CONFESSIONS OF A RECOVERING PEOPLE PLEASER

FROM DOORMAT TO “DON’T MESS WITH ME”

There’s nothing quite like apologizing to a wall after you accidentally bump into it, because apparently apologizing for existing is a reflex. There’s that split-second after where you think, “Did I really just do that?” And then comes the spiral: am I such a doormat that I’m apologizing to drywall now?

What else am I apologizing for?

I’m human, after all. I’m allowed to have an opinion. I’m allowed to disagree. I’m allowed to say no. 

Even as a child. 

Especially as a child.

But I was stripped of that right—the right to be a person, not just a prop in someone else’s play. And in turn, a lot of bad shit happened. I ended up in situations no kid should be in because I couldn’t say no. To make matters worse, the very people who forced this nasty habit on me were the ones who were supposed to protect me.

Take my mom, for example. From the time I was nine until I was sixteen, I went to work with her several days a week at Eckerd (later Rite Aid). Most kids spent their summers swimming or riding bikes; I was setting planograms, unloading trucks, putting away totes, changing price tags, running registers. By fourteen, I could run that store better than half the adults working there. Why? Because I was desperate for her approval. If I worked harder, if I babysat my siblings without complaint, if I did everything asked of me and then some, maybe she’d finally look at me and say she was proud.

She didn’t.

Hell, she still calls me a liar when I talk about the year we lived in a motel. Six of us crammed into two beds, eating ramen or spaghetti without meat cooked on a single-burner camping stove balanced on a dresser. I didn’t even have the guts to tell my friends at school where I lived, because how do you admit you don’t actually have a home?

Meanwhile, my stepdad, who barely lifted a finger, sat on his ass playing video games and blowing money on electronics. I was thirteen, working more than he did, while he called me a “fatass” and a “tub of lard” because I had the audacity to hit a growth spurt. How dare I outgrow my clothes? I started apologizing for taking up space, for being fat, for existing in the wrong body.

That was the beginning of my disordered eating—training my body to hoard fat because it never knew when its next meal was coming.

And guilt? Guilt was their favorite weapon. I was made to feel guilty for everything, even stuff that had nothing to do with me. Stupid shit like, “Who ate all the ice cream?” When no one confessed, obviously it must have been me. Years later, the family is joking around and my stepdad’s mom laughs and says, “Oh, that was me.” Hahahahaha. Yeah, hilarious. This grown-ass woman let a child take the fall and never said a word.

Fucking bitch.

So I thought saying no made me selfish. I thought choking down food I hated because “you eat what’s in front of you” was normal. I thought saying “no worries” while absolutely worrying was normal. I thought apologizing for sneezing, coughing, laughing, or simply existing was normal.

I thought being called a liar when I told the truth was normal.

By eighteen, all that repression combusted and I became a rage-filled menace. And for good reason. I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t want to apologize. I didn’t want to feel. So, I numbed. Ecstasy like candy, fuck friends like filler episodes. At home, I was a shell. Out in the world, I’d grab my debit card, crush a pill on a pocket mirror, snort it with a rolled-up dollar, and come alive again. Clubbing, partying with strangers, doing whatever I wanted without that sick guilt hanging over me. And while I was high, I didn’t feel bad—I felt free.

But freedom wears off when the drug does. And when the euphoria crashed, depression dragged me right back under. Truth is, I’m lucky. Lucky I’m here. Lucky I had a catalyst that pulled me out.

I had my son.

My son gave me the strength to start saying no. To set boundaries. To become who I wanted to be, because I’ll be damned if anyone was going to tell my boy who he was allowed to be or what opinion to have. But I didn’t really find my way until I had my daughter. Together, they created the force I am now.

I became the mom I never had. The ear that actually listens. The advice that actually helps. The understanding that was never offered to me.

The first time I put myself, and my kids, first, and I felt guilty. Then I felt guilty for not feeling guilty about it anymore. I realized not everyone is going to like me, and thank God. That’s not a burden, that’s a blessing. Somewhere along the line, I learned that no is a full sentence, and I taught my kids the same.

Do I still occasionally throw in a “sorry” out of habit? Yeah. Am I still unlearning the urge to justify every decision I make? Absolutely. But I’m finally seeing it: the people who belong in my life don’t need me to perform. They need me to be real.