A Different Form of Bravery

Most of us don’t think of ourselves as brave. We are not the kinds of heroes found in movies, wartime, or a burning building rescue. Yet one must become the hero of his own story. The reason is simple: there is no one else to do the job. If you are a supporting actor in the movie of your life, audition for a better part.

The clock never stops and opportunities, inevitably, diminish with age. Time still offers chances to change, to try, to dare, but we are captured by long-standing routines. One might say we have traveled the same rut for too long, the furrow deepening with each step. To get out we must climb a wall of earth with strength thought lost.

By 65, the age of my friend Keith Miller, some are already retired. But Keith had at least one more hurdle, one waiting for him over 40 years. Such youthful aspirations are patient, sitting quietly in the back of life’s class, hoping for attention, never raising a hand.

Long ago Keith attended a conservatory and took classes in conducting. He even conducted a chamber group a bit back then, more recently a stint leading a community band, no strings. Keith can’t be called a professional musician, though he has taught piano. The insurance company at which he works as a top-tier technical support analyst is not a wellspring of conductors.

Nevertheless, he had the nerve to apply to the International Masterclasses Berlin, where he would reside for six days in March; and, if he survived, lead the Berlin Sinfonietta in one movement of a romantic masterpiece. Keith was one of 11 students from Belgium, Germany, Italy, Spain, the Netherlands, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Argentina and the USA;  some working conductors with their own ensembles. Almost all were at least 30 years younger than my friend.

But, this is Keith’s story and he needs to tell it:

Packing my luggage for Berlin, I carried expectations, too. Not only from years of listening, but by studying the scores in the months before the masterclass: three symphonies by Brahms, Schubert and Schumann.

This was, after all, my inauguration into the world of orchestral conducting. Sleep medication was the only way to calm my bedtime energy. Most of the anticipation came from the unknown, all that is not in the musical score:

How might the maestro react to my lack of experience? How would I fit, being the oldest student? What of the orchestra’s cooperation and opinion? Would I make good music?

The first rehearsal generated the natural nervousness, heart-palpitations too, but also an internal reminder, “I can do this.” Maestro Shambadal’s steely eyes focused on me. The maestro, Principal Conductor of the Berlin Symphony, was born in Israel and studied with many “greats” including Giulini, Markevitch and Celibidache.

After a few deep breaths I began Schumann’s 4th Symphony. Quickly came a loud clap. The orchestra stopped. Maestro yelled from the back of the room, “It begins on the 3rd beat!” I made the correction and got through ¾ of the first movement before my time was up. A few other stoppages occurred for matters of technique and interpretation. I reminded myself I’d come for just such instruction.

I realized I needed to improve. My desire for the maestro’s approval quickened. The ensemble’s response to my leadership lacked enthusiasm and I knew it.

Three more rehearsals followed and group evaluations, as well, before the concert at which we would all perform. We reviewed videos of the 11 conductors, mine included.

Ugh! My posture was terrible. I looked like a bent old man. Maestro alluded to the same thing. I worked on straightening up, without which I couldn’t communicate command and authority. Here, perhaps, was the explanation for my initial failure to elicit what I wanted from the musicians.

I was selected to conduct the second movement of Schubert’s 8th Symphony at the concert. I marked the top of every page of my score with three words:

POSTURE. TEMPO. RELAX.

Keith worked with an experienced orchestra, many of the musicians retired members of the Berlin Philharmonic, Berlin Radio Symphony and regional orchestras, along with younger instrumentalists.

Hundreds of years of accumulated experience face a newbie. Some such ensembles take pride in being able to size up a conductor in minutes, and tear him down in less time. Or ignore him and give “their” version of the piece. Still, each player has a job to do: taking the conductor’s vision as achieved in rehearsal, and making the black notes on white paper sing. Keith learned the conductor’s job, too:

His score holds all the notes, every instrumental line on the same page: dizzying to see, much less read while everything is happening in front of him. There is no opportunity to search the lines, the musicians’ faces, and be the director, too. Without an instrument, armed only with certainty, the knowledge of everyone’s role, and his ability to persuade and inspire, he must make something old into something new.

