Recovering from Dysfunction (Pt. 4)…
“If you’re happy, we’re happy.” – Codependency.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I don’t know if I believe in hell, but I do know that I am surely going there if it exists.
Codependence is described as excessive attachment and need for approval from others as a condition for one’s own happiness. I have already explained how I believed my needs were null and I’ve mentioned the excessive compliance I showed to “more important” people (basically, everyone). It is an understatement to say that I have had low self-esteem most of my life – it would be more accurate to say I have had no self-esteem. I have had no Self to esteem.
To say I was merely codependent is incorrect – I basically considered myself a servant, existing only to do what other people wanted me to do. It was just the way life went, and I accepted it. I honestly believed I was being helpful – boosting the egos of those around me, making them feel important, letting them have their way, validating their self-worth.
When I admit I was an accomplished liar, I must also admit that I often lied to people about what I thought of them. I truly did not believe that I had the right to decide who was in my life. If people were around me, that’s what was meant to be. If they were disgusting to me, I chided myself and compensated by trying to find things about them that didn’t irk me. If they hurt me, I made excuses about how I caused their anger and forgave them entirely. I believed I was showing love to them by allowing them to continue their behaviors.
I expected people to hurt me, but I forgave them beforehand because I believed they were just making themselves happy and I was a tool to help them. I thought I was doing a good thing: false encouragement and fallacious compliments were extremely easy to dole out, and my pain didn’t mean anything anyway since I could easily retreat into my mind. They should get to do whatever they wanted to, and that was that. As a bonus, people would be happy and nobody would be angry at me.
I lied to people every day, because that was what I thought I had to and was supposed to do to maintain their happiness. I compromised myself to an extreme degree to avoid rejection or anger from others.
“No” was not a word I knew how to use – I felt guilty for imagining that my wishes should be considered. Even when I did have enough courage to say No, I was ignored or overridden. I did not express opinions or thoughts or emotions unless I altered them so they could be acceptable or unoffensive. I made life-altering decisions based on how pleased other people would be; no consideration for myself was taken because I was not a factor.
So, I got married because someone asked. I never thought anyone would want to marry me, so I wanted to make him happy and be whatever/whoever he wanted. Life was easy – I was safe from harm and all I had to do were the things a “good wife is supposed to do”. I already knew from my religious upbringing that a wife should “cleave to and obey her husband”, so that’s what I did.
If my new husband had anything critical to say about anything that was “mine” (art, books, music), I did whatever I had to so that he had nothing to critique. I tossed most pictures from my school years, threw away yearbooks and cds and clothes he didn’t like. I stopped playing music entirely and threw out any songs I’d written that he didn’t like. I stopped making art unless it was specifically for him. I didn’t go anywhere unless he wanted to go. I stopped writing. I stopped wearing skirts because he said men would look at me if I wore them. I cut out all friends other than him. I stopped making myself available to family members. He knew all my computer passwords and read all of my online and email correspondence because no privacy is necessary when “two become one”. (Besides, he’d already been doing that for awhile before we ever got married, so it wasn’t a big deal.)
We argued sometimes about stupid stuff: whether or not I should say a little old man was ‘cute’, whether or not we were in the same generation; but he never hit me or called me names. If anything, I was the one with the potential to be abusive, as he liked to remind me, because I became angry and pushed him out of a doorway one time when we were arguing and he was intentionally blocking my path so I couldn’t leave the bedroom.
Overall, I was just grateful that I had a safe life and I didn’t even have to DO anything. As long as he was happy, we were happy.
Basically, I sat in our little apartment and played video games, watched tv, or read all day while doing chores on a schedule. He would come home from work, and then after dinner we’d watch shows or play video games late into the night. I left the house alone only to shop or pay bills. And, so life went on for awhile. I was thankful because I finally had an easy life.
The first child came along when I was 20. Life continued on in much the same manner, except that playing with the child replaced the video games during the day. I wasn’t particularly happy or unhappy – at least I wasn’t getting hurt or required to subject myself to humiliating situations anymore. My life was just a life, and I accepted it. And despite our differences and his jealous tendencies, my husband really was a good friend and we had a lot of fun times.
At some point, I began to look at life in a different way: the future of my child was completely dependent upon the mediocre income from an unpleasant and unstable job held by my husband. Additionally, I realized how much I hated the apartment we lived in – a crappy duplex with loud and obnoxious neighbors who would bang on the walls anytime we made any normal noise they could hear.
I hated the town we lived in – the same town I’d wasted time going to high school in. The people in the town have always been relatively unfriendly to me because I’m different (thus, scary). The weather was atrocious – I hate hot weather and that place was sweltering hot 10+ months of the year – and we only had an aged swamp cooler to rely on for relief. I suffered from incessant allergies that no medicine could ease because that particular area has some of the poorest air quality in the entire country.
To top it off, some stray cat that had been dumped upon us had 7 kittens who contracted fleas. Since insects love to bite me, specifically, I was covered in flea bites despite the fact that I spent most of my time trying to get rid of the fleas and even took to wearing flea collars on my ankles. I don’t particularly like cats and we could barely afford to feed them, but my husband wanted to keep them, so we did. I was inconsolably miserable.
