may not entirely remember. Since I have entrusted my mental health to an actual professional, while I may be resistant to his techniques, I’ve challenged myself to at least give the process a whirl under the heading of, “What doesn’t kill me could make me stronger.” Since I can’t let bygones be bygones, I’m spending more time than any normal and functional adult should revisiting my sordid past.

My earliest memory of people pleasing has nothing to do with actual people. Because why would it? No – my people pleasing actually started out with Muppets, or more specifically, characters on Sesame Street. Back in the 1970’s, things were different on Sesame Street. Mr. Hooper was still alive and serving as the proprietor of Hooper’s Store. And for the first 16 seasons of Sesame Street, only Big Bird could see Aloysius Snuffleupagus, his tusk-less wooly mammoth best friend. In spite of Big Bird’s insistence that Snuffy was real, the grown-ups on Sesame Street refused to believe poor Big Bird and often teased him about his imaginary friend. Even worse, the adults accused Big Bird of using Snuffy as a scapegoat (or would it be a scape-mammoth?) whenever something went wrong out of their immediate line of sight. This injustice was simply more than my four year old self could handle. What the hell was the matter with these grown-ups? Are you blind? Can’t you see the giant teddy bear Snuffy left behind? And why are you being so mean and cruel to Big Bird? He’s just a nice yellow bird with a friendly demeanor and a wooly mammoth BFF. While I looked forward to watching Sesame Street every day, the anxiety and the emotional turmoil of Snuffy-gate was more than I could bear, and if four year old me could have jumped into the television to help Big Bird out, I most certainly would have.

I eventually graduated from Muppets to actual humans, and there are plenty of people-pleasing (or not) examples from ages five to 13 I could and probably will share in the safety and comfort of my therapist’s office, where there is ambient lighting and an ample supply of generic facial tissue. (You’re welcome.) But if we fast-forward to age 14, indulge me for a moment while I tell you yet another people-pleasing doozy.

The year was 1987. The jeans were acid-washed; the jackets were denim; and the hair was big and so full of chemicals that it probably violated every OSHA pollution statute. My style icon was one part Molly Ringwald, circa Pretty in Pink and two parts fat girl who shops at Target. To describe me as uncool would be an understatement. See also, “people pleaser” which included but was not limited to my parents; neighbors; and teachers. I was a good student, I did my homework, I made the honor roll, and I didn’t get into any trouble. I also had precious few friends and was a giant dork, but hey – no one’s perfect, right? I was a freshman at a co-educational and very Catholic high school and with the exception of an incident where I was caught kissing a Jewish boy, I was a complete angel. There is no need for you to consult my mom for input on this. Trust me. I was a damn angel.

In 1987, we didn’t know much about homosexuality. For most of us, our only real education about what it meant to be gay came from Three's Company, which introduced us to gay jokes and living in the closet. We learned that landlords are intolerant of co-educational cohabitation and often exhibit homophobic tendencies, especially if their name is Roper or Furley. My parents didn’t have gay friends and although in hindsight, I think a lesbian couple lived across the alley from us, we didn’t acknowledge it back then. As a kid in a very Catholic high school, the only thing I knew about homosexuality is that it had the word “sex” in it which obviously meant it would send you directly to hell, without passing go and without collecting $200. If you were a homosexual male attending a very Catholic high school in Minneapolis in 1987, you were considered weird – nothing more, nothing less. And you probably kept your gayness to yourself.

1987 was the first time I unwittingly dated a gay guy. It wasn’t the last time and I remained very popular with closeted gay males for the next decade. For most, I was the last girl they dated before deciding to come out already . . . a fact that likely had nothing to do with me but took a toll on my fragile self-esteem nonetheless. I met a lot of parents; attended a lot of family functions; and ultimately learned the importance of a well-defined brow arch. (The secret is waxing and tweezing.) The difference between 1987’s date and those that followed was what motivated my date in the first place.

The homecoming dance was kind of a big deal. As a gigantic nerd, I assumed I would spend the evening at home with my nose in a book and a giant bag of Reese’s pieces at my side. It never even occurred to me that some boy would ask me to the dance. But that’s what happened. His name was Chad and he was what we called weird back in the 80’s. He was that kid with the thick glasses and the high-pitched voice who made everyone roll their eyes when he spoke in class . . . and for reasons unknown to me to this day, he asked me to be his date to the dance. I really, really didn’t want to go with him. If I’m honest, I really didn’t want to go to the dance, period. With my two left feet and Elaine Benes moves, I’m best served in the audience, not on the floor.

Of course, I’d never been asked on a real date before, unless we count riding my bike to meet the forbidden Jewish boy in the park for braces-encumbered kissing sessions. My desire to not spend one-on-one time with Chad was overcome by my desire to not disappoint – and so I said yes to a date I didn’t want to go on, with a boy I could barely tolerate because I’m a people pleaser. I bought a formal dress – but as a gal of a certain size and on a budget, my choices were limited and I ultimately selected what I can only describe as a shimmery, peach-hued bridesmaid dress reject that I paired with clip-on earrings (I eschew extra holes in one’s head) and very, very flat shoes. Think Drew Barrymore as “Josie Grossey” in Never Been Kissed to get a visual.

