I Know, I’m Trying

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I’m trying to learn not to fix people, or rather, I’m trying to learn that people don’t want to be fixed. I’m trying not to solve people’s problems before they realize there’s an issue. I’m trying to let people walk face first into their mistakes and then trying not to lecture them when they’re still trying to get off the floor. It doesn’t matter how obvious the problem is, it doesn’t matter how simple the solution could be. People don’t want to be fixed. They don’t want to be told what they’re doing wrong by some outsider who’s just a little too good at watching people and seeing the patterns play out. I know this, and yet…

It should be so easy to stay out of other people’s business, but the way my brain works, the way I process the world, I can tell how people will behave just by watching them move through their environment. I build a map of their behavior, layering in first impressions, the things they say, how their actions compare to their stated values, what their emotional reactions look like, and how they joke. Within a week of working with or talking to someone, I generally have a pretty good map and know what pitfalls to watch for as I interact with people. I know who constantly needs to talk to feel heard, I know who needs complete silence to focus, I know whose communication style doesn’t convey emotion well, and I also know who isn’t worth wasting my energy on. That means I can see it coming when one person’s behavior is going to set someone else off. I know when conflict is rolling in, a storm blowing in on the horizon, with plenty of time to duck for cover. Where once I would have warned someone, would have told them where all their unresolved issues are going to clash with someone else’s, would have tried to stop that storm from coming at all, I’ve been trying to shut the fuck up.

We all know that people don’t change, not usually, not unless they’re motivated to do so. It takes a wake-up call, a tragedy, a moment of self-awareness to drive people away from what’s comfortable and toward what might be better. Sometimes it requires hitting rock bottom, though the depth of that hole varies. Sometimes one moment can snap things into focus. Either way, I can’t force people to see what I do and actually address it. I can’t make people see that there’s a better, healthier, or less painful way of doing things possible. I can’t make people have the moment I did when I woke up to blood spray on the wall and in my hair. I can’t show them how much better their situations could be with the slightest of shifts.

I know all of that, and I still have to bite my tongue when I hear people communicating in ways that are more destructive than useful. It still takes everything in me not to tell people that maybe a passive aggressive email isn’t a battle worth fighting. I still want to tell my co-workers that they aren’t going to change the defensive manager who thinks her department does no wrong or the paralegal who resents that she isn’t in charge, that they’re better off changing their reaction to those people than they are raging about the injustice of another message in their inbox with a tone that smirks on the page.

I don’t say it, though, because I can hear that I wouldn’t be taking my own advice if I did. I know that I can’t tell my friends that they’re better off changing their reaction than trying to change other people, because if I did, I would be doing exactly what I’m advising against. I don’t say it because if I were capable of doing that, if I were capable of leaving people to their own devices, I wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. I don’t say it because I know it’s hurtful and invasive. I know that I shouldn’t be able to see the things I do or know people with the depth that I do just by watching them. I know that the skills I’ve developed to survive my childhood make me something of a voyeur into everyone else’s lives, regardless of whether I want to be.

I am trying not to people please my way into being everyone’s therapist. I’m trying not to be the kind of person who constantly gives unwanted advice. I’m trying to prove that I can learn my lesson and not position myself as a doormat constantly underfoot. I know that I can’t expect to stay friends with people I’m constantly criticizing on a molecular level. I know how easy it is to weaponize my read on other people. I know that my watching and knowing is only helpful when it’s wanted and requested, and that otherwise I’m only opening myself up to resentment and blame.

I’ve learned that in most cases, the only way to improve a situation is to work on myself and find a way to be less reactive, and I’m trying so hard to do just that. I survived the manipulation and retaliation that came with my fawn trauma response the first time, but it took with it every ounce of energy I had for my passions and for maintaining my own health. I tried to help horrible people make the best possible decisions in the mess they’d made for themselves and then was blamed when they weren’t happy, when being kinder and communicating more directly was hard and painful, when being honest with themselves meant losing what was easy. I know better now, but god is it hard to watch people hurt each other, to watch them decide to behave in ways counter to their own interests and say nothing.

Even knowing why my brain operates this way hasn’t stopped temptation from presenting itself. I know it’s all just the fawn trauma response on overdrive, trying to keep people happy or at least on an even keel to keep myself safe from their eruptions. I know that it feels dangerous to me when people are angry, even if cognitively I’m certain they’d never hurt me, that adults don’t hit each other just because they’re having a bad day. I know that my brain is just trying to protect itself the only way it knows how. I know that my instinct to hold space for people and allow them to tell me things that will only add to the map of their behavior keeps me safer from them in the long run, while creating a false sense of intimacy on their end that will eventually blow up in my face.

I also know that none of that is necessary. I know that I’m reacting from a long history of trauma, and that the people around me are not going to physically attack me or yell at me just because their personal life is out of control. It doesn’t feel like that, though. Every time I watch people pushing each other’s buttons, continuing arguments best put to bed, refusing to communicate clearly, a bolt of panic runs through me. It’s as if the anger of everyone around me can manifest itself into an entity that will follow me around, menacing, until I fix the situation and make everyone happy again.

Knowing it isn’t true doesn’t solve the problem. The only thing that can is to allow myself to be anxious and soothe myself the way I would a child who’s catastrophizing. I have to let myself be uncomfortable over and over again until the traumatized part of me starts to understand that I am not in danger, and that it’s safe to let people make bad decisions that will end in unnecessary conflict.

Until it sinks in, though, I’m going to have to spend a lot of time convincing the scared, small part of myself that I’m not in danger. I have to keep letting people hurt each other, have to keep watching adults behave like middle schoolers, have to bite my tongue and let the chips fall where they may.

I’m getting better at it. I’m learning to put my headphones on instead of humoring every thought of every person who wanders into my office. I’m learning to put my comfort and my productivity before other peoples’ desire to talk to someone they previously knew as a safe dumping ground. I’ve told people no, ended conversations, withheld advice and commentary. I’m learning that I don’t need to see and hear everyone to be safe. Sometimes I can just do my job, listen to my podcasts, and go home without taking any real risk.

While it’s still hard, while I still struggle to maintain the appropriate distance, I will say that I feel more like myself for the effort. The person I am is starting to peek out from the defenses that have become so claustrophobic, and I like the person who’s emerging. It may not be perfect, but it is freeing, and that’s a start.

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