Saying No

Two little letters can destroy a life.

I was a people pleaser. It started out simply enough. I mean, who doesn't like a little attention and feeling needed? That can get addictive. I felt something was wrong if I wasn’t getting a knock on the door with cries for help.

I’m good at helping people. Everyone needs to vent when they get frustrated. Hey, It’s easy being a good listener. All you have to do is nod your head and shut up. No problem. What makes me a little bit different? I’m a good problem solver.

That’s how I ended every cry for help. Look, I don’t do everything for them. That would be stupid and and anyway, people don’t like being told what to do. I give options. They pick door number one, two, or three and take it from there.

Some people get a major kick out of drama. They don’t want an answer. All they are after is the excitement. What I’m there for isn’t to be a listening ear. Nor is it to help work through a difficult situation. They want the adrenaline rush, then to be petted, pampered, and taken care of. Poor me. Rescue me.

Giving them some options stopped that like a freight train just hit them. You know what’s funny? They like the listening part I do so well, they keep coming back for more. When it gets to the options part of the conversation, they are all the same. “I know you are right. You are always right. Everyone I talk to says you are right. It’s just that whenever I think about getting started, another crisis appears. Just like now.” And? They are off on another adrenaline kick.

So anyway, word spread. I was getting smothered by calls, knocks on the door, and people tapping me on the shoulder whenever I went out.

Funny, huh? I could help everyone else with their problem but I didn’t know how to handle my own.

You can’t just go out and find someone like me, you have to hire them. It cost a lot of money to see a psychologist or, heaven forbid, a psychiatrist. After wiping out my savings account, I got lucky.

Jill is a new fitness trainer at my gym. She only costs sixty dollars a session instead of hundreds or thousands. Working out relieves stress. That is why I hired her. But when she wanted to know what was causing me stress, I told her. It felt so good to vent.

She didn’t interrupt. She listened, sometimes repeating something I said to let me know she was listening. When I wound down, I felt drained, empty. I just sat there all numb.

Jill got me a bottle of cold water, paid for it herself. She draped a wet towel across the back of my neck, not saying a word. I began feeling a little embarrassed.

When I started to get up to leave, mumbling an apology for bothering her, she shook her head no.

“What?” I asked.

“No is also an answer,” Jill said.

“I can’t. I don’t know how,” I answered.

“Start with little things you do yourself. Like. When four thirty in the morning rolls around tomorrow and you shut the alarm off to come to the gym, shake your head no and sleep in.”

“That’s silly. I need the workout. I pay whether I get here or not.”

“It’s not silly. It’s life or death. Turning on your ‘no’ switch has to start somewhere and easy is better than hard. You’re not ready to say no when confronted with a cry for help.”

So, I did. I slept in. It felt delicious. Jill beamed smiles later that day when I met her at the gym. “See? You still made it here. Time for the next baby step. Setup up an appointment, like, to get your hair done. At the last minute, call and cancel.”

“They’ll be mad.”

“It happens all the time. Say you got food poisoning. They’ll understand. Nobody’s perfect. You should stop trying to be. Get real.”

I had to swallow my heart doing that step. The next steps got easier. I had a track record. When one of my adrenaline junkies called with the latest crisis? It wasn’t a surprise when I told her she could handle it herself. She knew what to do, just say no. Start simple. I hung up on her.

It got easier and easier. I found I had time to relax and took it. The time came when Jill shook her head no when I came to the gym. “You’re starting to get dependent on me. It’s time for you to stand up for yourself.” We were done.

People expect you to stay the same person you always were. When I changed, so did they. In place of cries for help, I started getting hate mail. You got it, both online and stuffed in my mailbox.

I had to move, get an unlisted phone number, hire an online site that was supposed to protect my privacy. Things have gone from one extreme to another. It’s gotten worse than bad. I’ve been threatened. I’ve close calls. Body guards don’t come cheap. Especially if you've lost a few. I already told you about psychologists and psychiatrists. Besides, they don’t offer doors one, two, or three. They want you to find your own door.

So that’s my story. You’re supposed to be good at writing stories. Write me a new one. Give me a way out of this mess. Jill stopped at - No is also an answer. I didn't know that the result would be such a disaster.