Concert time at last.

Striding up to the podium I was confident and enthusiastic. I brought along a week’s education.

I led with warmth, lyricism, and the dark drama there in the score. The players were spot on: tempo, dynamics and music-making.

What was experience like? The most exhilarating of my life.

I turned and bowed to the audience. Smiles all around. When I asked the orchestra to stand, I saw many smiles among them, as well. I shook the first violinist’s hand and received one word enthusiastically delivered: “Bravo!” The first cellist gave me a hearty thumbs-up.

My mind was captured by one idea.

“I want to do this again and again!”

The previous conductor and I gave each other a big hug. Later, an audience member said the maestro was watching me with full attention and nodding (not nodding off!), as if to say “very good!” After the concert, he congratulated everyone.

Returning to my hotel after a celebratory dinner, I sat at the edge of the bed and cried. All of the emotion and memories, the anticipation and fulfillment, overtook me. Once composed, I began to pack for the trip home.

Courage takes many forms. Sometimes it is simply making the music that is in you, waiting to be made. Taking a risk, not asking permission.

As Oliver Wendell Holmes said:

Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them.

Here is a man who made his music:


Getting to Know You: On the Difficulty of Making Close Friends

https://i1.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/ba/Friendship.jpg

What happens when the wish to be known conflicts with the fear of being known?

Why is it that we so desire someone — someone — to know everything there is about our story and then say, “It’s OK. I’m still lucky to have you as a friend.”

Does anyone know you in this way?

Do you know anyone in this way?

It took several years before one university professor friend told me about “doing time” in a federal prison. This friend is, I must add, as fine and decent a person as I know.

The individual took a risk in the disclosure, hoping (based on knowledge of me acquired over long experience) that I would not summarily judge or reject. I felt privileged and grateful that my acquaintance would tell me this; and this kind soul was, I think, equally pleased that I reacted in the way that I did.

It only made us closer.

But the question is, how did we get there? Get to the point where a risk like that could be taken: a depth of knowledge, confidence, and intimacy.

Both psychological research and ancient philosophy tell us that nothing will make you happier than friendship.

“The factor found to be most important for subjective well-being is that of social relationships with family, friends, and others,” reports Sissela Bok in Exploring Happiness. And ideally, these relationships are not just the superficial kind, but those that go beyond “How about those Cubs?” and “Hasn’t the weather been great” and conversation about cars and shopping and business.

Like the kind I have with the friend just mentioned. The kind you rely upon when the rawness, ridicule, and roundhouse punches of life get to you.

Most who obtain such companions find it enormously gratifying to be “fully known” (warts and all) and still valued and cared about by another: someone who helps you to feel less alone in the world and more alive to what it offers.

So maybe a few tips are in order as I discuss the challenge that achieving this kind of closeness presents.

The most intimate platonic relationships are obtained by a kind of emotional strip tease; a denuding that substitutes the removal of personal defenses for the clothing that is taken off by the exotic dancer.

Like the seven veils worn by Salome in her biblically recounted dance, each veil falls to the ground one at a time. What is left at the end is almost complete openness — nothing hidden, nothing protected — a state close to total vulnerability to the other person (who you hope has moved in-synch with you and will not take advantage of your unguarded state).

There is certainly danger here, my friend.

James Baldwin described the dilemma as a sort of love without love-making:

Love takes off the masks we fear that we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.

Some never get over that fear and keep vulnerabilities protected behind a screen of surface calm and unblemished “appearance.” Call them “masks” or veils or armor, these coverings keep us “safe,” but keep us alone.

Until you give up that safety, you can never answer the questions, “What if he knew? What would he think of me then?”

And if you worry about those answers, how can you ever be self-confident?

Unless you are enormously self-assured, unguarded, and out-going, there is a journey from strange to familiar, from casual acquaintance to close friend; an emotional distance that must be traveled.

In the days of trench warfare, there was an expression known as “going over the top,” which meant coming out of the protected cover of your army’s dug-in, underground position to make an assault on the equally defended emplacement of the enemy. To do this, you  entered “no-man’s land,” the several yard’s between the two trenches, where you were exposed and open to fire.

