Little scraps of paper hold me together. Each piece soaked in a homemade solution of effort mixed with anxiety and then layered one strip at a time over the clutter, chaos, and disarray; Clair salmagundi. These pieces of paper are lists. Ordinary registers of tasks or goals scrawled on every kind of paper that followed me through the stages of my life; from Holly Hobby notebooks to my standard yellow notepad. . If I were to crawl inside each memory and poke around a little, I would find at least one list under a pile or tucked in a purse pocket. There was a point in my life where I had to choose to sink or swim and as usual I didn’t like either option. Instead I grabbed onto a notebook and a pencil and yanked myself right out of the pool to make a list of things to do.

#1 – learn to swim 

Like most things there is another side to the coin. Lists are not always good; in fact some lists can damage your perception and mess with your head. Starting from the beginning though – with the good lists . . . At a very young age, I was in charge. I was in charge of myself and my brother (5 years younger) and honestly I didn’t mind, because I didn’t really know better. It seemed kind of natural to be bossy and in charge. Of course not too many seven-year-olds are prepared to raise a two-year-old. This is probably why my brother never really developed his coping skills. My parents were way too young to have children. I’m not sure my mother ever got there and though my dad did finally reached an acceptable maturity level when I was in my early teens, it was too late. Dad and I created a new relationship and bond, but I had been in charge too long to go back. When you are in a situation like that you adapt and I did it with lists. All kinds of lists. Some were never put on paper and those are the dangerous lists.

I wasn’t ever officially diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, but I suspected and as an adult my doctor agrees.  These lists helped me untangle the web in my head and contribute successfully or at least adequately. For me, it can best be described as having literally hundreds of thoughts at one time with the important ones being no louder than the mundane. I used to try to do something the moment I thought of it and before I was finished I would have thought of something else needing my attention and move on with the full intent to come back (sometimes I did). Eventually I learned to empty my thoughts onto paper and take things one at a time. I still do this, but not in a very organized way. I have about 6 regularly used notebooks, a grocery list on the fridge, several to-do notepads in a drawer and two list apps on my phone. I’m sure a consolidation is in order. Either way, it’s safe to say, my ADD helped me learn to organize (or try) my thoughts into lists. Good lists.

 About seven years ago, I was a having huge argument with my live in boyfriend (now husband) and it seemed to me we were going break up any day because we squabbled regularly – almost daily – and I was sure it was because he was a jerk (sometimes he was and still can be). I have no memory of the actual fight, but he had stormed off down our street and I had sobbed my way to my computer to look for a way to fix him on the Internet.

I was sure we were codependent and I thought I knew what that word meant. I thought it meant we were addicted to each other even though we were awful for each other. The Internet was pissing me off. It wasn’t finding a way to fix my boyfriend. Then I found a survey about codependence and I started answering the questions. At first I felt like quite a martyr answering “yes” to questions like: Are you always sacrificing your own needs for everyone else? Do you feel more worthy as a human being because you have taken on a helping role? If you stopped helping your friends, would you feel guilty or worthless?

Then something happened. I was still answering yes to questions like: Do you feel resentful when others are not grateful enough to you for your efforts at rescuing them or fixing their lives? Did you grow up in a family that had a lot of emotional chaos or addiction problems? Do you keep mental lists of “good deeds and favors”, becoming very hurt when they are not repaid? And there is it – bad lists. As I sat there crying and reading, the more I read the more I realized I was right about one thing; I was co-dependent. I made bad lists. I kept a score on everything. Every visit or phone call by one of my parents was a tick mark on a list representing who cares more. Every compliment from my boyfriend was erased by each negative comment or by things he didn’t do for me. My whole life was a giant scorecard.

It was a pivotal moment in my life to recognize these bad lists and all the other things my research turned up. Before I could begin to repair things, I had to acknowledge first why I had become this begrudging caretaker in the first place and to do that I had to visit some bad places.

In simple terms, a codependent personality is born out of the responses and behaviors people develop from living with an alcoholic or substance abuser. And for the majority of my life from age 7-13 (with little gaps of sanity at my dad’s house) and sporadically until I bailed at 17, I was in charge. In charge of myself. In charge of my little brother. And in charge of my alcoholic mother. There were many bad situations she put me in that ended, not surprisingly, bad. I poured her into bed numerous times. Some of these were after sitting in the bar watching her drink all night and then driving her home before I was old enough to drive (then going to school in the morning and sleeping at my desk).

