If people don't like me, I will be alone. And if I am alone and people don't like me, do I matter? Do I hold any worth? Will I be forgotten?
The plight of the People Pleaser is well-known and vastly experienced. All my life I just wanted the kids to like me. I wanted to go to the elusive birthday party. I wanted to play the game. I wanted to be picked as a project partner. I wanted her to like-like me back. When you're a smart kid working alone, a better athlete picked last, a nice kid avoided at lunch, and all rational ways to make friends exhausted, a desperation exudes through people pleasing.
Who cares if it makes sense or is fair or is right or honors myself? I'll do the thing. I'll say the stuff. I'll feel weird for you. Please just like me.
Boundaries break down when you need people to like you. Your own comfort runs secondary to achieving attention in hopes someone will remember you, and in that remembrance think to invite you to play Counter-Strike at Computer World. I laughed off terrible insults. I endured physical discomfort. I took punches. I accepted being tied to a chair while the other boys pulled my pants down and well I don't remember all the details. Please fucking like me.
Fuck. That hurts to remember.
Sticking up for myself often didn't work. In fact, I'd end up suspended for doing so. Post-Columbine, you had to keep an eye on the potential school shooter instead of taking care of the bullies who put him on your radar in the first place. My boundaries, I systematically discovered, did not really matter. Or worse, they were wrong.
This was supposed to be a happier post in tone because I did the boundaries thing last night. After a whirlwind evening of threesome activity with multiple rounds, some marijuana, and a healthy dose of vibe music, I sat on a couch watching a woman yet again fuck her husband of 20 years with a big smile on my face and chemical reactions soothing my skin. And I realized I wanted to sleep in my own bed that night. Not because something got weird or I was turned off or there was an emergency. I thought how nice it would feel to drive a couple of hours back home, plop onto my own bed in my awesome new apartment at 3am, passing out to the mindblowing reality that is my life. I slept smiling.
After a quick snuggle as the night wound down, I told this lovely lady I was going to roll out (assuring her and her husband absolutely nothing was the matter, in fact, quite the contrary). Now, I know she was expecting me to spend the night. I know she was hoping to fuck me one or two more times in the morning. I know she liked providing me an incredibly nice, luscious room in her fancy hotel suite. I knew her wants and hopes.
I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I wanted to sleep alone from the night I'd had. I wanted to wake up in Brooklyn. So, I did. Because I wanted to. Because I knew it was going to make me even happier about what had happened.
I felt terrified to not ask but share what I was going to do. I slept better because of it.
And I awoke to a sweet text message from a fully-fucked mother of two. They don't hate me. It's okay. And if they did? I'd still get on alright doing what's best for Billy.