For more people than you might think, taking the social risks needed for true friendship feels a little like this.

Some part of it can go back to messages learned at home. “Don’t tell the neighbors” is an expression that informs you there is something to be ashamed of and that the people “out there” will take advantage of one’s household secrets.

Of course, they just might.

Some languages even use words to institutionalize and formalize the distance between two people. The German words “Sie” and “du” both mean “you” in English. The first is used for formal relationships, people with whom you are not intimate. Should this barrier be overcome, there is a tradition that goes back to the middle ages to commemorate your new closeness. It involves a mini-celebration toasted with alcohol called “Brüderschaft trinken;” becoming “brotherly,” in effect, so that you are permitted to use “du” to refer to one another.

You can be married to someone, but not really know your partner. You can be sexually intimate and wildly uninhibited when the clothes are off, but much more “closed-off” when you dress up again.

You know all the fears: of being cast-away, condemned, cut-off and criticized — a loss of power and control in the relationship with the possibility that others will harm you.

We worry that “fair weather friends” won’t stand with us, for us, and by us when the going gets tough. We tremble at the thought of “friends of convenience” who can’t be bothered to give us nearly as much as they get from us. We dread the possibility that our “friend” will share our secrets with others and betray our trust. Or that the friend will ask for our money in such a way that we cannot say “no,” but never pay it back.

We choose between the risk of being hurt by others on one side vs. quietly hurting ourselves in the self-imposed isolation of the other side; a depth of loneliness that sometimes makes physical pain seem preferable.

Friendship of any kind usually starts with shared experience or small talk. Taking the same bus every day, going to the same classes, working for the same boss on the same projects, we begin to chat about what we do and what we see.

If this is difficult for you and you “don’t know what to say,” consider a few of these topics:

  • Where do you live?
  • Where did you go to school?
  • What movies or TV programs do you watch?
  • Do you have any hobbies or play any sports?
  • What music do you like?

Music is a kind of proxy topic. It stands in for those probing questions that might determine whether you share the same sentiments or the same view of life. The early stages of a relationship represent a kind of feeling-out in which the two people are both passing the time and attempting so see whether they have much in common. Some go so far as to make lists of things to talk about; not a bad idea if you are a bit unsure.

https://i1.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4a/Friendship_4.jpg

The next stage usually takes the pair to the possibility of some shared activity. Coffee? Dinner? A ball game? A concert? Shopping? It can be as simple as time together giving someone a ride. Of course, there is the risk that he is too busy for another relationship or doesn’t want your company.

No risk, no reward.

Some people prefer (or find it less threatening) to be part of a group rather than one-on-one in the early stage of making someone’s acquaintance. That’s fine, of course, but if you really want to get below the surface you’ll need to spend some time alone with the person.

If you have a significant other, convention can dictate that you meet new (or even old) friends in groups of four or more — couples with couples. But unless all four of you know each other awfully well or are unusually open, group topics tend to stay on the surface of things, revealing little that is personal or private; in other words, little that you would reveal only to a close friend.

Finally, by intent or by magic, you can reach a point where you begin to reveal more about yourself and ask more about your new friend. Things like the kind of family you come from, past romances, job problems, a history of therapy, religious and political views.

You also begin to rely on the other to do what he says he will do, show up to help you move to a new residence, help solve a problem, lend you a small amount of money to pay for dinner or visa versa. You will notice if he pays attention to you and helps you fit into any new group of which he is already a part.

If these “tests” are passed, you just might have a new friend worthy of the name.

The revelations don’t always come at once. Usually, dropping your guard takes time. You wonder whether the “other” will “understand,” treat your concerns with respect, “be there” when you need him.

And then there are those revelations that wait decades to occur. I was recently told the story of two childhood friends who had lost touch and lived on opposite coasts. Keeping to the family requirements as most children do, they’d never shared the troubling things that had happened in their homes. Instead, their contact was based on playing together, going to parties, talking about school, and so forth.

Meeting again at a class reunion, one caught the other’s eye and they quickly embraced.

