Loose ends

Here is what I'm not working on. This dress was (in pieces) at the bottom of a bag of fabric I found at a yard sale over the summer. I didn't even want the thing at first; although the fabric was great (vintage silk damask), the pieces were too small to salvage for a complete project of my own. However, the woman holding the sale--Hilarie Burke, who turned out to be a fancy-pants handbag designer cleaning house before relocating to Switzerland--got so excited about the idea of my finishing the dress that I felt obligated to comply.
This project is indicative of the extent of my one-sided co-dependency. The dress couldn't be more dissimilar from what I make--the accents Hilarie envisioned (black-with-white-polka-dot trim and patch pockets), the color (olive green makes me look washed out and sick), the mid-calf hem (the worst possible length for my short-waisted, short-legged, all-over-short self)...yet I feel compelled to do it for this woman with whom I spoke for maybe 20 minutes several months ago, who now lives over 4,000 miles away, whom I will likely never see again, who will never know that I finished her dress and probably wouldn't give a shit either way. Someone else gets to do the fun part--drafting a design, picking out fabrics--and I feel obligated to do the crappy work--altering, pressing, hemming, darts, zippers.
Not only do I feel responsible for the realization of a stranger's idea, but I also can't bring myself to begin my own project until this nightmare is completed, and completed to perfection. I realize this is completely fabricated (get it?) and self-imposed, yet awareness alone isn't enough to redirect my energy. I practice this kind of masochistic self-deprivation across the board...attending to the needs of others--even strangers--and often at my own expense is easier than acknowledging and fulfilling my own.
Do I like the dress? Is it me? Hilarie seems to think so...I often don't even know what I think anymore.