In a prior blog I chatted for awhile about how I define a few commonly used terms, like “martyrdom” and “compassion.” Whether or not you agree with my definitions, I’ve been told that putting down my thoughts have helped folks clarify what we teach, here at BlissNinny, and that’s useful. So I thought I might add a few more definitions and comparisons.
Let’s start with the “N” word. (No, not THAT word. The other one.)
The Power of the word “No”
I can’t emphasize strongly enough the power of the word “No.” As some of you know from class discussion, I consider “No” to be a complete sentence. It’s unambiguous, decisive, and often the antithesis of the wailing and flailing enacted in the martyr game. And “No” doesn’t need to be spoken in anger or frustration, either, or embellished with lengthy justifications aimed at coaxing folks into liking you; it’s often most effective when said politely and with amusement—a clear, perky, “No, thank you!”
I like to think of it like this; every time someone wants you to do something; to invest your energy or put yourself out in service to their desires or their causes; you are being offered an invitation. Sometimes it’s an invitation to join into a group agreement; one of those “We all look at the world this way and react this way. You have to agree with us!” things.
But regardless of social pressure, it’s not really an imperative; you don’t have to do it. It’s merely an invitation. And sometimes the appropriate response to an invitation like that is to simply say, “No.”
I’ll give you an example. At a quiet get-together of a few couples, a neighbor once started in on a highly personalized list of ‘What wives do for their men.’ With her husband (an Air Force Captain, no less!) sitting by her side, she began to insist that men, by definition, were incapable of performing such simple tasks as picking up their socks or remembering their mother’s birthday—things at which, she felt, women excelled—and that women were required, by temperament, to take on these tasks, although they were free to resent their husbands for expecting it of them. (And obviously, in light of the game being played, free to publicly ridicule the husband.) It was a variation of The Victim Game, with a little Punishment thrown in, but hey; she was the hostess, and could bring up whatever topics she liked.
Although her tone was jesting, she was perfectly serious, and when she polled the other women for their responses, saying, “Right? Uh-huh! You agree with me, right?” she was taken aback when I laughed and said, “No.” It stopped her dead, and she looked at me blankly for a few seconds before asking, with a sputtering laugh, “What?”
I didn’t feel any particular investment in the game she was playing, but seeing how startled—and annoyed—she was, I could tell I’d just broken one of her social rules. That didn’t stop me from telling the truth, although I tried to say it gently.
“No, as in, ‘I don’t agree.’” I said, shrugging. “I married an adult. I assume that my husband can make his own decisions, and if he doesn’t want to make the effort of calling his mother on her birthday, it’s certainly no business of mine.”
To me it was simple respect, but in the game of life as I saw it, it was much more than that. When handed the invitation to join her group agreement to invalidate, not only her husband, but my own, I said, “No, thank you.”
What would social rules have required, in that situation? That I fake laugh and fake agree, reveal or concoct something hurtful or embarrassing to say about my own spouse, all under the guise of “social playfulness?” How many times have you experienced something like this? An awkward social game where you “play along,” and then talk about what a control freak the woman was on the drive home, to mollify your spouse?
No. I don’t find that kind of slippery insincerity enjoyable. I didn’t like thinking that she would have expected me to perpetuate complying with her games, regardless of how uncomfortable they were. So I declined the invitation to play.
It may seem like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill—exaggerating a common social interaction all out of proportion in order to make a point—but you’ve got to understand that each of these “common social interactions” creates a building block in the structure of your life. If you allow event after event to occur without consciously walking in integrity with your beliefs, soon the walls of your structure will be built of half-truths, if not veiled scorn. Soon you’re living a life, not of consciously directed creativity, but of endless social lubrication. And you’ll wonder why all of your friends seem so shallow.
