After half a century, as sort of a natural progression, my overly generous nature changed, so I feel like I’ve seen both sides of this issue.

I gave too much, all the time, my constant battle against receiving too little as a child. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone I cared for ever feeling for a minute the way being ignored and insufficiently loved had made me feel.

And it was up to me to see to it that they never did, which involved giving giving giving, in all the ways my family never could, giving time, attention, hugs and gifts.

I always had to be early everywhere, too, so as to avoid the possibility of anyone ever having to wait for me even a minute.

By 50, I’d had tons of therapy, and thought I’d filled my family-sized hole a long time ago, as like many raised in cold families, I’d early on chosen trustworthy friends as a replacement.

I make good friends easily, the prerequisite being that they get me, and have my back, those anti-family traits. Some of my closest friends have fit this bill since babyhood, so they know all sides of me, and accept every piece.

I gave and gave and gave, to these friends, to strangers, guided by the strict need to always be on the side of overgiving instead of under.

Yes, sometimes — maybe often — my generosity was taken advantage of, but that was a small price to pay for living on the side of kindness.

Unbeknownst to me, however, I’d been wearing down The High Road into a dangerous gully, a trip hazard.

At 50, as Flying Mermaid, I became a MySpace blogger for 5 years. Slowly, without me realizing it, as I began to create a new worldwide family among those with far more traits similar to mine than any I knew in the skin, the thousands of tiny broken up patches surrounding my long filled family-sized hole — potholes of which I’d been thoroughly unaware — silently began their own repair job.

But these potholes were not filled with the cement that had been slopped into the gaping family-sized hole. Instead, my solid, complete parts, my healthier bits, began to grow.

My writing, which had always been my deepest Me, and never before seen by any but a select few, was now gobbled raw, round the world, and having a hell of an impact.

Young scared, abused lesbians from all walks of life were coming to me for comfort and support. I became sort of a savior of the underdog, a role I couldn’t have cherished more.

People from distant lands told me the first thing they did each morning was to check what I’d written in the middle of the night, that their day couldn’t start until then.

I called them all my SpaceBabies.

As the accolades and understanding seeped in from round the world, eventually I began to notice that something inside me was changing.

Those solid complete parts, my healthier bits that had begun to grow, were now bulging, filling in the rest of my gaps, finally repairing those dastardly potholes, no cement needed.

I’d always known my biggest issue was that of abandonment, possibly begun by repeatedly being stashed outside as an infant in the deadly New Jersey Summer heat, so that those inside with the windows closed to keep in the air conditioner’s cooling, could enjoy their lives without the intrusion of a neglected newborn’s shrieks.

But one day, as the blogger Flying Mermaid, I felt a shift. Somewhere along the way I seemed to have lost my lifelong panic over people’s departures, over the easy way some can disappoint, over never receiving nearly as much as I was giving (aside from with George Emily Fisher's answer to How did you meet the love of your life, whether or not you married him or her, or if it was reciprocated?).

I was astonished to discover that none of this any longer had any grip on me.

When I finally made it back to my castle after those years away tending to my dying mother, followed by 8 months on the road meeting and staying with an uncountable number of my SpaceBabies, I disappeared into the desert wilderness I’d missed so dreadfully.

Previous to leaving, I’d had a highly active social life here in the desert. But when I returned, my dog, Cora Belle, Emily Fisher's answer to Do you believe that pet owners can understand the meaning of different types of dog barks?

Emily Fisher's answer to Will a dog remember its owner after 3 months? my castle and the desert, were all I needed any more. Other people were a complete after thought.

It became apparent that my gaps intended to remain filled without any additional human input, even after FaceFuck killed MySpace and I was no longer blogging.

But it took more time to realize that I wasn’t doing all that giving giving giving any more and had learned to say No.

Sure, I sometimes look back on my life as the giving tree with nostalgia, but I do that enjoyably about many phases of my life. That’s being old and having stories to tell.

I don’t think my generous-to-a-fault nature would have altered without the soul soothing I received as Flying Mermaid, and who knows if it would have made this long term difference if I hadn’t had this wonderland to swallow me.

What I do know is that this shift in nature has given me a completeness I’d never had before. An inner calmness, peace.

Of course there are advantages to being nice, for both the giver and receiver, but I think it’s important to understand your motivation, and to recognize when giving is doing you more harm than good.

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