On Being Difficult

in a good way

A few weeks ago, Matt and I went out to lunch at a beach restaurant. We ordered oysters. He got his exactly the way they were listed on the menu. I got mine with a few adjustments—no breadcrumbs, no hot sauce—and then apologized to the waitress for being difficult.

She looked straight into my eyes and said, “You’re not difficult, darling. You are clear.”

And that got me thinking about what we call difficult women.

Remember that line in When Harry Met Sally when Sally/Meg Ryan is crying on the bed and says to Harry/Billy Crystal, “I’m difficult.” Or stories of actresses who ask for what they want being “difficult?” Or a woman, any woman, who refuses to diminish herself to make other people comfortable?

My step-father Dick, a dentist, once said to me “You are a piece of work, Geneen. I can’t imagine a man who would put up with you.” I was sitting in his dental chair, floating on nitrous oxide, his hands in my mouth but I did manage to sputter: “Me? I’m a piece of work? You married the original piece of work, Dick. MY MOTHER.”

From the time I was a child and saw the elephant in the living room—that my parents were unhappy, cruel to each other, always ready to divorce—and spoke up about it, I was told to be quiet. I was told that children should be seen and not heard.

And when I later confronted my mother about her affairs, I was told that I was difficult, that I was making things up.

When I got angry with her for reading my journal, she told me I was too sensitive. That I was difficult.

My mother was unhappy, mostly miserable. She was lonely. Elusive. Withholding of her love. And I believed her behavior meant something about me. That I was wrong. That I was needy. And that I was difficult. In LOVE, FINALLY, I write about the origin of these beliefs, how they created a filter through which I saw not only myself but every single thing and person around me, so that when a friend didn’t answer a text or ended her relationship with me, the beliefs and conclusions about myself were the way I explained the hurt to myself. Well, of course, I’m needy. I’m damaged. I’m difficult. I also write about how my mother changed. How I changed. How she softened. And I softened. Change is possible, even the things you are convinced will always be that way can open and melt.

I still have it impressed in my psyche that asking for what I want or being different than other people means I am difficult. And that being difficult is not good. I should be nice. I should be easy. I should go along with what everyone else is eating, having, doing. (I don’t do that but there is still an underlying background queasiness. An apology on the tip of my tongue.)

When I refused to keep dieting after gaining and losing so much weight, I was told that I was wrong. Not exactly difficult. More like crazy.

And when I speak up and say that is not funny after a joke that is mean, I get labeled difficult.

And when I don’t want to go where other people are going or eat what other people are eating or do what other people are doing, I am called difficult.

And when I confronted my breast surgeon because I am still in pain and asked her whether her resident had actually closed the surgery, I could see she was uncomfortable and I felt as if I was being difficult. Then I remembered that someone had told me that being on my own side sometimes, often, makes people uncomfortable. That being labeled difficult is a catch-all phrase. Is a way that people throw off the discomfort of a woman speaking up.

The truth is that what I am is clear and being clear is difficult for many people.