That One Friend Requires Regular Reassurance (But Doesn’t Know How to Ask For It)
This is part of my blog series Practical Self-Help for Introspective People.
Hey, friends!
I have a friend I’ll call Jimmy1, and he often says things like, “You probably hate me right now.” And “You probably are bored to tears hearing me blabber.” (He carries a deep reservoir of “You probably” statements.)
This kind of behavior might sound strange, but for Jimmy, it’s constant. For example, we saw The Batman at a theater last month, and he arrived at 5:31 pm, which was one minute after the agreed upon-time. And honestly, arriving a tiny bit late is no big deal. No one’s perfectly punctual, and no one’s harmed if you’re late to a movie. (This isn’t flight traffic control at SFO, where timing is everything!) But when Jimmy arrived in the theater lobby, he shook the rain off his coat and breathlessly mumbled, “You probably hate me right now.”
Jimmy and I have been friends for a long time, and I’ve learned how to decode these statements. When he says, “You probably hate me right now,” he’s actually asking if we’re ok. He’s seeking reassurance that I’m not going to get mad, hold a grudge, or shun/snub/spurn him in the future. He’s seeking emotional safety and security.
Same story for Jimmy’s other “You probably” statements. When he talks about his kids for five minutes and follows up with, “You probably are bored to tears hearing me blabber,” he’s looking for reassurance that I’m not bored, that I’m ok with him directing the conversation for a few minutes, and that I still want to be friends.
In addition, the more extreme the “You probably” statement is, the more reassurance he needs. Like when he was really worried about something he did, and so he said, “You probably just want me to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
For years, I understood that Jimmy needed regular reassurance, but I didn’t understand why. Why would Jimmy worry that I’d get upset over the slightest thing? I’m a reasonable person, after all—at least I like to think of myself this way. I don’t expect everyone to be perfect, and, in my book, you always get at least partial credit for making an effort, if not full credit. And Jimmy always makes an effort. So why does he walk on eggshells around me?
But then I drove with Jimmy to California in his rusted Toyota Camry with missing hubcaps. (Is it me, or are most cars with missing hubcaps Camrys?) At one point during that 13-hour drive, Jimmy told me about his childhood. He told me about his trauma. And I finally understood why he craves regular reassurance.
Jimmy had a horrendous experience in second grade. His teacher, Mrs. W., never rapped his knuckles, never physically hurt him, but she humiliated him in several bizarre ways. For example, one day, she brought dried jellyfish for the class to eat but announced that Jimmy couldn’t have any because he, the “bad reader,” had bombed that morning’s phonics test. (Even as an adult, he occasionally mixes up the letters b and d.)
On another day, Jimmy wasn’t allowed to watch the presidential inauguration with the rest of the school in the cafeteria because he’d left his reading chart at home. (What little kid doesn’t forget stuff at home?) And on Fridays, he missed morning recess to re-take the weekly spelling test. He only got to go outside after he got a perfect score, which never happened.
Any objection to these garnered a scolding in front of the entire class. (And sniggering from a trio of boisterous boys behind his back.)
As a result, 7-year-old Jimmy internalized that if he wasn’t perfect, if he didn’t perpetually people-please, he’d be punished. He internalized that when perfection just wasn’t possible, he should apologize. Early and often. (Turns out, preemptive apologies are a thing!)
Over time, Jimmy realized that putting himself down in public was the fastest way to diffuse tension with Mrs. W. (and future teachers). This was the path to limit harm. Self-abasement was self-protection.
During our drive to California, Jimmy recounted many awful stories from second grade. (And third grade was only marginally better.) Honestly, it broke my heart. He’s genuinely kind and even once captured a small gray spider under a clear plastic cup and carried it outside because “No harm should come to any creature.” After recounting a bunch of childhood stories, he apologized for talking about himself. “You probably think I’m a total narcissist!”
(No, Jimmy, during a 13-hour drive across the vast—and mostly barren—American West, it’s absolutely ok to talk about yourself for 30 minutes! Only a narcissist would call you a narcissist for doing so.)
It finally all made sense: Jimmy lives in constant fear of being punished. And abandoned. By all measures, he’s an accomplished adult with a kind heart, a good marriage, and a steady job. But he fears that if he displeases people about the tiniest thing, he’ll be penalized.
I also think that in some cases, Jimmy knows there’s nothing to fear. I think he knows that I won’t get upset when he arrives a tiny bit late. But seeking reassurance in a passive-aggressive manner is a habit. It’s a routine he follows, much like a wagon wheel stuck in a deep rut, unable to change course.
When this happens, when Jimmy seeks reassurance over trivial matters, I try to speak to his underlying concern without making a big deal. I might even be a tad dismissive: “It sounds like you’re worried that I’m upset because you’re a minute late. But really, don’t worry about it. Let’s go grab the popcorn and Swedish Fish!” And it's really helped! Over time, Jimmy has relaxed around me — I think we've both grown.
So for you, gentle reader, if you have a Jimmy in your life, I’d ask you to consider three things:
Jimmy’s reactions flow from his perception of things. Does he believe he might be punished for being a minute late? This may seem irrational to you, but Jimmy’s fear was unconsciously shaped by thousands of experiences with hundreds of people over multiple decades. Put simply, Jimmy’s reactions probably have little to do with you.
Furthermore, not all experiences carry equal weight: childhood trauma—and how it’s interpreted—continues into adulthood. A few awful experiences may weigh Jimmy down, just as a small anchor prevents a large ship from moving forward. So I try to remind myself, “Their reaction is not about me.”
It’s not your job to fix Jimmy. It’s not your job to be his therapist, confront his annoying habit, and push him to change. (Seriously, who wants a friend who tries to “fix” us?) Instead, just be a good friend and ignore his behavior.
Or, if you feel compelled to address it, use a light touch. And be brief. One script I use is: “It sounds like you’re worried that I’m upset because of X. But really, don’t worry about it.”
Do you contribute to Jimmy’s fear? We all have an internal radar system scanning for threats. We all subconsciously catalog people’s responses to situations, including micro-expressions. So when Jimmy is a tad tardy, or when he does/says something stupid, are you warm and compassionate? Or cold and critical?
Now, I’ll be honest, few people are outwardly frosty and hostile. Few people will shotgun criticisms all over creation. It’s more common to be a somewhat judgy person who’s trying not to blow their “nice person” cover. (I sometimes struggle with this!) If this describes you, Jimmy will sense it and respond accordingly.
In fact, it’s this last idea I want to double down on: with Jimmy, focus on warmth and compassion. Aim your attention away from your thoughts and annoyances, and steer it toward Jimmy. I often ask myself, “What does Jimmy feel right now? And why?”
Help Jimmy feel a sense of belonging, at least when he’s with you. Be a gracious friend who overlooks social faux pas. This doesn’t mean you allow Jimmy to trespass personal boundaries, but it does mean you show Jimmy understanding and kindness. Especially when Jimmy is making a real effort.
And in my experience, the Jimmys of the world always make an effort.
Thanks to Diane Callahan, Thomas Weigel, and Britton Broderick for reading drafts of this!
Jimmy is a stand-in for a variety of people who struggle with interpersonal relationships. In some cases, Jimmy is me.