Considering my size, I get pushed around a lot. I think I was told early in life that a bully is the worst thing one could be. Or maybe, because I felt bullied by so many people, I found it the worst thing.

Even when people assert themselves with the acceptance that I might say no, I give in. Almost always. Because, I think to myself, there has got to be a compromise where every person involved gets — at least, mostly — what they want. And me? I give the most, the most often.

I don’t think it seems this way to other people. In my perception of it, perhaps due to my privilege as a white male in America, others see me as always getting my way. In reality, even should I win any such battle, some small part of me dies. What I want is not to succeed, but for everyone to see how much time and effort I have spent making the best option for everyone, even if they didn’t get their first, best choice.

Hypervigilance, they call my behavior in psych-speak. Sounds about right. I have no assertion. I am the “sensitive 90s guy” that my director makes jokes about. “That guy has feelings, you guys,” she says with an eye-roll. The joke lands, and I do think it’s funny. But it also means that all of my identity, the time I spent going to Lilith Fair and being open-minded about how masculinity should be defined, has been for naught.

Because I listen and consider and forgive, I am considered too vulnerable to lead. Because I will not assert my size over people, I am perceived as weak. Because I find it poor behavior to needlessly assert my will over another person dishonestly or manipulatively, I am a big softie. Because I display respect and compassion, I am seen as ineffectual or wishy-washy.

I understand why. No one is doing the same for me. No one is taking into consideration my reputation or my feelings or the work I have done, so how can they possibly empathize? I have fallen once again into a position for which no one will thank me. I am the enemy, the hidden obstacle, rather than the giver and the facilitator. My contributions are forgotten or discredited in favor of more aggressive egos.

People wonder how I can hate it so much. I do not ask for credit, but none is offered, either. All of this happens around me, rather than with me.

Is it depressive falsehood, or depressive reality? No way of telling, I suppose.