I’ll let you in on a little secret; I don’t always like being right.
There are moments when I relish it, of course. Those tend to be when The Husband and I have had a discussion about something, and the following day I bring it up and he doesn’t remember ever having spoken to me about it. Whereas I can sit there and tell him in no uncertain terms where we were standing, who was wearing what, what commercial was blaring in the background, and even what direction the goldfish were swimming, he will not recall the conversation. He’ll stare vacantly and shake his head. As I start to squawk and gesticulate wildly, all pretense of patience flying the coop, he’ll remain mild-mannered and somewhat curious about the floor show I’m putting on. When he eventually relents (out of a desire for peace, not a sudden flash of memory), I count it as a little victory. Go me.
But I digress. The times where I wish I hadn’t been right, those are onerous little buggers. I don’t relish those moments. I don’t toss them into my mental Rolodex of woohoos! They are the sad sighs, the hunched shoulders, the rapid texts to friends – in other words, signs of the forlorn. They are more painful – and vexatious to the extreme. I’m a pessimist, I know this will come as a stunning blow to those of you who have never read more than a few lines of my writing, or who have never met me in person… I have always been a pessimist, and, one day, I will die still having been a pessimist. The glass is half empty, and it’s fucking ugly, too.
Again, I digress. A few months back, as I do, I predicted a couple things would happen. I wasn’t looking forward to these events – they weren’t celebratory, like the “epic collapse” of the Red Sox this year. No, I just felt they were inevitable, and, in my Eeyore-esque fashion, predicted their dismal arrival. One of the issues was part of a cycle, a cycle I had continuously fed into. It’s one of my many flaws, feeding into cycles. In January of 2009, I put a stop to feeding into one. I have not relented. I’m quite proud of myself (quick, make a note that I said that). I won’t lie. It hasn’t been easy. Many times I have longed to continue the binge feeding of that particular cycle – but enough was enough.
This time, the same is true. I’ve reached a saturation point. This will not continue. I have sought and found perspective. I know, that sounds so lofty, doesn’t it? Well, it wasn’t an easy find, mind you. Nothing with me ever is. It was rather a clumsy meandering. I sort of tripped and landed painfully on top of perspective. But that bitch is mine now. At least this cycle stops here.
The other issue? That’ll take work. I’m great at work though. I like having that purpose, that thing to strive towards. A goal, as enticing as a box of Godiva truffles after a month-long diet. It’s a renewed sense of me and my capabilities.
In the end, being emotionally and mentally cruel to yourself is counterproductive for the whole growing and learning thing which constitutes our lives. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve heard. It’s also cruelty if you allow others to dump their problems on you. You’ve got to stop it. It’s not about who said what, or who did what. It’s about how much more you’re going to take before you’ve reached your saturation point. It’s about cutting the bullshit out of your life – and the bullshitters. Huddle and cuddle with those who’ll help you burrow into your soul. Those who’ll tolerate your silly little ways and love you just the way you are. Ditch the haters. Wish them luck and then back the fuck away from them. We’re all on a little march towards enlightenment. I’ve decided I’m only going to march with those who don’t give me flat tires along the way.