Please Like Me

I am and always have been a people pleaser.  It's what my brain has been wired to do.  I've had people who loved me, but I always wanted more.  After the betrayal of my molestation there was a great deal of shame and guilt. I thought I must have done something wrong to deserve this. I was dirty and unlovable.
Then, there was my mother's own mental illness that I thought was my fault. If only I had been prettier; if only I had long hair; if only I wasn't fat. There are too many if onlys to mention. So, I decided, or rather my way of thinking became warped to the point of believing that it was my job to make everyone happy.  I figured if everyone else felt good, I would feel good. I excelled in school, I ran for student government, was in the chorus, but it wasn't enough.  I still felt like I could do better.
I became a perfectionist.  Either it was done right, in the way I looked at it, or it was all wrong. I wanted everything to be just right. My room was always clean, and I did my best to keep up with the trends of the times. I began to think that if I looked like a great person, then everyone would like me. I started doing things for my family, like doing the dishes or my own laundry. But I did it in secret. I was mortified if anyone acknowledged my efforts.
The odor of desperation clung to me. When I went to high school, I would sit with whoever would have me.  The black kids didn't like me, because I talked like a white girl.  The smokers and stoners wouldn't have me, because I was too goody goody for them. The jocks didn't like me because I didn't play any of their sports.
Finally, I sat with the white kids that I had classes with.  They were a nice crowd. All of them smart, and never quite fitting in. They always talked on the phone and hung out together, but not me. I was hardly ever invited out. So, I stayed in my room and did my homework, or watched TV.  I read a lot. I went to the library so much that the librarian sent me a graduation card!
I didn't mind it so much, being the token black. At least I had people to eat lunch with. I think you have to try extra hard to be liked when your black. There is a sense of mistrust among different people that says blacks are not smart, they are violent and all they do is cause trouble.  I was different.  I knew how to dress, how to speak, how to gain respect and give respect. I guess tat makes me an "uncle tom".
I was never bitter tough, just lonely.  It goes on to this day. No matter how I try to engage, the more I disconnect into a dream world where everyone likes me.  This dream state can last for days.  The more I dreamt, the less lonely I was, and I had friends it that world. I was cool.
I'm still a people pleaser. I do things for other people all the time. I do not want or expect acknowledgement. I just try to be a good person. Some people take advantage of me, but most don't. They say your true friends will be there in the darkness to lead you out into the light. But I don't have too many friends like that.
All I want is 2 or 3 girlfriends that I can talk to on the phone, go to lunch, go shopping or watch movies with. It's not that hard to be my friend. You just have to know a few things about me. Like when I am shutting down, it's nothing personal, I just need to be alone for a while.
Being friends with a person who has bipolar can be difficult. All we really want is a hug and someone to tell us it's going to be okay.  The mood changes are hard to deal with and some people refuse to see your illness for what it is. Snap out of it, or don't be so sad. Stupid thing like that which don't help a person in the midst of depression. I think most people like the mania part, where we are high energy, talkative, overspend and get hyper sexual. But it all has to come crashing down at some point. Your true friends will be there to help you pick up the pieces, but those who were just along for the ride are long gone..
I still want to be liked, only it's not so overwhelming. I am finally at a place where I am at peace being alone. And that's okay. We are all okay.