When you’ve worked for awhile to shift your perception of the world to neutral, you may notice that when these invitations are extended you often experience a moment of inner ‘translation’ where you find yourself pondering the full meaning of the invitation. For example, I once knew a woman for whom the words, “Want to have lunch on Friday?” actually meant, ‘Want to come and listen to me rant on and on and on about all of the pain and chaos I’ve created in my own life, all while pretending that I’m a victim to my husband and children? By the way—you’ll be expected to take all of my pain out of my space and leave me feeling happy and energized.”
All that I was entitled to expect from the exchange was her effusive, “Oh, I always feel SO much better after having lunch with you!” She didn’t even pick up the tab! As I began to value my own well-being, that really didn’t cut it with me anymore.
The old me—the dutiful child of the Martyr Clan—would have cringed even as I said, “Uh—okay, I guess…” while frantically trying to think of way to skip out of the meal. But in the end I probably would have gone, grumbling to myself, all in the name of “friendship,” and come home feeling sick and used.
The more neutral me, the woman with better boundaries, looked at the dynamic, realized that the game she wanted to play would serve neither of us in any appreciable way, and just said, “No…I don’t think so.” And, being a strong believer in the power of honesty, when she blinked and asked, “Why not? Have I done something to upset you?” I said, “Yes, actually. You seem to think that spending time together means that you get to ‘dump your bucket’ of grievances into my space. And I’ve got to tell you—it’s not working for me. I’m a human being—not a doormat and not a toilet.”
Having the audacity to say “No” will frequently open the door for this kind of honesty, and I hadn’t said it in a way that was blaming or punishing. I owned my own part in the game even as I refused a second helping, speaking in a very mild tone—amused and laughing even, without a trace of anger or resentment. Yet as I looked at her I realized that on some level she’d known exactly how she’d thought of me and had intended to use me—and I’d pegged it. She only sought out my company when she wanted me to clear her space for her, something she was too lazy; too indifferent to learn to do for herself.
She sputtered and huffed a bit, but honestly? She couldn’t find anything in our years of prior interaction to refute the assertions I’d made, and she knew it. The relationship cooled after that, but frankly, it hadn’t been all that rewarding for me from the first. Releasing myself from that relationship freed up more of my energy to develop healthier, more balanced relationships with people who treated me with greater respect.
My aunt was another one. A lead player in the Martyr Clan, all throughout High School she would usurp my Sunday afternoons by dragging me off to the cemetery with her “to see the family.” For years I endured it, telling myself that I owed her for taking me in, and that she was lonely and had few friends.
But while I had no problem doing pleasant, positive things with the woman, those trips to the graveyard were a sore trial to me. Not only did I think it was weird to get hung-up on where someone’s dead body had been stored, since I could talk to the person as spirit any time I liked; I often felt like a captive audience to her favorite, self-scripted and self-directed play, My Pain in Three Acts.
I slogged along behind her as she dragged me from headstone to headstone, weeping over a person she hadn’t even known as enthusiastically as she did over her own mother’s grave. If we could stage this little micro-drama in a cold, drizzling rain she was happier still.
So I finally said “No. I’m not going to the cemetery anymore.” And true to form, she accused me of being a selfish, ungrateful person; uncaring and un-Christian.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I told her. “But since we’re being candid with each other, I have to say that watching you clutch at your bosom, theatrically murmuring, ‘I’ll be with you soon, dear mother…’ as though you were on death’s door and not in perfect health, doesn’t do a thing for me. The woman loathed me when she was alive and I can’t imagine why you think our relationship has improved now that she’s dead. So—no thank you.”
The sensation of relief that flooded through me as she stomped off to enact her latest performance sans audience was so powerful that I felt giddy—and I realized just how much of my life force energy had been tied up in enduring that pointless, weekly pain-game.
The funny footnote, of course, is that once I stopped accompanying her on her histrionics tour, she stopped going to the cemetery. I guess it wasn’t as much fun to be on the martyr stage without an audience.
Do any of these dynamics seem familiar? Oh, the details will change, but this is a very common mindset. And the fact that you have free will suggests that it’s not one that you have to endure. It’s merely an assertion of will.
You can be neutral, you can be kind, and you can certainly be amused, but you really can just say, “No.”