codependency

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I do not agree.

Ever since I got bit by the genealogy bug, I’ve poured over public records, letters, and family photos. Sometimes I run across a photo of me from a younger time. This particular photo was taken for my job as an assistant manager for a fast-food chain (yes, this health nut once worked for the Dark Side).

What do you see what you look at this photo?

In spring of 1979 I left my job as an engineering assistant. In one of my more infamous and embarrassing bridge-burning episodes, I told my boss to shove his job up his ass. It gave me a certain immortality at the company, as I’d said what many others wanted to, but wasn’t helpful for my career trajectory.

The fast-food industry didn’t seem to mind, though, and I enrolled in a management training program. Afterward I moved to a small town where I knew no one. My weekend schedule looked like this: close Friday evening, work all day Saturday, and open for breakfast on Sunday. Not a great gig for a young single woman.

On my nights off, I sat in bars and chatted with other patrons, many of them hard-core alcoholics who, like me, had nothing better to do but nurse our beers. One night I remembered a good-looking bartender I’d met while out with another guy, and I decided to go into his bar.

He intrigued me, with his prematurely gray hair, dark beard, and piercing brown eyes. Better yet, he didn’t charge me for my drinks. Fast food management doesn’t exactly pay the big bucks, so free drinks were a big plus.

He was older than I, more worldly, and he spoke of mysteries as though they were commonplace. He introduced me to Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf. He treated me tenderly…at first.

Then he started threatening to hold me hostage if I tried to get away. He threatened to kill a friend of mine simply for being gay. He ran hot and cold, sometimes treating me like a queen, and other times ignoring me and flirting with other women. He started his day with a couple of beers. He and his friends toyed with black magic.

I didn’t like myself much in those days. When he told me I was horrible, I believed him.

One morning I woke and couldn’t take it anymore. I packed a bag. I closed out my account at the bank. I left town. I didn’t know where I was going, but I no longer felt safe. I even slept with a Bible under my pillow.

I ended up in South Carolina, hiding out with a friend until the money ran out, and then my parents came and drove me back to Illinois, where I stayed with them for a few months. That’s where this photo was taken as I transferred to a store in Peoria.

I’d like to say it got better after that, but it got worse for several years before it got better. I won’t go into it in this post. You get the idea.

I’ve never written this story before. Even now, I am giving a glossed-over version of what happened, because it’s too much for me to bear to expose. Why? Shame, I suppose. Even now, I think I should have known better. I don’t want to admit how lonely and afraid I was, and how I had no one to tell the truth to.

I’m not that scared young woman anymore. When I look at her now, I see how hopeful she is, even though her life is nothing but shards of broken glass and pain. I’m glad she hung in there, because over time she learned to like herself more and to walk away from damaging relationships. It took a long time to get better, but with time, therapy, and a life committed to personal growth, it did.

Maybe sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, but this time, the photo tells you nothing.

If I were to have a mantra for this year, it would be: None of My Business.

It’s hard. We’re wired as humans, and especially as women, to be helpful. And I love to help…too much, I think. Sometimes it takes the form of offering unsolicited advice. Sometimes a person asks for my advice and I give it, rather than asking questions to draw out their solutions rather than mine. Sometimes I jump in with enthusiasm to work on a project or cause before evaluating whether or not it’s a healthy environment for me.

I’m not judging. Honestly, I love the caring part of my nature. It just needs a bit of tweaking, that’s all. It’s hard to watch someone I care about self-destruct or make a poor decision that will have long-term consequences. And yet, much of the best parts of me are a direct result of lessons I learned from my own mistakes, so who am I to judge? It’s one thing to say I care about you and the choices you’re making. It’s another to keep nagging about it.

Just as all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, inappropriate giving makes Jill an exhausted girl. Jill stops doing her own work in favor of helping someone else and gets resentful. Jill finds herself in situations where the people she’s helping haven’t been entirely transparent. And when Jill stops taking artificial stimulants, like caffeine and aspartame, Jill starts to realize just how tired she is. One day she wakes up living in paradise, but feeling depressed and depleted.

I’ve battled fatigue for most of my adult life. Medically, I have adjusted my thyroid and Vitamin D levels. I get plenty of sleep, and I eat well. I shelter my introverted self against the overstimulation of groups. And yet, I still struggle…so I cannot waste energy by helping people who are capable of helping themselves. It serves neither me nor them.

I have books to write. My parents need more help from me these days as they age. I have a garden to grow and crafts to make. If I don’t protect my energy for these projects, who will?

A few days ago someone asked me for advice about a business matter. I offered resources but gently, lovingly refused to engage, because to do so would be, in this instance, to step into the middle of a situation that does not belong to me. I said, this is none of my business. The world didn’t end, and this person thanked me for my thoughtful comments and said she understood. I am empowered.

Giving is great. Giving is fun. Giving is rewarding. I just have to learn when and how to do it in a way that doesn’t deplete me. Some things are just none of my business.