Everyone Won’t Like You And That’s Not a Bad Thing
By Wickham Boyle
Perhaps it was just being the oldest child of an alcoholic father and a suicidal mother. Or my crazy dyslexic brain that seems to reverse and skew things, giving even simple information a remarkably weird twist. But whatever it was — nature, nurture, or lack of it — I grew into a woman who was hell-bent to please people. Most especially I wanted to win over and please those who disdained or actually abhorred me.
I would attempt to befriend the rabid dog, the unrideable horse, the bitchy debutante, the narcissistic man. I dated those too-handsome unavailable guys, their brothers, or my married boss. I had to be the good sport. I had to be easy to get because at root I didn’t believe I had any real value other than my endless ability to put out, move furniture, clear the table, clean up messes, do anything.
I tried to win over people who did not like me or my style (too raucous, overly exuberant, wisecracking, occasionally phony) or who had enough friends. It didn’t matter; I had to be the most popular class mother, new worker, or gym partner. If I didn’t win the whole world over as active members of my fan club, I was a loser.
This was the all too sad truth until, miraculously, I slid into middle age. I had weathered a scandal, left an abusive relationship, won child-custody battles, lost jobs, gained weight, found true love, and was on a constant trek toward elevating myself and my kids to a better consciousness. In Buddhist terms I was on a path and looking for rays of enlightenment to leak into my murky mind. One of the truths I needed to embrace was what my friend Abigail screamed at me one day over the phone:
“Everyone won’t like you. You need to junk some of the ideas you have. Your ex is never going to say a kind word to you. The same goes for your brother and maybe some of your neighbors. If people behave as if they don’t like you, back the fuck up. Do not keep going full force delivering muffin baskets to serial killers.”
Okay, Abigail, I think I hear you.
Yet there are still times when I catch myself sucking up to the rude neighbor, the woman who dismisses my every salutation until she wants help finding a parking space. I watch my mind do little gymnastic flips as it considers placing a phone call to my ex to offer a tidbit about the children’s success. Then I remember the painful rebukes that only recently spewed from his mouth. Every time I call, speak to him, or send an e-mail, the response is vitriolic and toxic. But I seem not to learn.
Banish the negative, I tell myself. Don’t move toward the enemy. When I see someone on the street who has clearly relayed that he or she is not among my fan base, I now stop myself from hollering a big cheery hello. The deflating lack of response used to send me into a tizzy of sadness. No more of that, thank you.
Yet I still occasionally volunteer for committees I have no interest in, I see me smile and offer, I watch as I listen and nod when what I need is to run back home and write. I yearn to have the calm self-worth that allows me to say: “Margaret doesn’t like me and I am fine with that.” Instead, too often there is a fantasy scenario of how I save poor Maggie from a fire, carrying her children to safety, with Wicki embraced and lauded at day’s end amidst torrents of tears and thanks.
Get on with things, girl. You have made some egregious mistakes. You have been an occasional bitch, betrayed people, or fabricated. You did it. Oh, I could tell you about the battered-woman syndrome and all the literature on children of alcoholics, but no one needs this.
What we need is some suck-it-up honesty. Yeah, I did wrong, I made rotten choices, but I have decided to flip the script and take the high road; I still have half my life left. As my father-in-law used to say over and over: “Nothing beats a failure like a try.” And so I try. Now that I’m at the halfway mark, I’ve decided to enjoy the sensation of being accepted for who I am, warts, scars, big heart, humor, and all. All that I am. It feels good.