Then, without any preceding word, the first woman spoke the thing that she’d been told never to say.

“I was adopted.”

It was something she knew even as a child, but was forbidden to utter. Only now, it had become the thing that needed to be said to close the distance of time and disunion.

What do you call this?

Catching up, for sure.

But I’d call it a new start — a deeper start — to an old friendship.

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The top 2008 image is called Two Friends by fotoguru.it. The second picture is entitled Friendship by “Nina, from Australia.” The bottom photo is called Friendship by “Gideon, from Paris, France.” All are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

Signs of Maturity: What Does It Mean to “Grow Up?”

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“Oh, grow up!” Is there anyone who didn’t hear some version of this humiliating admonition as a kid? Often voiced by another kid, or some chronologically mature person who probably needed to “grow up” himself.

Still, it does raise an important question: what does it mean to grow up? What qualities are present in those people we respect for their maturity?

Although it may not be very humble to do so, let’s start with the quality of humility. And its important to remember that humility is not identical to a lack confidence. Rather, it involves the recognition that in the big picture of the universe, you are a very, very small part. That is to say, unless your name is one that ranks with Einstein or Beethoven, virtually no one will know your name in a hundred years.

As Goethe put it, “Names are like sound and smoke.” They disappear that easily. Humbling indeed. You probably aren’t as important as you think you are.

Which means, of course, that your problems, at least most of them, aren’t that important either. The ability to recognize that most problems are transitory and only temporarily bothersome is another sign of maturity. Now, I’m not talking about brain cancer here, but the more garden-variety ups and downs of life. It sometimes helps weather them to realize that you will care little if anything about those difficulties in five years or even five months.

No, as the saying goes, “Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s all small stuff.” Or, at least most of it.

Another important quality of being a grown-up, I think, is to have a balance between your head and your heart. We all know people who are way out of balance — those who claim to be imperturbably logical like the Mr. Spock-type Vulcans from Star Trek and others who come apart at the smallest disappointment or frustration, letting their emotions whip them around like a passenger on a “tilt-a-whirl” amusement park ride.

Emotions are there for a reason; the pain of them needs to be attended to, lest you leave your hand on the stove’s burner because nature didn’t inform you to remove that hand. Equally, your head is required to have good judgment and learn from experience, to be cool under fire, and to forge ahead in spite of fear.

In other words, balance is a sign of maturity. Balance of head and heart, work and play, action and contemplation, passion and repose. Socrates said that one should be grateful to old-age that the passions rule us less. But do not live a life without passion, especially when you are young enough to enjoy it! He also said that “the unexamined life is not worth living.” And so maturity requires some thought about your life, where you’ve been and where you are going, why you have done what you’ve done, what worked and what didn’t, and what lies ahead. It requires an unflinching look in the mirror and the intention to improve.

That means, of course, that being a “grown-up” demands that one has learned something from experience and continues to learn more as experience unfolds. My friend Henry Fogel has said, “I like to make new mistakes!” Meaning, naturally, that there is no point in repeating the same old ones.

Another friend, Rich Adelstein, once told me that he thought that if he were able to figure out the solutions to his then-current problems (he was 50 at the time), he believed that he could simply keep living in the same fashion, using the same solutions to confront whatever was ahead of him. But, he rightly realized, that there would be new problems requiring new solutions, and that the version of himself that faced those new problems would be older and different, and therefore might see things quite a bit differently than the 50-year-old version.

This is an example of maturity, along with a signpost to some of its characteristics, including the need to change, the ability and willingness to be flexible, and the awareness that learning along the way is required. Rich was able to change, and to change his mind about the need to change.

What other qualities might be present in the mature, “grown-up” person? Confidence and the capacity for self-assertion, certainly; the ability to laugh, and to laugh at yourself, not at the expense of others; to take risks and do things that might be hard or embarrassing or scary or frustrating until you master them; to be independent in thought and deed, not to follow the crowd or require a caretaker or someone to make decisions for you; and of course, the capacity for intimacy and love, knowing all the while that embracing others makes you vulnerable to loss.

