This week I was painfully reminded that I try to maintain my friendships through favors and gift giving. Let me set the stage for you. When I was young, I lived in a very rural area. I went to school in a community (technically a village) of less than 1000 people, and my home outside the community was separated from any neighbours by forest for miles all around. I could not call any of my classmates friends. They were entities on the school bus, in the classroom or in the schoolyard who might or might not make my life miserable if I drew their attention. I didn’t socialize outside of school because transportation to and from my home, if it wasn’t on the school bus, was challenging. My parents didn’t offer, and I didn’t want to burden them by asking. I didn’t participate in any after-school activities or programs. I grew up essentially unable to form friendships.

In the seventh grade, we were allowed to leave our school grounds at lunchtime and walk to get lunch “uptown”. This allowed students who lived nearby to go home for lunch. It also allowed a gaggle of students to descend on the corner store near the school to dump their quarters, nickels and dimes on the counter in exchange for candy and bubblegum. Many times I spent my lunch money on cellophane packages of gumballs and cartons of Junior Mints. I always bought in abundance. I would tromp back to school with my pockets bulging, knowing that for a few minutes, I would be the center of positive attention as classmates asked me to share my sweets. I remember one particular time, sitting in the stairwell near our homeroom classroom, when I was surrounded by reaching hands and purring requests. I remember realizing that as soon as the candy ran out, so would the friendliness. I remember the sad helplessness of that moment.

Today, 25 years or so later, I fear that my approach to friendship hasn’t evolved very much. I am the one to respond to requests on facebook for help moving. This summer I set up a garden in a friend’s back yard. I mowed another friend’s lawn. I bring food, make crafts, respond to calls for assistance and generally take on a caretaking role. I do this in the hope that my kindness and generosity will communicate my feelings of friendship or love and result in intimacy and connection. When people compliment me for my generosity, I feel good. When I am struck by the inspiration to create a gift or write a poem for somebody, I feel good. But when I’m not giving, I feel like I have nothing to offer, and I feel like the friendships will dry up and wither away. I am not used to people sticking around. I go to parties and feel like an interloper, a hanger-on.

It is worst when I become attached emotionally to somebody, when their opinion of me and whether or not they will give me love becomes a barometer of how I feel about myself. My mind fills with ideas of how I can creatively and generously ensure that they do not forget about me. They say thank you. We spend some time together. I feel good. And then I go home and the clock starts to tick as my tension rises. Did I say something wrong? Was my gift too much? Should I have offered to help them with groceries? Should I not have requested to accompany them walking their dog? Was I too intrusive? What if they stop talking to me?

All of this anxiety and gift-giving could not be a better proof, if I needed it, that deep down I do not feel like I’m worthy of love and belonging. I feel like I need to trade my effort for the experience of it, that I do not deserve it. This habit of transacting and bargaining means that my experiences of connection are washed out by the fear that people’s responses are not genuine, and this week I got clear feedback that the gift-giving can make people uncomfortable and even resentful. Being too generous can make people feel like they are in my debt. And I guess, in a way, I am inadvertently trying to make them feel that way. As you can imagine, this makes me feel pretty shitty.

I feel now the urge to paper over all the things I have just said, and argue that I am exaggerating, that I make do, that I don’t truly believe these things and that I am intellectually aware of the fallacy of my fears. I feel a bit like the wounded animal curling up in a hiding spot, or the police officer saying, “Move along. Nothing to see here.” Because somebody else always has it worse, because I don’t experience anxiety attacks, because I don’t have a mental health diagnosis, because I can maintain my composure in big crowds (I just feel like an alien). Because I don’t feel comfortable taking up space. I can put on a pretty great “I’m fine” mask. So good sometimes that I believe it myself. But it’s fragile.

I have, however, come a long way in the last six or seven years. Before then, my level of self knowledge amounted to the realization that I was miserable and that much of my life was ruled by fear. In the intervening years, I left my 10-year marriage, I started writing (poetry, free-writing and memoir), I began a regular meditation practice and I take part in a weekly peer support group. The fact that I can think about and express the ideas above, and look for ways to break out of my stuck patterns is a sign of major progress. Unfortunately, it’s really painful to recognize your stuck patterns and not know how to change them.

I have to admit that I feel significant frustration that it looks like this process is going to take a long time and that I am going to have to keep struggling with the same insecurities over and over again. As I said, one of my biggest insecurities is about taking up space, being seen and asking for help. I am using this blog to do just that (fearfully hoping that this kind of content is ok). I ask you please to comment and share your knowledge.

Thank you.