Confessions of a Gen X People Pleaser
By: Stacey Filak
Tags: Adhd, Enough Is Enough, Trauma, People Pleaser, Gen X

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Hello. My name is Stacey. I was a straight-A’s, respect your elders, don’t make waves, Boys-Will-Be-Boys, late Gen-Xer. I did the things I was told, without question, strived to gain everyone’s approval (even if there were opposing views), and sacrificed my own self worth to achieve other’s praise. And I’ve had enough.

Yup. That’s Me.

Last year, in the middle of the pandemic, I was diagnosed with ADHD. I was 44 years old, the day I got the diagnosis. I’ve been on anti-depressants for the last seven years. I’ve struggled with anxiety all my life, and the feeling that the Sword of Damocles hangs over my head is not a new sensation. It’s an old friend and my greatest enemy.

My brain doesn’t work right. It doesn’t work the way we’ve been told brains should work. It doesn’t process chemicals correctly, or information efficiently. It gets distracted, feels afraid, feels sad, feels powerless. It controls me — a lot. And yet, for 44 years, I managed to fake it. And I faked it pretty well, if I do say so, myself.

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People often talked about how I had my life so together, how organized I was, how great I was at multitasking. And because I was born a people-pleaser, because I pinned my self-value on what they thought of me, I only worked harder to pretend. I became a master of the “public space.” My office at work was organized and my job performance was good. The main floor of my home was clean and organized. My calendar was immaculate, and I donated to every school need, every charitable cause, every event or function I was called on to participate in. I was succeeding in public.

Photo by Estée Janssens on Unsplash

But in private, I’ve been a disaster for the last several years. The basement and second story of my home have been a wasteland of unfolded laundry, outgrown toys and shoes, empty boxes and pet hair for so long, I don’t remember what they look like clean. I so often forget appointments or obligations that I have a two-minute drill for getting ready and out the door, so as not to be late. I spend most days off in a fog of overwhelmed panic, just waiting for the next crisis. Secretly, I’ve been hanging by a thread. The only thing that was holding me up was what other people thought of me, and I worried constantly that someone would figure out my secret. If they did, I knew the house of cards would collapse. My failure would be revealed.

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And then, without preparation, we were thrown into a pandemic. My social life plummeted. My job was affected with all sorts of ripple effects that made it ever more difficult, ever more stressful, ever more unbearable. My kids were suffering daily trauma — as were all of us — as we watched and waited for the world to fix itself, or end, and I was still busy failing at everything. Failing to make things better for them. Failing to live up to the unreasonable and unachievable image I’d created for myself.

Listen. Logically, I am very aware that my being organized or on time or super-mom doesn’t mean I’m succeeding (and not doing those things doesn’t mean I’m failing). But remember, my brain is broken. It doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. And I had spent my life pinning all of my value on those things, and on the way others viewed me.

When the world became too busy and too busted for other people to feed my self-worth, things got bad. I couldn’t write. Heck, I couldn’t even read. I would reread the same paragraph four times and still not know what I’d read. I was now disorganized at work, the mess from upstairs was creeping downwards. Things slipped through the cracks, and I couldn’t keep up. Now, I wasn’t succeeding in other people’s minds AND I was failing myself. My mental health took a plunge. It’s still rocky. Every day is a new challenge in rebuilding the parts that are broken, and the hellscape we live in doesn’t help.

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I’ve started ADHD meds and I’ve left my job. I’m trying to figure out who the next version of myself is, and I expect it may take me a while to figure out. I’m trying to hold myself accountable, one day at a time. And I’m giving myself room to heal, because I’m starting to realize that the trauma of living is more than we give it credit for. I’m learning that the only person’s opinion of who I am that matters is my own — and those I choose to let into that sanctum; my husband, my kids, my dearest and closest friends and family (sometimes).

And I’m learning — after 45 years — not to stay silent. I’m learning to say “No,” to all those school activities and meetings and events and demands. I’m learning to reject the party line when it is harmful or incomplete. I’m learning to read between the lines, look beyond, and see the deeply hidden truths that are often purposefully kept from us. I’m tossing off the yoke of People Pleaser, because you can’t make everyone like you and also speak out for what’s right. Some people are just wrong. Some people, whether through ignorance or cruelty, will not like what I have to say. Some people have no compassion, and they won’t want to hear it.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

I’m learning to be loud. I’m learning not to shrink to fit the role that’s expected of me. I’m learning to embrace my broken brain, because it provides me with a unique perspective. I’m learning to see my self-worth in my own way — in my damaged, imbalanced, disorganized way — because even after all these years, I’m still learning.

I don’t expect it will be a smooth road. I don’t expect there won’t be backslides. But one step at a time, I’m tearing up the sash that says, “People Pleaser” so that I can make room for a new label, “Happy with myself.”