Hug Me and Love Me

If you have followed my posts over the last several days you'll know that I have been pondering how I will be remembered in the future, IF I will be remembered, and considering the exercise of designing my own funeral and eulogy as mentioned by my brother-in-law. (It's no different sitting across the table from me--I go on a dozen unrelated tangents, but I always come around). Anyway,...

The point of the eulogy exercise is to establish goals, to define the kind of person I want to become and then take steps to develop into that person--not because I want people to say nice things about me at my wake, but because it's the right thing to do. Because I'm not a soulless creature who only thinks about the next meal. Because I'm not a cat whose only goal is to chase the yarn ball. Because when Jesus meets me at The Gate, I don't want to be accused of squandering.

But the fact is, a eulogy is a collection of nice things people might say about me at my wake, and for someone like me, using that as a basis for character development is a baaad idea.

I am somewhat affirmation starved and have been since the age of consciousness, growing up in an unaffectionate home with little sense of approval coming from anywhere but a sister now and then. When I was just six or seven, my thoughts centered on "hug me and love me." I have a clear memory of being six and running to my mother. I hugged her tightly because I had just run across her freshly mopped floor, and I was afraid she would spank me. She did not hug me back but instead peeled my arms off her waist and pushed me away. That moment pretty much defined my early childhood.

In the jumbled up adolescent-girl-world, the plea became "let me sit at your lunch table and love me." Between those nasty little cheerleader types, the smart snobby types, and the girls with boyfriends, I was quite often without a lunch mate. I spent a good number of lunch hours sitting in the hallway outside the band room mastering the art of being melancholy, reading something useless like a Clark Gable biography and waiting for Don Clark to walk by so I could pretend not to notice him.

I have said earlier that I was well-behaved growing up, and I was for the most part, fearing a swift back hand to the cheek. But I dated some true treasures--Good God, that's a tale for another day, or not. In retrospect, it's clear that each loser boyfriend was a search for acceptance--let me tell ya, hoping for a confidence boost from the greasy guy who runs the Tilt-A-Whirl at The Enchanted Forest will leave you wanting. "Ruin my hopes for a bright future with any sense of dignity AT ALL and love me."

In adulthood, I can see the same driving need--to please people and to be affirmed by them based on my performance--being played out in almost everything I do. I can throw some darn good dinner parties. "Like my food and love me." I play in an orchestra. "Approve of my music and love me." I spend a lot of waking hours designing book covers and brochures. "Like my work and love me."

I have a people-pleasing disorder. The Make People Happy for Strokes Disorder. MPHSD. And I have spent the last few years trying to overcome it. At this stage in my character development, I think a more appropriate exercise, one that doesn't involve sucking up the approval of others like a Hoover, would be for me to host a dinner party for the sake of being hospitable, something I think I have a gift for, or at least that's what people tell me. If it's true, I bet I have that gift for the sake of my guests, not so I can get strokes from the people I invite. And it would be good practice for me to play in the orchestra because it provides satisfaction and joy regardless of what kind of acceptance I might perceive or miss from what I call the "real" musicians. And my baby hats are just as good as those from that woman who insists on knitting in the continental style, damn it.

So, I won't be writing my own eulogy today. The less time I spend focused on what people think of me now and what people will think of me when I'm dead the better. I'll have to find some other way to build character, to develop MPHD.

Well, I've just looked at the clock, and I see it's time to go check my site meter so I'll know how many people have stopped by. "Read my posts and love me."