An additional aspect of wisdom that is usually related to age is having a sense of what is worth fighting for and what is not. There are more than enough battles worth joining in this imperfect world, but one cannot take on all of them without battling 24 hours a day, an exhausting and impossible prospect. And so, maturity requires sufficient knowledge of oneself and the world to make decisions about standing fast or standing aside; holding to principle or being willing to compromise. And accepting that sometimes we will be defeated.

So, yes, being a grown-up means accepting the world on its terms: that loss and disappointment, in causes and in people, are an inevitable part of  life, and that to defend too strongly against them deprives you of the most important and precious things that life has to offer: the thrill and camaraderie of fighting the good fight; and at a more personal level, love, closeness, tenderness, and the acceptance and affection that can only come from unguardedness. To live as if your heart has never been broken and never can be, then, shows both maturity and courage.

Responsibility-taking is another part of being mature, admitting that “yes, it was I who made the mistake.” We all heard the story of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree a long time ago, and it is entirely about responsibility-taking and honesty. And, as that reference might suggest, honesty is no small part of the “grown-up” life. As the sages say, it simplifies life enormously to be honest. Too many people justify their dishonesty by claiming that they are trying to spare someone else’s feelings. Don’t be deceived. Usually it is much more self-serving than that.

Back to humility, where we started. Part of being mature is having the humility to realize that you too might, “but for the grace of God,” be in someone else’s less advantageous spot, and that therefore they should be judged less harshly for whatever they have done or whatever has happened to them, or perhaps not judged at all.

Maturity means cherishing the quiet moments as much as the thrills. And, most definitely, it means living in the moment, mindful of everything, trying not to get caught up in hoping it were different (even though you might well be justified in doing so); allowing yourself to stay centered where you are in time, rather than to be looking back or forward while the irreplaceable, unrepeatable instant of your life passes by.

Look back too much and you will be caught in the sadness of  time-past and unfulfilled longings and regrets, while missing what is possible in the present. Similarly, living in the future tends to generate anxiety in anticipation of what may come, and deprives you of the same present moment that passes by those who are looking back at yesterday.

Accepting and liking oneself is a part of being a grown-up. Not that you don’t need to or want to change, but to appreciate what is good about yourself and to accept some of the inevitable limitations to which all of us are prone. Not to avoid self-improvement, but to avoid self-denigration.

To be a grown-up means living a principled life, one with a commitment to certain values, and to put those values to work, not just in words, but in deeds. As the AA crowd likes to say, “Don’t just talk the talk, walk the walk.” And those principles, those values, must be informed by the fact that we are all mortal, all in-transit, but that the planet and the human race are here (we hope) for the long haul. We are “just visiting” as the Monopoly board reminds us when we land on a certain space. The game will outlast us and so will life on this planet, if we don’t mess it up.

In putting those commitments to work, we must actually do work. Freud was right when he pointed to love and work as the essential organizing forces in any life. If you are mature, unless you are aged or infirm, there is work to be done. Life is made more interesting and engaging by doing it, too. The mature person is not simply a spectator in the game of life.

At least one other quality should be mentioned in this pantheon of qualities in the house of maturity: gratitude. Appreciation of what you do have and appreciation of simple things: a beautiful day, the affection of your children, the ability to do things, a touching song or story, and good friends — all the stuff of life that is too easily dismissed.

Let the last words on the subject of being a grown-up (and much more) go to Adlai Stevenson II, in his 1954 speech at the senior class dinner of his Alma Mater, Princeton University. These 55-year-old words spoken by the 54-year-old Stevenson are as appropriate now as then:

…What a man knows at fifty that he did not know at twenty is, for the most part, incommunicable. The laws, the aphorisms, the generalizations, the universal truths, the parables and the old saws — all of the observations about life which can be communicated handily in ready, verbal packages — are as well-known to a man at twenty who has been attentive as to a man at fifty. He has been told them all, he has read them all, and he has probably repeated them all before he graduates from college; but he has not lived them all.