Most holidays ended with disaster. Like on November 28^th, 1985, when my twelfth birthday just happened to fall on Thanksgiving. As with most holidays, the day started with Mom sleeping late and waking in a decent mood. She doting a little about my birthday and the amazing feast she was going to make us (me, little brother, and her Spanish speaking husband from the restaurant where she worked). We had little money and all four of us lived in a tiny one bedroom, I didn’t expect too much, mostly her cooking and her attention. I spent some time with my Aunt Diane, who lived next door, and she gave me this super gaudy, huge owl necklace that was made out of brass hinged layers. She likely got it from the goodwill where she worked, but I didn’t care – I loved it. It was too big for me and it covered half my upper torso and I wore it proudly like an Oscar attendee would show off their jewelry or maybe more like a medieval knight in his chainmail.

When I arrived back home I could smell the turkey right away; my mother is an amazing cook. As I made my way the short distance to the kitchen, I began to recognize the signs: sleeping step-dad on the couch with a glass in his hand, empty bottle on the end-table, slurring speech as my mom sang along with the blaring music. When she saw me, she smiled and said, “check this shit out, it’s almost ready,” as she pulled open the oven and reached in with her bare hands. The alcohol slowed her reflexes and she didn’t release the pan until she was a full foot away from the oven. Turkey and stuffing went in one direction and she fell backwards the other direction smashing into me  and ripping my owl armor off, sending it in pieces all over the kitchen. I spent the rest of the day tending her wounds and tucking her in, salvaging some of the meal for my little brother and trying to fix my necklace.

I don’t tell these stories much, I guess because I’m embarrassed and I don’t like people to feel sorry for me, but it’s important to my point. Where did the bad lists come from? The coping skills I developed to deal with my mom created really bad habits for dealing with the rest of mankind. I usually surrounded myself with broken people and tried to fix them. Especially boys. The worst of which was an 18-month abusive relationship with a guy who had more problems then I could have ever helped, but I was convinced I had to try. I was sure that was love. In fact, not giving up on someone was what I thought love was. Finally late one night I drove bleeding and barefoot to my best friend’s house only to discover she wasn’t home. Her sleepy mom brought me in, calmed me down and cleaned up some of my wounds. She gave me a responsible talk that mothers give their daughters (it was new to me) and offered me some solutions including a room to stay for a few months. I’m sure I gave her all kinds of good check marks on my scorecard.

After I revisited the breadcrumb path on which I had collected all these habits, I was able to recognize that no matter what kind of jerk my boyfriend might be I had bigger problems and I could only fix myself. It was hard to let go of some of these habits. Being codependent isn’t always bad. In fact, codependents are probably the hardest working employees you can have. I was promoted in every job I ever had. People love to give more responsibility to codependents, because they can take it all. As a boss, I even looked for some of the signs when I hired people. That’s bad, I know. 

I had to make some serious changes and the biggest thing was giving up lists. Lists were what I knew. They had held me together my whole life. Luckily I only had to give up the bad lists. My scorekeeper records had to be deleted. If I helped a friend move twice, I could not allow myself to think they “owed” me. If I didn’t have time to help someone who had helped me in the past, I had to say “no” and let it go. I had to realize that everything didn’t have to be even. There was a lot of work I had to do beyond lists, but that is probably the habit that tries to inch it’s way back in the most.

My husband (who is not a jerk afterall) and I often talk about “the other side of the coin”. The things we love most about each other are usually also the things that can bug us. He is so passionate about the things he loves that it can ooze from his every pore and infect everyone with his great mood and humor, but he is also passionate about the things he hates. And that can be ugly. The habits our kids have that can drive us nuts might actually be their biggest strengths as an adult. I like to hope that when Emily is an adult, her stubbornness will translate to an unwillingness to bend her values and beliefs. When I reflect on my own habits and personality, it’s hard to ignore my ambivalent affair with lists. These days, I stick with the good lists – they seem to bring out the best of me.