originalpersonastarfish

[originalpersonastarfish]

Please, Please You, Oh Yeah

I’m firmly of the opinion that pleasers are made, not born. Pleasers are people who discovered, at some point in their lives, the fearful consequences of not pleasing. Of saying or doing the wrong thing, or failing to say or do the right thing.

When you’re a pleaser, landmines are everywhere.

I became a pleaser early in life—at around the age of 3—and I’ve been laboring prodigiously to please as many people as I can as often as possible ever since. I keep my antennae up, constantly testing the air for vibrations of displeasure. It’s exhausting, but so far, I haven’t managed to relax my guard, despite knowing there’s actually no pleasing people who expect you to try, and people who don’t expect you to try grow tired under the constant pressure of your unrelenting efforts to please them anyway.

The impulse to please that I’m talking about isn’t so much that healthy desire to do nice things for people just because, as it is a desperate fear of arousing the pleasee’s anger, and/or a backwards-facing plea to be, if not loved, at least liked, all the while convinced you’re unworthy. Oh, the irony! To understand, clearly, that as the Good Book says—and I’m paraphrasing here—you can’t buy love, and yet find yourself constantly shopping anyway.

As a pleaser, you understand, at least on a rational level, that in this context, your imagination is your worst enemy. A single inkling that you may have stepped wrong, and off your imagination gallops with a herd of catastrophic consequences, each worse than the one before it.

To be found wanting, or worse to displease, or worst of all, to arouse anger, these are portents of the pleaser’s apocalypse. Imagine spending all night—or all week—agonizing over something you said or did. You’re jittery and breathless, your stomach ties itself in greasy knots. You ghost restlessly from room to room, moaning, “Why didn’t I say that?” or “Why in the hell did I do that?” Maybe you try to fix it. Whether you take remedial action or not, you’re strung high and tight until, a) you realize the sky hasn’t actually fallen and is unlikely to do so, given the time that has passed; or b) your pleasee either forgives you or fails to notice your gaff entirely (by far the most common occurrence).

A word to those of you fortunate enough to understand and believe that you are sufficient, in and of yourself: Pleasers get that in theory, but we never really get that, having been taught otherwise somewhere along the line. Let me repeat that: at some time—probably many times—someone—usually several someones—let us know we weren’t enough, and they let us know in no uncertain, often traumatic terms.

So, for us, the need to please isn’t a decision, it’s knee jerk, hard-learned, deeply entrenched, almost involuntary. Wrongheaded or not, it’s a survival instinct. Resisting the urge is fraught. Fearsome and deeply uncomfortable. Personally speaking, I manage to resist, occasionally, and I’m slowly getting better at it. But resistance is never achieved without considerable psychic cost.

Hello, my name is Kathy, and I’m a pleaser. All I ask is that you afford the pleasers among you the same encouragement and support you’d offer anyone struggling to overcome an addiction or a victim of post-traumatic stress. (Which is often what we are, and I say that without exaggeration.) Oh, and thank you for your patience thus far, frayed though it may be.

#pleaser #pleasingothers

[originalpersonastarfish]

Mirror, Mirror

It’s ironic that at an age when I’m finally beginning to feel at home in my skin, I feel like a stranger in my face. Or maybe it’s my face that feels like the stranger.

I’ve never been prone to gerascophobia (from the Greek γηράσκω, gerasko, "I grow old" and φόβος, phobos, "fear"), mostly because I don’t care much about my age. I don’t “admit” how old I am, because to admit something connotes reluctance. I’m not reluctant, I’m an open book. If you ask me (sometimes even if you don’t), I’ll tell you: I’m 69.

And although I spent a lot of years—oh, who am I kidding?—I’ve spent decades fretting about some aspect of me or another, I’m finally moving beyond that. Not that I don’t occasionally backslide, but by in large, I yam what I yam. Whatever and whoever that may be.

I’m not as clear on that as I once was, and that’s a good thing. I don’t miss those invisible labels figuratively stuck to my forehead (by myself and others). Once upon a time, I believed I needed that kind of shorthand to explain myself to myself and others, but as years rolled by, I realized those descriptors were more like prison bars than anything else, and who wants to live in a cage that stunts your growth and limits your freedom to just be, for God’s sake?

But while I’m not afraid of aging, it’s fairly obvious and completely understandable that I am thinking about it more at this stage. About what it means and what it looks like and how to do it gracefully and mindfully.