When I became pregnant with the second child, I knew I did not want to continue that life in that awful place in those appalling conditions. The only options were for my husband to get a different job so we could move to a slightly-less-crappy apartment in the same town, or for me to do something. I decided to get a nursing license so I could get a good job and get us out of that hell-hole for good. So, at age 21, I re-enrolled in the college I’d gone to as a teenager, using my past credits to get into a nursing program geared toward mental health.
I dedicated myself to that nursing program: I kept excellent attendance, got top grades, gave exceptional patient care and was considered an outstanding student. As this was a mental health program, I learned much about mental illness, psychological and pathological conditions and I learned much about myself and my family of birth. The world and my perspective of it started to make more sense to me. I started to make more sense to me. I started to gain confidence and started to feel like I was accomplishing something good. I was motivated and actually able to concentrate on my courses because they were interesting to me.
I began to research towns in the surrounding states where I’d be able to work as a mental health nurse or counselor. I decided upon one particular area far to the north that I wanted to move to and made that my goal. I was very focused on that goal, maintaining my motivation by finding as much information as I could about the new town, and even taking a trip up there during a holiday break.
At age 22, and about halfway through the program, I gave birth to my second child. The program had a rule that only 2 days could be missed before the student was put on deferral for a semester, and I’d be damned if childbirth would delay my progress to gtfo of that town. The baby was born on Wednesday morning, and I was back in class on Friday morning. Nothing could hold me back.
One day, I stumbled upon a very emotional reminder that I was living a false life. While on a part of the campus I rarely went to, I looked up and directly into the eyes of the fellow I’d loved in my youth. I felt that strong connection and overwhelming love. I wanted to go to him and hug him and never leave him again. In extreme duress, I decided to deal with it in the best way I could to ensure the success of my little family: denial. I turned and walked away, even though he called after me. I ignored him, deleted all related emotions, and pretended not to notice.
Finally, at age 23, I graduated with top honors, got my nursing license, and worked at the local state hospital. My plan was to work there just long enough to save the funds to move and live on for a few months while I looked for work in the new area.
While procuring documents that would allow me to move, I again stumbled upon the eyes of he who sees my soul. Again, I had to face the reality of my false life. Again, I ran away and ignored him. I refused to let this affect me, though I had more trouble subduing the emotions this time, so I forcibly put the experience aside and charged on with my plan.
When I’d earned enough money, we packed up our good stuff, trashed the crappy stuff, and set out for our new home. I think I may have spit at the old apartment as we left. We had already procured a new apartment in the new city and so we immediately made a new comfort zone for ourselves. Though I couldn’t use my specialized nursing license, I quickly got two low-level caregiver jobs and my husband enrolled in a technical school. We spent a lot of time exploring our new world and exclaiming over how we couldn’t believe we actually lived here. (I still live in the same area because it is really quite beautiful and a nice place to live.)
Things were going well and the future looked bright. At some point after we settled into a routine, though, the realization about my fake life truly hit me. I started to feel despair and hopelessness for myself, because I finally understood that I had entrapped myself in a lie of epic proportions: I was married because I’d agreed to get legally married, not because I actually wanted to be.
I realized, finally, the gravity of my choice to marry my beloved friend with the intent and belief to “fall in love” – I couldn’t “make” myself feel romantic love just because I thought I should feel romantic love.
I struggled greatly, trying to find a balance between my true feelings and the knowledge that I was “supposed” to feel a different way. I knew that if I admitted my true feelings, my little family would suffer. Eventually, I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, so I boxed up those thoughts and stored them in the dark recesses of my mind.
After a few months, I became frustrated at working a job I was extremely over-qualified for. I went back to school to get a new degree in a creative field. At age 24, I quit my healthcare job and ventured out into the work world as a web developer and small business owner. I felt (and feel) true satisfaction as an entrepreneur. Life was increasingly pleasant as long as I didn’t consider my emotions. Thus, a couple of years passed.
Then, I crashed. Hard. As I’ve said, I generally have a low mood – I am emotionally neutral but more easily irritated than pleased. I have a hard time discerning internal emotional reactions because I automatically quell them. This is not something I used to even recognize, so when I fell into a depression, I was completely lost. I was crying every day (I rarely cry at all) and confused and didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to face life, I felt like I should be dead and that everyone else’s lives would be better if I were dead. I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. All this because I realized the truth: I couldn’t pretend anymore.
The life I’d built was false. On the surface, things were perfect because I pretended they were perfect. I had been holding up this “good wife” persona because I didn’t know what else to do. It was the only thing I knew how to do.
More accurately, I was afraid to admit my failure and the true depths of my deceit. I struggled on, trying to convince myself that I could be that person I was supposed to be, that I didn’t have to pretend because I could force myself to have the feelings I knew I was supposed to have.
In this time of turmoil, I became pregnant with the third child.
Finally, after struggling for an additional six months, I realized that I needed to do something radical to change myself. I had no appetite – I only ate because I was pregnant. I had no motivation – I only worked because we needed money. I had no will to live – I was only alive because my children needed me, and I was having trouble even enjoying my time with them. I did not want that third little one to be born to a mother who could not love him properly.
I knew then that there was no other choice: I had to change.
Finally, I decided to visit a counselor. Finally, I decided to try depression medication. Finally, I admitted the truth and decided to live the truth, though it was not what other people wanted.
Finally, at the age of 26, I decided to become Me.
There begins the current phase of my life: Recovering from Dysfunction.