“I love him so much - so much - that I want to - to become him!”
I delivered this line with unbridled enthusiasm when I played 17-year-old Maggie Enright in Brian Friel’s touching, serio-comic play Lovers.
Twenty years later, an intuitive counselor warned me about my pattern of going so far into people and their feelings that I lose myself and “become them.”
“But becoming someone worked for me as an actress.”
*counselor smiles politely*
Uhhh, in case you missed it, Miss Showbiz, her point was that you’re boundaryless, unaware of where the other person ends and you begin. You’re empathizing in the extreme, managing and taking responsibility for the feelings of everyone around you.
YES, I GUESS I MISSED IT, ALL YOU SMARTY-PANTS OUT THERE.
I must have missed it because... Three weeks ago, halfway through a Zoom meeting with someone I’ll call an anonymous professional (for this post), I sensed a subtle shift in their demeanor.
So what did I do?
(Uh-huh, you got it. How ever did you know?)
I shifted, too.
They’re uncomfortable with my answer.
Walk it back.
They’re preoccupied and not really interested in what I have to say.
Keep quiet and smile.
They’re pushing their agenda and feeling frustrated trying to get your full cooperation.
Pretend to go along with the program.
They’re feeling a little tense.
Crack a joke.
Whew! When the meeting was over, I sat down and cried. Yep. Cried. A full-on ugly cry. Big ole crocodile tears. I was flummoxed.
WHAT THE HELL WAS ALL THAT? ???????
A better question might have been: What in the hell was I doing?
What I’ve been doing for most of my life: going so far into another human being that I abandon myself.
Growing up with domestic violence ensured I had an “enmeshed” relationship with my parents. (Enmeshment is a dysfunctional dynamic where the boundaries between people are blurred or non-existent.) Is there a bigger boundary breaker than physical abuse? Once someone is allowed to cross the line and violate your body, nothing is off limits. That was definitely true in my parents’ case. In our house, once abuse entered the picture it was anything goes from then on.
I watched while personal items, many with sentimental value to the owner, were damaged or destroyed during angry outbursts by their partner. As a teen, I was invited to observe one parent rifling through the other’s belongings (a cringe-worthy memory for me). Being told that one parent signed the other parent’s name to a legal document without their knowledge was too much information for me. I saw too much and knew too much. None of this belonged in my young world.
With my mom, dad, and I it was “I am you and you are me and we are we.” (No wonder I started in seventh grade planning my ultimate independence, a move to New York City after age 18.)
“We” meant entangled emotions: Feeling a little crazy? Me too! A little depressed? Me too! Out of control? I can slam a door, too!
“We” meant adopting another person’s ideas as your own.
“We” meant I was the third adult in the house.
“We” loved each other, but that wasn’t enough to save us.
We needed boundaries.
The word boundary wasn’t part of my vocabulary until I was 35 years old, and a licensed marriage and family therapist suggested I draw a line in the sand with a few people —and pronto! Apparently, I had dragged the thoughts, feelings, and beliefs of a whole cast of characters from my life right into the therapy room with me.
After several sessions with her, I finally understood my problem (one of them, anyway). But as Werner Erhard (EST - Erhard Seminars Training) preached way back in the day, “Understanding is the booby prize.” Yes, and I’ve been the unlucky winner over and over again.
You see, I’m not so good at the action part of resolving a problem. I understand the issue—all sides, up and down, inside out—and can talk about it ‘til the cows come home (and we know those cows take their time). But doing? I wimp out. Unless... I get really fired up—as in mad.
Like after college graduation, when I took a job with my father’s friend and found out months later that Dad was paying my salary the whole time.
After this revelation, I quit (got another job in one day), and my dad and I didn’t speak for several months.
Or when an ex-boyfriend conveniently exited a local train at a stop right down the street from my apartment at about 9 p.m. and called, saying he could walk on over.
“No” found its way into my vocabulary that night.
Or the time someone neglected to tell me they signed me up (paid and everything) for a weekly class I had no interest in, and expected me to attend!
Me: “Get your money back.”
My late best friend always marveled at the fact that people feel free to plan events or make decisions for me. He constantly asked, “Why do they do this to you?”
“Because they can???” was my best guess.
Today, I see it’s because my door is always open. I never learned that it’s okay to shut it, even lock it once in a while.
These people aren’t necessarily “wrong” (except for maybe the ex-boyfriend—ex-boyfriends should always stay on the train!!!). Some are disrespectful, but I think most are trying to help rather than hurt me.
But still, when I’m walking back honest answers, staying quiet with a pasted-on smile, pretending to agree when I don’t, and turning into Jerry Seinfeld every time I sense a little tension, I shouldn’t be shocked when folks don’t take into account my wishes and needs. I’m not doing it, so why should they?
Having empathy and compassion for others is a good thing. But what about ourselves? Shouldn’t we show ourselves the same kindness, patience, and understanding we extend to everyone else?
I’m not surprised the Zoom meeting brought on the dreaded ugly cry. Whether this person was dismissive of me, or not (and they kinda were), I was dismissive of myself. Where was my empathy for me? I had valid ideas. I had concerns. I had questions I needed answered but never asked because “I” slid away from me and into “them.”
My tears were understandable. We should all cry when we abandon ourselves, because we matter.
It’s late in the game for me, change-wise. But better late than never, I guess. The good news is, I’m aware.
Now, if I can just get really fired up again.
*This post was originally published on Substack.