The Power of Nope
I am the oldest of three, leading by four years, and hence, trained to be codependent long before Melody Beattie invented the word. If you are #1 (or the more competent) in your litter, you know what that meant: “Take care of your sibs,” which anointed me head bossy pants. By the magic of birth order, at six I was expected to be capable and patient beyond actual life experience. The fancy word for this is “pseudo-maturity,” whereby the mantle of responsibility is placed on tiny shoulders before wisdom can hold its true weight. A repeated example: you know how the first piece of cake or pie tends to crumble? It was mine, because my sisters would cry. “You’re old enough understand.” I got it. Still do. The message was clear: I can handle difficulties in ways others can’t. And thus, my feelings of hurt or “It’s too much” became unaccepted by my parents, and worse, unknown to me.
My laser focus became to please, protect, and anchor others into calm waters without considering what I might want, or even need. Any functional child born into a dysfunctional family where substances, crisis, or disability is king, must be honed in this way. The resulting strength and capacity are positive attributes. It has certainly served me most of my life. And yet… there is an underbelly herein. All this, “Let me!” stuff is a way to avoid conflict, please others, stay in charge, feel needed, look good. It has felt easier for me to jump in and handle a task, denying others the struggle to learn how to cope better themselves. This has been termed “enabling.” But I’m on a mission to change the concept: to ENable means to increase ability in a person or project. I see now how I was DISabling those around me. To be perfectly pedantic, we are actually ENabling addiction or dysfunction by over-helping. I think this is important, because how we call a thing, defines it. I want to be more ENabling of others’ confidence and willingness to try hard things as the prime intention of my last chapter.
Putting my needs first became nonnegotiable this past late Spring. I got Covid, twice, followed by a laryngitic aftermath, making being available impossible. Searching for ways to say “No,” I recalled an epiphany from 1977 involving two new grad school friends. During an all-night drive in a VW camper, non-stop from Arizona to Berkeley, after a half-day hike up from the Grand Canyon, Chris and I traded shifts. We learned all about each other’s lives, how we were the caregiver siblings in our bent families. About Bakersfield, we hit the wall, and called out to Suzie, asleep in the back, to wake up and take over for a spell. “I can’t. I took out my contacts.” (She didn’t have glasses, really blind.) We tried grumpy insistence, “We’re exhausted. Can’t you put them back in?” With the attitude born of being the second child, and from New Jersey, she loudly responded, “I can’t. I’m too tired. Sorry I’m not perfect!” And with that, she rolled over in her sleeping bag and fell, guilt-free, back to sleep.
Pure stunned admiration flooded us both. “You can DO this? You can just refuse a request and let others handle a problem?” This was the first time I’d witnessed such a clear and honest boundary from someone I admired and trusted. Certainly, no adult in my family would refuse a request: it was childish and selfish. Being trained in the spirit of grace and grit to take the broken piece, delay needs, and to keep driving despite double vision was the marrow in the bones of my character. But, “Never Say No” wasn’t a thing to her. Wow.
A fun fact: until we know something is possible to do, feel, see, and say, it doesn’t exist in our brains. In How Emotions are Made, Lisa Feldman Barrett’s brilliant exploration into feelings, she explains we need to experience sensations while we witness an actual event, to know how to feel—and act—differently. We learn from the examples surrounding us. I had never before been in the presence of a well-considered NOPE.
I am not alone in automatic, unmartyred sacrifice. Many professionals admit they avoid drinking water during the day to limit bathroom time in their busy schedules. A beloved recently delayed a much-needed medical appointment rather than change a work schedule, oblivious to the better choice to get it done, no-harm-no-foul to their clients. Another never-say-no-nik escaped decades of uber-responsibility (called retirement), and instantly focused on how to fill the time with volunteering at their job. We overgive hours at work, and apologize for extra minutes for an errand.
A final anecdote, involving my late husband. In 1978, before he was even on my radar as a possible match, I was writing a giant grant to fund the doctors at a new health clinic. Marshall had been in charge of major hiring and training programs in LA, and he volunteered to go over the requirements, brainstorming how to approach it. Helpful, encouraging, cute. Then in the parking lot, he turned back and asked, “Why is it you are doing all this by yourself?” I glibbed: “Somebody’s gotta do it.” And his smart-ass reply, pointing his finger at me, “That will be on your tombstone,” took him off the possible-boyfriend-list for a while. I’m beginning to see his point. I’m working on it, Honey. I really am.
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