What he knows at fifty that he did not know at twenty boils down to something like this: The knowledge he has acquired with age is not the knowledge of formulas, or forms of words, but of people, places, actions — a knowledge not gained by words but by touch, sight, sound, victories, failures, sleeplessness, devotion, love — the human experiences and emotions of this earth and of oneself and other men; and perhaps, too, a little faith, and a little reverence for things you cannot see…

To my way of thinking it is not the years in your life but the life in your years that count in the long run. You’ll have more fun, you’ll do more and you’ll get more, you’ll give more satisfaction the more you know, the more you have worked, and the more you have lived. For yours is a great adventure at a stirring time in the annals of men.

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On the subject of maturity, you may find this of related interest: Youth vs. Experience and Maturity: Who Has the Edge?

You may be interested in this topic, as well: Maturity: Ten Steps To Get You There.

The top image is Mevlevi Dervishes Perform, created by K?vanc and sourced from Wikimedia Commons. According to the Wikimedia site, the Mevlevi Order is a Sufi order founded in 1273 in Konya, Turkey. “They are also known as the Whirling Dervishes due to their famous practice of whirling as a form of dhikr (remembrance of Allah).”

“Dervish is a term for an initiate of the Sufi Path… The Dervishes perform their dhikr in the form of a dance and music ceremony called the sema. The sema represents a mystical journey of man’s spiritual ascent through mind and love to ‘Perfect(ion).’ Turning towards the truth, the follower grows through love, deserts his ego, finds the truth and arrives at the ‘Perfect.’ He then returns from this spiritual journey as a man who has reached maturity (hence my use of the picture for this essay) and a greater perfection, so as to love and be of service to the whole of creation.”

The bottom photo is the work of shioshvilli and apparently depicts Whirling Dervishes performing the sema ceremony at the Sirkeci Railway Station in Istanbul, Turkey on June 10, 2006. It is also sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

When Your Social Life is “Social Work”

The world is divided into “givers and takers,” or so we are told. Conventional wisdom advises that being a “giver” is the preferred choice, the moral high ground. Most of us don’t want to be thought of as selfish and non-reciprocal — only in it for ourselves. So being a giver tends to be the equivalent of being a “nice person.”

But can you be too nice? Can you be too giving? Giving to the point that it hurts, to the point of disadvantaging yourself and permitting others to “use” you routinely? Can too much giving be the equivalent of self effacement: showing deference and preference for others to go first, take what they need, and leave you at the end of the bread line?

If the answer is yes, how might you know whether you are giving too much?

Here are some signs your social life has become social work, caring for others to the point you are not taking good enough care of yourself:

  1. Do you tend to be the person in your group who listens to others’ problems, the first person your acquaintances go to when they have something bothering them? By itself, this might simply indicate you are kind and empathic. But these types of relationships become problematic when they do not go both ways: when others don’t have time or understanding or compassion for your problems, but expect those qualities from you.
  2. Do friends and acquaintances impose on you unreasonably? Do they regularly ask you to drop what you are doing to help them? Do they call late at night over small upsets without regard for your need to get up early the next morning?
  3. Beyond words of thanks for your kindness, do your friends express gratitude in more substantial ways, like sending you a greeting card, flowers, candy, or picking up the check at dinner? If you do such things, do they reciprocate?
  4. Do you find yourself disappointed too often when “friends” contact you only when they need something from you or someone to listen, but not for social invitations when they are  feeling good?
  5. Do you believe your only value to people is to be found in what you can do for them? Do you think if you failed to “give,” others would find little reason to spend time with you? Do you doubt your value beyond the ability to assist or console?
  6. Do too many relationships begin with the other’s enormous gratitude for your kindness, but move to a point where your generosity is taken for granted, almost as if he is entitled to it?
  7. Are you exhausted by the demands and requests of others?
  8. Is it difficult to say “no” when something is requested from you, be it time, money, or a ready ear?
  9. Do you fear being dropped by friends and acquaintances if you should become less available when they are in need?
  10. Do you find yourself worrying a good deal about hurting others if you don’t do what they request?
  11. Do you hesitate to express strong opinions to your buddies, opinions different from their’s? Are you afraid of rejection or criticism if you disagree?
  12. Are too many of your friends “troubled souls?” Do you tend to associate yourself with people who have more than their share of problems, making it easy for you to take on the counselor, helper, or social work role?
  13. Do you believe saying no is selfish? Were you told you were selfish growing up?
  14. When you are not appreciated, do you think perhaps you haven’t yet done enough to please your friend?
  15. Do you make excuses for the other when your efforts are unappreciated?