Because we were 14 years old and also a pair of losers, our parents drove us on our ill-fated date. He took me to dinner at a place that was way, way too hip for me in a neighborhood that was overrun with hipster doofuses even in 1987. I’m sure we talked. I know we ate but all I can remember is feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Eventually, dinner was over and someone’s parents picked us up and deposited us to the dance.

It was a typical high school dance . . . a decorated cafeteria, George Michael, Whitney Houston, and Roxette songs in the background, and gender-segregated gaggles of teenagers in every corner. I can’t speak for what the boys were doing, but in the girls’ corner, we giggled, gossiped and waited for the boys to ask us to dance – because apparently, in 1987, we couldn’t ask a boy ourselves. Eventually, Chad wandered over and asked me to slow dance. Had I not been a people pleaser, I would have given him a hearty “no thanks” and continued on with my evening. Alas, that was not the case.

The song was Atlantic Starr’s, Always, and the dancing was poor. Very poor. It was a lot of shuffle-footed swaying. I tried desperately not to make eye contact with my weird date, and I prayed to every Catholic saint I knew that this night would end quickly and painlessly. They were obviously otherwise occupied because before the song came to an end, I found myself being groped and slobbered on by Chad. Bad touch! Bad touch! I wanted to break his arms, smash his face in, and run as far away as I could as fast as my feet in impractical shoes could take me. But instead of doing any of those things, I merely stood there in all my people-pleasing glory, and waited for it to be over.

I don’t remember much else about that dance – or if I ever even spoke to Chad again. I left our very Catholic high school after freshman year only to return with my tail between my legs as a junior, but by then, Chad was gone and no one ever spoke of him again. It wasn’t until several years later that I realized Chad wasn’t merely a creepy weirdo but rather, a misunderstood gay kid in a very Catholic high school just trying to get by – and he inadvertently chose a girl who didn’t have the word “no” in her vocabulary as his partner in crime.

From Big Bird and Snuffy to the closeted gay boys in a very Catholic high school in the 1980’s to everyone I encounter who is suffering since . . . I’m a secret people pleaser. Worse, I cannot stand to see another human being hurting. A friend once told me that I collected the walking wounded the way little boys collect baseball cards. As I unpack this truth about myself – both inside and outside my therapist’s office – I can’t help but wonder if this is such a bad thing. If I stop being a secret people pleaser, will I still be me?  

© 2016 Princess D.

A Prescription for Change

I’ve been fascinated with caterpillars and butterflies since someone read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to five-year-old me. (And this is the only time that a reference to five year old me doesn’t result in an immediate and brutal beating, so if you’re my therapist reading this, you should take note.) I’m sure I’m not the only kid who stalked furry caterpillars to rehome them in a “mayonnaise jar, with a stick and a leaf, to recreate what they’re used to.” In spite of my loving attempts to provide a warm habitat and a welcoming environment, my caterpillars never magically transformed into anything other than dead caterpillars – but I never, ever gave up hope. I guess I’ve been a closet optimist most of my life.

I’ve been in the midst of my own metamorphosis lo these past few months, which is why you’re enduring the world’s most obvious and heavy-handed metaphor. No, I didn’t relocate to a mostly empty Miracle Whip jar. I haven’t redecorated the palace in a twig motif. (There is still a kitty condo in the living room. Because I’m nothing if not classy as hell.) And after a recent visit to the Minnesota Zoo’s butterfly exhibit with my energetic, musical, adorable four year old nephew, I dusted off my grade school science books and refreshed my memory about how caterpillars become butterflies.

In spite of my diverse liberal arts background, my grasp on basic biology is tenuous at best. I mean, I understand where babies come from, with absolutely no thanks to the archdiocese of Minneapolis and St. Paul, whose idea of sex education consisted of having a celibate Christian Brother show us a series of videos that illustrated the sinfulness of the flesh. (Hell looked really hot and miserable so I decided to stay as far away from any activities that might land me there. I think most of you know how much I hate to sweat.)  Thankfully, my parents armed five year old me (there she is again!) with a copy of Where Did I Come From which is where most of my basic biology knowledge comes from. In more recent years, the hubby and I have become amateur pumpkin growers – a hobby that involves science, plant anatomy, and assisted pumpkin procreation. I did not, however, have a real appreciation of the biology of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly until recently. Better late than never, I guess.

The very hungry caterpillar failed to prepare me for the incredibly violent and traumatic process of metamorphosis. I won’t jump the shark but if you want to learn more, may I suggest a little light internet research? While I didn’t digest myself or release any cool enzymes in my own transformation, there were moments when it felt just as painful and violent, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can tell you that the fundamental difference between a caterpillar and me is that the caterpillar has the self-awareness to know when it’s time to make a change. I was less of a caterpillar and more like the frog who doesn’t realize she’s being slowly boiled alive. Ribbit.

