Once long ago—but not so long ago that I could use youth as an excuse—I fell for a brother. Hard. A young physician in London responded to the online profile I had posted on a matchmaking site. Four months and several exorbitant phone bills later, I’d decided that a certain A-line dress was the most flattering cut for bridesmaids. That’s when he stopped calling. I panicked. When I managed to catch him on his cell, he bookended our brief, awkward exchanges with the excuse that hospital rounds left him too exhausted to talk. He promised to visit. He never booked a flight. I FedExed a gift for his birthday. He “forgot” mine. I found a smarmy line from a dating book—“Call it quits if he quits calling”—and Scotch-taped it to my phone. Failed that one, big-time. Any woman not blinded by romance would have viewed this man’s waning attention as a flashing exit sign. But amid protests from my friends, I declared his disregard to be “emotional residue.” I reasoned that his angry alcoholic father and his cheating ex had embittered him. What he needed, I told myself, was a sympathetic ear. I prodded, coddled, advised, affirmed. For every admission of pain I pulled from him, I was ready with the perfect antidote. By May, the romantic slow dance of January had given way to a wild staccato two-step: He revealed. I healed. I should have known better. I’m the second eldest of nine in the motion-picture drama that was my family. In my role as best supporting actress, I was the caregiver, referee, Mama’s little helper, Big Sister on line one. I changed diapers, cornrowed hair, checked homework, filled Cheerios bowls. If childhood taught me my script, adulthood became the stage on which I delivered my lines. I evolved into a crisis manager-on-call who urged others to flee toxic friends and lovers. Which is why it confounded me that when a certain brother with a sexy accent called, my hunger for intimacy (and a compelling fantasy plot) trumped every ounce of good sense I had. At summer’s end, my hard head decided I had to fly to London to discover what my best friend had been telling me since February. This man didn’t need a partner. He needed a prescription for Paxil. In me, he had a girlfriend, therapist, savior. Over tea, we discussed his breakneck schedule, the British economy, terrorism, his family drama. Never once during our three hours together did he ask, “How are you?” After I arrived home, I ended what can’t even be called a romance. I spent six months examining what playing nursemaid had left me too engrossed to notice: Others in my orbit also required emotional resuscitation. At the center was my own need to be nurtured, admired, loved—needed. If Flo Nightingale administers the lifesaving medicine, the English Patient cannot abandon her. I wasn’t born with an extra helping of generosity. I kept others close by taking care of them. Giving Till It Hurts Turns out I have company. When I sent out a message in search of women who give too much, the flood of responses crippled my E-mail. Sisters from Oakland to Atlanta offered stories of overtime worked, church committees chaired, relationships destroyed. We hyperhelpers are described by a slew of titles—people pleasers, compulsive caregivers, codependents, giveaholics. But a pleaser by any name still feels exhausted. On her list of dirtiest words, no is at the top. She wouldn’t call herself a doormat. By contrast, she’s often the achiever, the healer, the leader—the woman more comfortable granting favors than receiving them. |
