One of my worst personality traits, I think, is my chronic compulsion to try to fix everything. Historically, it was a big problem, and worse still, not one that I was even aware of. But now I can see that there aren’t many people in my life who I haven’t tried to fix. Not that I limit myself to people. No, I’m an avid fixer of situations and problems too.
My need to fix was usually dressed up as “just trying to help”. I didn’t yet understand that usually, in turmoil, people just need to talk. That my listening was enough and that they were not looking for a solution to the problem. So, before they had even finished speaking, I had already devised a five-step plan that would, to my mind at least, resolve the situation. I rarely noticed the unenthusiastic response I got. Like a bulldozer I would sweep in with a certainty I shouldn’t have had, until they retreated in resignation.
Why do I need to fix?
It took me a years to have the self-awareness to consider why I felt the need to fix. It was only then did I realise that seeing people in pain was traumatic for me. That in trying to fix them, I was actually attempting to ease my own discomfort.
I also pained me to realise that, while I was busying myself fixing everything and everyone around me, I wasn’t having to look at my own stuff. The things that were causing discomfort in my own life. Fixing other people, it seemed, was much easier than fixing myself.
Being an oldest child didn’t help. Having four siblings, two much younger, I definitely took on a mother like roll in those relationships. And now that I have a child of my own, I can see the correlation. The need to fix everything for my daughter is almost overwhelming. I never want her to feel pain, or even the slightest discomfort, and when she was younger I couldn’t stop myself from overstepping. I learned early on that not only does this take away her autonomy, it also weakens her trust in me. What I saw as my helping, she understood as my lack of belief in her abilities.
I’m good at this
In my defence, I thought that I providing a service. In my youthful arrogance, I presumed that I knew what I was talking about. It didn’t occur to me that I might be wrong, or that it wasn’t my place. I wasn’t yet mature enough to understand how nuanced life, and people, can be.
I deluded myself that I was good at helping people, to the point where I considered doing it for a living. Then, in my mid-30s, I started a counselling qualification and I barely got through the first year. That experience taught me a number of things. Firstly, you can’t tell people how best to live their lives. As a trained professional, your job is to guide them so that they can figure that out for themselves. Secondly, being trusted with a person’s pain or trauma is a great responsibility. Your words carry power and, if used incorrectly, can cause great damage. Lastly, and most importantly, it showed me that it was not for me. I realised that I needed to keep my mouth firmly shut.
It makes me sad to think that through my clumsy meddling, I have likely caused additional pain. It frustrates me that there are still times when, even knowing what I know, I overstep. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. But, and this is important, at least now I’m not deluded enough to think that I have the answers. Even if, for a moment, I think that I do. And as soon as I gain control over my impulsive tongue, I make that completely clear.