I just get bewildered by the juxtaposition between the inner me and the outer me. It can be jarring. Because, I kid you not, I don’t feel 69 on the inside. I’m probably stuck somewhere around 40 (except I don’t have menopause to dread, because, oh yeah! I already paid those dues.)

I still love to learn. I love to read well-written history and escapist novels. I love to dance, and I don’t particularly care who’s watching. I like ponytails and nail polish and pie with ice cream. I go hiking (when I can talk the kids into taking me). I write pretty good books and pretty bad poetry and sing along with Elvis Costello.

I roll right along until I see my own reflection.

Even then, it kind of depends on what’s doing the reflecting. The mirrors in my bathroom and on my bedroom vanity are fairly kind. Yes, they show me signs of aging, but they don’t rub my nose in it. But if someone takes a photo and doesn’t get the angle quite right? If I take a selfie or attend a Zoom-something or send a Marco Polo message to my friend MaryAnn?

Yikes! There’s that face. That alien, impossibly wrinkled face, lips wreathed in accordion folds, skin creeping toward thin and translucent, eyelids a little on the crepe-y side.

I’m going to be brutally honest with you here: It always comes as a shock, and it can be very hard to take.

I’m not talking about vanity. I don’t experience a sudden, panicky desire to run to Ulta for $50 wrinkle cream or the full Bare Minerals suite.

I’m talking about a reality check. It’s harsh. I just sort of go ... Oh. My. God.

But I’m not content to stay there.

I want to be able to be comfortable in that face. Exactly as it is. Twenty years from now (please, God), I want to be comfortable in whatever face it is then. One day, when I see my reflection, I hope I’ll be at peace with the strange face in the mirror. I hope to accept and love that face, age spots and wrinkles and all.

#aging agingwell aginggracefully

[originalpersonastarfish]

Why I Hate Autumn

You hear our latter years described as the winter of life. That makes no sense to me. By winter, everything is already dead. Bones and sticks, dry, bare, and brittle. Winter is the end, the long, dark night.

The autumn of your life? That’s a description I can get behind.

But I struggle with autumn (the season, not the metaphor). Not the dead leaves, so much. They’re kind of pretty (when I’m not raking). It’s the quality of light. It scrapes and chafes. Autumn sunlight is tarnished, like old brass. It’s a dying light.

It makes me itch.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of dying. At least, I don’t believe I am. Not since I realized, for real, that everybody does it. Every single body ... dies. Death is a completely natural part of living.

No, I can’t explain why that cheerful little chocolate drop of obviousness comforts me. It just does. (Weird, yeah?) Maybe because . . . what? “I’m not alone?” If you figure it out, drop me a line.

Sorry, I digress. Getting back to the season .... Autumn sunlight? Well, it’s unsettling. Irritating. Like a reminder I really don’t need. It makes me cranky.

It makes me wonder how I keep the reality of getting old from overwhelming the carefree chick who’s gonna carpe the bejeezus out of this diem. How do I stay on the bright side when my body is beginning to talk trash and even the sunlight goes geriatric?

Is there a book about this? How to Age Realistically but Optimistically? I’ve read pointers online. You know: “Take up a new hobby.” (I have, photography.) “Learn to play an instrument.” (I am, ukulele.) But it’s not like any of those ideas speak to the heart of the matter: “How to approach the end of your life without morbidly thinking about the end of your life because you don’t really know when that might be and hell it might be another thirty years even if the bod is unraveling so you might as well deal with the bladder problems and high cholesterol and live it up anyway.”

Part of the problem may be that my younger and middle years were no picnic (or even really bad takeout). As a result, my heart isn’t naturally inclined toward light and gay. But I’m still here, damn it. Still working on the light and gay. Been working on the light and gay for decades, and, to be honest, working on it wears me out every now and then. Maybe that’s why I hate autumn? Because autumn light is tired, and every now and then so am I?

It’s not like I can talk to the kids about this. (If I could spend quality time with them, which I can’t right now. Thanks, COVID.) Who wants to sit around and listen to Mom wax poetic about the ol’ clock winding down? Just how many reminders of where the will is filed can any kid take?

Somebody help me out here? I obviously need a perspective correction. A mantra. Something more constructive than, “Get a grip,” or “Just don’t think about it.” (Denial is not just a river in Egypt.)

At this point, I’d even settle for a secret handshake letting me know someone else is a member of the Getting Old and Crazy Club.

Damn you, autumn. This curmudgeonly kvetch is all your fault. Once again, your decrepit, old-gold sunlight is screwing with my psyche. Even if it is raining today.

#aging #aginggracefully #death #end of life