As a kid I developed many a survival skill that came in handy when things were stressful: being quiet during family conflict as to not make things worse, making jokes when things were tense, or just being a general chameleon in all situations. Complaining or needing things just seemed to exacerbate the stress and push people into making me feel guilty, so I began stuffing down my feelings and resorting to very sexy behavior like passive aggression and dissociation into fantasy worlds to escape. I used to pretend I was Kelly Bundy from Married . . . with Children, which eventually went from fantasy to reality, leading to some unfortunate wardrobe choices, burnt eyeballs from dousing myself with Aqua Net, and at least one rolled ankle.
In my nascent years I learned all sorts of maladaptive skills, one of which was how to anticipate someone else’s needs. I became an expert at walking on literal and figurative eggshells because I also found out that cooking for people made them like you, so I started doing that at an early age. This may sound sad, but if I may find a silver lining, being able to say you can poach an egg really rounds out the ole Match.com profile.
This all coalesced into my becoming an adult (I use that term loosely) who spent a tremendous amount of time taking care of other people and trying to be helpful, then resenting the people I helped. My vocabulary was littered with “I gotta” and “I have to.” Again, I’m sure it seems like the honorable or polite thing to do, to attend someone’s birthday or baby shower or whatever, but the underlying vibe was that of obligation, and often it felt like a chore. I literally looked at most social invitations the same way I looked at a jury duty summons.
As a codependent, I mastered the art of giving my energy away. Before I got a handle on this nasty beast, I was always exhausted. My days were booked solid with work and social obligations, chores, errands, things I thought I “had” to do. Even social events were depleting because I’d go out of obligation and I’d spend most of my time figuring out how to be useful. I was always the chump who would spend the whole party listening to someone else’s problems for two hours while everyone else was doing shots. Mind you, these were problems that no one actually wanted to solve; they just wanted to blather on about them ad nauseam. I call such people “time vampires” because they suck you into their problems and don’t actually want a solution to said problems. Oh, and the “problems” usually involve “drama” with guys named Tad or Jake.
And if I wasn’t in the corner of a party trying to help people figure out if they should get a divorce or giving them phone numbers to doctors, I didn’t really know what to do with myself, so I’d be in the kitchen cleaning up. I truly thought I was being nice, but chances are I came off as annoying and micromanagey. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the only thing worse than asking a woman her age in front of a group of people is going into her kitchen without her very explicitly asking you to do so. If you storm into another woman’s kitchen without her consent, you might as well just have sex with her husband while you’re at it; then after you’re done, ask her how old she is in front of him. Then tweet it.
Aside from all the aforementioned lunacy, my codependence also made me kind of grating. I was the person who was so socially anxious that I’d be hovering over you at a party, offering you water or a drink as if you were terminally ill. I was the one giving you an extravagant gift that frankly you didn’t deserve, which ended up making you feel awkward and guilty for not getting me one. Some of my codependent pals call this being “pathologically thoughtful.” We care about people to the point of smothering them and making them uncomfortable. I was like a crackhead, fiending for connection and purpose so that I could feel useful, helpful, pretty, alive . . . anything but self-aware. I was an addict and being needed was my drug.
My point is that a “fun night out” always ended with me being some stranger’s therapist, doctor, mother, godmother, dermatologist, or janitor. I could never leave a party without three phone numbers of time vampires so we could be “besties.” I’m not a statistician, but I’m almost positive I’ve gotten more phone numbers of kooky girls than Stephen Dorff got at Playboy Mansion parties in the nineties. The problem is that I was literally hoarding friends. Even though I had an abundance of amazing friends that I already didn’t have time for, I still continued to add to my contact list anyway, creating an unsustainable number of friendships I could never possibly nurture in a healthy way. Since I’ve been in codependence therapy, it’s clear that today I’m at capacity and have no business taking on new friends. No vacancy, no new friend applications for now. Sorry to disappoint you, but to take on a new pal, I need someone in my circle to either go on a six-month silent retreat, move to a city without Internet, or vape when we’re in public together, which would mean immediate excommunication from said circle.
My codependence drove me to be kind of a compulsive friend-aholic. My codependence told me that I had to be friends with everyone. I needed everyone to be obsessed with me. And if someone didn’t want to be friends with me? Oh, girl, I’m comin’ for ya. You shall be mine. If you didn’t fall in love with me immediately, that just meant I would work even harder for your approval. I’d shape-shift into what you needed me to be: funnier, quieter, shorter. You read that right. I have worn flats around people shorter than me so they didn’t have to feel insecure about their height.
Once I became friends with someone, it wasn’t really about girl talk or having fun, it was about entrenching. We couldn’t just be pals, we had to be intertwined like all the classic duos: Thelma and Louise, Sid and Nancy, Cocaine and Rehab. I realize this may sound very predatory, but when you’re codependent, attaching to needy people comes very naturally because that’s how you derive your self-worth and meaning. I didn’t really know who I was unless I was rescuing someone or helping people with their problems, both real and imagined.
I think my addiction to energy suckers must also have been a way of dissociating so I didn’t have to look inward at myself and my own shortcomings. Focusing on other people’s problems meant I didn’t have to look at myself in the mirror. When you’re so consumed with other people’s issues, you don’t have time to look at your own. I mean, Googling myself is one thing, but looking at my flaws? Pass.