If you have answered “yes” to a number of these questions, you might have problems of self confidence and an inability to assert yourself. Another term often used in the types of relationships described here is the word dependency. Sometimes the word “co-dependent” is used instead. The dilemma is one of allowing yourself to be used, thinking too little of your own needs, and imagining you must do whatever it takes to keep certain people in your life. Standing up to others and setting collapses for fear of abandonment.

This style of relating to people doesn’t go away by itself. Rather, if you see yourself in the above narrative, consider going into psychotherapy. Life is much easier and more fulfilling when relationships work both ways. The sooner you address this problem, the more likely that your life will increase in satisfaction.

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The world is divided into “givers and takers” or so we are told. Conventional wisdom advises that being a “giver” is the preferred choice, the moral high ground. Most of us don’t want to be thought of as selfish and non-reciprocal — only concerned with ourselves. Thus, being a giver tends to be the equivalent of being “good.”

Can you be too good? Can you be too giving — to the point that it hurts, to the point of disadvantaging yourself and permitting others to “use” you routinely? Can too much giving be the equivalent of erasing your needs? Might it become deference and preference for others to go first, take what they need, and leave you at the end of the bread line?

If the answer is yes, how might you know whether you are giving too much?

Here are some signs your social life amounts to social work without the salary social workers receive, caring for others to the point you are not taking good enough care of yourself:

Do you tend to be the one in your group who listens to problems, the first person your acquaintances go to when something bothers them? By itself, this might simply indicate you are kind and empathic. But these types of relationships become problematic when others don’t offer time or compassion for your problems, but expect those qualities from you.
Do friends and acquaintances impose on you unreasonably? Do they regularly ask you to drop what you are doing to help them? Do they call late at night over small upsets without regard for your need to get up early the next morning?
Beyond words of thanks, do your friends express gratitude in concrete ways, like sending you a greeting card, flowers, candy, or picking up the check at dinner?
Do you find yourself disappointed too often when “friends” contact you only in need of something from you or someone to listen, not for social invitations once they bounce back?
Do you believe your single value to people is to be found in what you can do for them? Do you think if you failed to “give,” others would find little reason to spend time with you? Do you doubt your value beyond the ability to assist or console?
Do too many relationships begin with the other’s enormous gratitude for your kindness, but move to a point where your generosity is taken for granted, almost as if he is entitled to it?
Are you exhausted by the demands and requests of others?
Can you say no when something is requested from you, be it time, money, or a ready ear?
Do you fear being dumped should you become less available when they are in need?
Do you find yourself worrying a good deal about hurting others if you don’t do what they request?
Do you hesitate to express strong opinions to your buddies? Are you afraid of rejection or criticism if you disagree?
Are too many of your friends “troubled souls?” Do you tend to associate yourself with people who have more than their share of problems, making it easy for you to take on the counselor, helper, or social work role?
Do you believe saying no is selfish? Were you told you were selfish growing up?
When you feel unappreciated, do you think perhaps you didn’t do enough to please your friend?
Do you make excuses for the other when your efforts are dismissed or taken for granted?

If you answer yes to a number of these questions, you might have problems of self confidence and an inability to assert yourself. Another term often used in the types of relationships described here is dependency. Sometimes the word “co-dependent” is used instead. In either case, the dilemma is one of allowing yourself to be used, thinking too little of your own needs, and imagining you must do whatever seems required to keep certain friends in your life. The thought of standing up to others and setting limits collapses for fear of abandonment.

This style of relating to people doesn’t go away by itself. Rather, if you see yourself in the above narrative, consider going into psychotherapy. Life is much easier and more fulfilling when relationships work both ways. The sooner you address this problem, the more likely that your life will increase in satisfaction.