Hilary Jacobs Hendel | The Change Triangle

My mother taught me to have compassion for men and to take care of them. My father, a wise but miserly man, got angry when I asked for basic things like new underwear. He accused me of being needy. They created a voice in my head that said, "Saying no or putting your needs first is bad." When I started dating, I already took pride in being a low-maintenance girlfriend. 

 

Jon and I were well suited for each other. We were intellectual equals, enjoyed the same activities and had similar values. He was funny, kindhearted and communicative. I had never met a man as willing to talk through problems. So, after thinking I would never remarry, I reconsidered, with some encouragement from Jon, and decided to try again. 

He worked at his job, but I did everything else. For example, Jon hated filling out forms and doing paperwork, so I took care of that. He liked being cooked for, so I did that too. He perseverated about work and other problems, and I always listened. I joked that he married a therapist to have 24/7 support—but I believed that was true. I was a mother to our four children, all of whom were beginning their teen years. I was starting a new career and working full time. The weight of those demands left me weary. Jon appreciated my hard work, often thanking me. And I didn't feel he was taking advantage on purpose. He was just being himself. 

But I had also learned from past relationships that letting resentments fester was a recipe for disaster. Feeling the rub of each new demand, I thought about saying no, but that made me feel so bad about myself, so imperfect, that I put it off. 

The all-giving part in my head yelled, "You can do it! Just try harder. Be nicer. Be more loving. Be a good girl!" I was not ready to let go of being the ideal partner, a saint. 

I tried to discuss the conflict with Jon. 

"I'm tired," I'd say. My words were met with sympathy but not curiosity. 

"I'm scared you'll be angry if I don't meet your needs," I'd say, trying again. 

"I won't be angry," Jon said, but he didn't step up and help with household chores, and I didn't believe that he wouldn't be angry. 

I'm not sure what would have happened if I had simply asked, "Can you please make dinner tonight?" But I didn't have the courage. 

As a trauma- and emotion-centered therapist, I know that childhood experiences, where parents send strong messages about how to be, affect the wiring of a child's brain. In my mind, I was supposed to be all-giving. But I had lived long enough to learn that that belief did not serve me. I had to rewire my brain to save my relationship. 

One day, I finally summoned my courage. 

"Remember I said I was all-giving?" I asked Jon. 

"Yes," he replied. 

"Well, I am not." 

Jon looked concerned. "What does that mean?" 

"I cannot always give you what you want. I am so sorry." 

What followed was a difficult period in our marriage. We were both sullen. I couldn't feel our connection, and I couldn't tell whether I was creating distance or whether it was coming from Jon. The loneliness was painful and scary. A part of me wanted to resort to my old ways to repair the bond between us. Another part of me knew that that wouldn't work either. I was stuck in relationship purgatory. 

We finally sought therapy. 

After several hard sessions, something huge happened to me: I was talking about how hard it was to deny Jon his needs, and even worse to see the disappointment and disapproval on his face. Suddenly, I got very dizzy. 

"I'm dizzy!" I said, looking to our therapist for guidance. 

I thought he would instruct me to stop what we were doing so I could gather myself. 

Instead, he suggested, "Can you move into the dizziness?" 

I could sense the dizziness in the front of my head. My inclination was to pull backward away from it. But I trusted the therapist, so I moved my head forward. 

A feeling reminiscent of a black cloud overwhelmed me. 

"I feel so deeply inadequate that I cannot give Jon what he wants," I said with my head hanging low. I started crying. 

I felt like a little girl, weak and out of control. I was embarrassed to be seen this way. But I was also relieved to recognize the truth of my experience, to finally confront my fear and deep-seated shame. 

Jon moved in closer and held me as I sobbed. 

After that session, things changed. It was as though something dark was brought into the light, which transformed it to make it bearable. I now asked for what I wanted and said no when I needed, despite the fact that each time I did, I felt that familiar cloud of fear and shame. But instead of keeping these feelings to myself, I looked to Jon for support. Like alchemy, Jon's reassurance that he would not stop loving me just because I had needs converted my shame to emotional safety, which I had never experienced with a man. In turn, I became more emotionally strong and generous, not begrudging him his feelings in response to the changes in our relationship. He was entitled to be disappointed or angry if I denied him. 

Gradually, as I shared more and more of what I needed and set limits for how much I would do, my shame diminished. Thirteen years since I proudly announced my all-giving nature to Jon, our partnership has come into balance. It's not that I don't ever feel conflicted about asking for what I need or saying no; I do. It's just that now I accept my limits and accept myself as I truly am. I no longer aspire to be an all-giving little girl, just a giving-enough adult partner. 

 

Hilary Jacobs Hendel is the author of It’s Not Always Depression.

Read on Oprah.com: http://www.oprah.com/inspiration/hilary-jacobs-hendel-how-rewiring-my-brain-saved-my-relationship#ixzz5B3B0s1da

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