It’s no secret that I’ve been living with depression for several years. My word choice is intentional. I’m not suffering from or struggling with depression. I live with it, the same way I live with my 34 inch inseam, my freckles, and my cat and dog. There are days when I don’t mind living with it and there are days when it’s a giant pain in the ass, but I’m not a victim of my brain chemistry. I am, however, most certainly guilty of hubris.

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been living with depression – partially because I have the superpower of selective memory but mostly because I spent most of my adult life pretending that I was a-okay. I deluded myself into thinking I’d fake it until I made it. If I just worked hard enough and wanted it bad enough, I’d be happy. Depression was something that other people dealt with – not me. I was stronger than that. And my strength would see me through anything.

What no one knew, what no one could see, and what I refused to admit even to myself (except in those exceptionally dark and honest moments that occur at 3 AM) is that I’m no superwoman. I’m not nearly as strong as I pretend to be – not physically (although I can lift the 50 lb. bags of dog chow by myself now), not spiritually, and not emotionally. To admit that it was a daily struggle to get out of bed and face the world would be to admit to a weakness I simply could not face . . . but it was real. And as it turns out, there is a difference between living with depression and pretending you’re just fine. When you’re ignoring your depression, it wraps itself around you like a weighted blanket that you carry everywhere you go. There is a heaviness to your soul that makes weariness your de facto mode. Fatigue doesn’t adequately describe your levels of exhaustion and yet you can’t sleep. You trudge through each day in slow motion, fantasizing about returning home to the safety of your jammies and your bed, thinking that maybe tonight is the night you’ll sleep like a baby. And at 3 AM, you’ll find yourself once again staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell is wrong with you.

That’s depression. Of course, strong women like me don’t have to worry about things like living with depression, right? Smart women don’t get depressed. Depression is problem for other people, not for people like me. And I believed that, wholeheartedly, until about six years ago when I got my ovaries in a twist (figuratively) and a routine doctor’s appointment changed everything.

If you happen to have “girl parts”, you’re well aware that girl parts are a lot like owning a BMW or a fancy car. Upkeep is a full-time job and there is a lot of opportunity for things to go wrong. I’m not really using my girl parts for anything but in spite of that, I recognize the need for routine maintenance. I was about 15 years overdue for the girl parts version of an oil change so in a rare moment of adulting, I scheduled an appointment with the OB/GYN. As we reviewed my health history, my physician told me she was concerned that my ovaries were conspiring against me . . . at least, that’s my interpretation of events. She talked about something called PMDD which is the overachiever’s version of PMS. It’s like premenstrual syndrome on steroids, and no amount of Midol will make it better. I left the doctor’s office with a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription for Prozac, which was supposed to tame the mental health side effects of my rotten ovaries.

I incorporated this little pill into my daily routine and you know what? I started to feel different. Better. Normal. And that should be where this little story ends but of course it’s not. Can you imagine if a diabetic stopped taking their insulin because they felt better? Or if an epileptic stopped taking anti-seizure pills because they haven’t had a seizure in a while? That doesn’t happen because the epileptic and the diabetic are blessed with common sense and do not possess the shocking levels of arrogance that I have.

Sometime last year, my prescription ran out. I was out of refills and the only way to get more Prozac was to visit the doctor again . . . something I really wanted to avoid at all costs. If I’m being honest, the real reason I didn’t want to visit the doctor was because I didn’t want to stand on that big scale of shame in the office while a chunky nurse in rubber-soled clogs loudly told me what I already knew . . . I’ve gained a significant amount of weight in the past 18 months. You don’t burst out of a pair of pants at work – and then staple them back together – when you’re at goal weight. Because I didn’t want to face the scale, I convinced myself that I didn’t need the Prozac anymore.

Now, I’m the first to tell you that Prozac isn’t a miracle pill. I still have low days when I’m properly medicated. But I tend to shower more regularly and spend more time out of my pajamas when I’m taking my meds – and I have fewer highs and lows. I like to say that the Prozac moderates my moods and takes the edges off. And without it, I am left to experience all my moods in their full, Technicolor glory. When combined with my self-proclaimed hall monitor of the world proclivities, an unmedicated Denise means that a lot of unsuspecting people are subject to my wrath. This includes but is not limited to litterbugs; people who don’t recycle; arm rest hogs; that sweaty asshole at the gym who can’t be bothered to wipe down his machine when he’s done; everyone at the damn grocery store; and more.

I had a good unmedicated run over the past nine months – but it was harder than it needed to be. I hit a speedbump that left me very, very low recently and I had to face facts. I’m not stronger than my brain or my ovaries. I can’t outsmart or outrun or “out-strong” depression. I was humbled, and I had a tough choice to make. Do I keep fighting this thing or do I admit that I need help and take the pills again?

Four weeks ago, I renewed my prescription. It felt like a personal failing, but I took the pills anyway. Slowly, I’m beginning to feel like myself again – the version of myself who does get out of bed; who can face the world; and who washes her hair periodically. In fact, just this morning, I looked in the mirror and realized instead of a caterpillar staring back at me, I saw a butterfly, wings and all. Maybe Prozac is more miraculous than I thought . . . .

© 2016 Princess D.