Coffee Clash
Twenty years ago, I was a poster child for codependency. After decades of peeling back my layers, I discovered what they now call relationship attachment issues.
It’s uncomfortable to reflect on that girl, the one who desperately controlled her family and friends. That control was all I had to hold onto after my brother overdosed, and my family sank under their grief while pretending to breathe.
My frenzied need to connect with people felt wrong, fueled by a desperate desire to ensure friendships remained intact and invitations came my way, but I didn’t yet understand codependency. It turns out I depended on other people to validate me, my worthiness. That showed up in me as FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), control and micro-managing. More layers.
For me it looked like managing my teenage kids’ calendars and dictating “the plan” for social events to our circle of friends, constantly confirming everyone was on board. I relaxed when I knew people intended to show up—people I loved who unwittingly provided me a shield from my self.
I’m a planner by nature; I don’t mind that about myself, it’s often helpful to a group. But the scene I’m about to describe was next level, an unhealthy attempt to control.
One day I shared my vision of an upcoming event with a close mom friend in the middle of our local bustling coffee shop during the morning school-car-pool-rush. We were surrounded by lots of familiar faces gathered from our small Hallmark-like community.
As I sipped my Café Mocha and stood to leave, I announced my pre-formulated plan to Shelly—who stood two tables over. “When we go to see Paul Young speak, let’s get there at 5:15 and get seats in the right, front section of the auditorium; you’ll sit next to me and our husbands can be next, then we’ll save four more seats for the other couples joining us.” I smiled, pleased with my organizational savvy.
“Don’t micro-manage me,” Shelly commanded as she looked me in the eye.
The coffee shop silenced, everyone waiting to see my response.
I jerked back, then somehow stammered, “Oh, sorry, I just…” My face grew hot. Sweat beaded under my arms.
Just what? I wondered years later when the embarrassing scene haunted me. I just need to know the plan and that we’re all in agreement for me to relax and be at peace?
After the sting wore off, I realized Shelly was right—my neediness was not her problem. (Another layer I later uncovered is that my mom had also died around that time.)
I’ll never know if she intended her harsh delivery, but it no longer matters. She did me a favor that morning. I learned a lesson I’ll never forget. That instance was one of many that steered me on the path to recovery.
Soon after, I began identifying my issues, admitting my denial. My frantic need to control people pushed them away, the exact opposite of what I wanted.
The first step toward recovery is admission.
For the next fifteen or so years I focused on time with God, yoga and therapy, all which shed insight on the childhood behaviors that had formed in me when my brother and his addiction drew all the household attention, like a bug zapper in a backyard on a hot summer night. If I was good and managed my life well—received good grades, didn’t get into trouble—my parents noticed me, too.
Introducing: Liz, the Manager.
Maybe you’ve been there? Showing up for people, planning things, being helpful?
Once I recognized my enabling and people-pleasing tendencies, and especially my need to control, I slowly inched forward—day by day—into a healthier version of me. Today I still stop and consider my responses and catch myself in old patterns of behavior when I notice I’m corralling my friends or adult kids and they rightly resist.
A lifetime of habits isn’t erased overnight. We’re all a work in progress. It starts with admission, then we can recognize patterns and begin inching forward, peeling back one layer at a time.