Sometimes, It Can Be About You

This is a companion piece to yesterday's post, It's Not Always About You.

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I wrote a long time ago about my grandmother's plush goose. As mentioned previously, as a small girl I tried to deploy the presence of the goose as an outward sign that I had emotions that might need tending. While I was unsuccessful in implementing this strategy for making the invisible, visible, I think it was nevertheless a very solid idea: imagine how much simpler life would be if people had a visible indication of the presence of an emotional need.

Unfortunately, people do not, so we are left to guess when others might need supportive care of their feelings. I'm not particularly adept at determining what feelings other people are experiencing, as we know -- but regardless of whether I can tell what's happening, I take emotions very seriously. It's extremely important to me that when other people are speaking to me about their Feelings, or visibly having Feelings in my presence, that I acknowledge them and respect them. Your Feelings are valid. And you are valid. 

This is one of the reasons why I absolutely loathe practical jokes: making someone else feel foolish or embarrassed, making them believe something that isn't true to trick them, or scaring them so that other people may laugh, is reprehensible to me.  No. We don't do that. Ever. No.

There is a kind of Prime Directive, in my world: respect the Feelings of others. 

If someone shares Feelings with me in confidence, I will protect those Feelings forever. Showing a moment of vulnerability? I'll safeguard that moment with my life; no one else will ever see it, unless you choose to share it with them. Need to unburden a secret? I'll carry it with you, whenever you need. You are safe with me. Your Feelings are safe with me. 

I am not here to judge you for what emotions you are experiencing. I'm here in the hopes that you may feel understood. And, if you need, to experience those emotions with you. Because sometimes it's only safe to have Feelings, when someone is there, too. 

Goose, now on a shelf along with koalas, puppet pigs, 

a wombat, a fuzzy green dragonfly, and at last,

all of Grandma's chickens. 

It's Not Always About You

 Because I am the way that I am*, oftentimes my very first reaction to a situation involving another person who is angry/short-tempered/impatient/silent, or who otherwise responds in a way that I do not expect, is: they must hate me/not care about me/OH GOD I'VE DONE SOMETHING WRONG. It's a knee-jerk response over which I have no control -- that cold-water sensation of embarrassment, followed by a protective withdrawing into myself. Run. Hide. If left unchecked, the feeling quickly devolves into self-critical analysis: I'm so needy/awkward/STUPID/much. That's just one stop away from self-loathing. And I don't want to go there, because that's a rabbit-hole from which it's hard to escape. 

Plus, I'm not THAT terrible. I don't think. 

I have spent a fair amount of time over the past few years making an effort to be cognizant of that first reaction, and when I spot it, to deliberately step back and think more carefully about the situations. Is it really about me?

And I've come to the determination that most of the time, it's not about me at all. 

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My default setting is an assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say. That's an erroneous assumption on my part, however, and one that I would do well to let go. People are just not that clear. 

Why are people unclear? Because I cannot see their whole picture. 

Everyone comes into every small moment bearing not only their current state of mind, but also all of their history, both large and small. All kinds of Life going on. And only a tiny fraction of anyone's previous stories includes anything having to do with me. Yet I find it very hard to put myself in someone else's shoes -- it does not come naturally to me to imagine someone's current mood/projects/situations, plus to bear in mind their history, when trying to comprehend what they are saying or doing. 

So the important thing to remember: I'm only a main character in my own life. I'm a peripheral character, at best, in most other people's lives. I probably don't even have a name in the vast majority of others' metaphorical movies. And so I don't need to take things personally, because things are just plain not about me. 

If people are abrupt at work, they are probably stressed by deadlines and projects and want to impart information quickly and efficiently. They are probably not thinking, you are so stupid. 

If they don't want to have a meal with me? Probably busy thinking about all the 8,000 tasks that they hope to accomplish that day. Probably not thinking with you? Ew, no. 

If they don't answer a call/text/email? Probably in the midst of Stuff. Probably not rolling their eyes and thinking ugh, she is so needy, IGNORE. 

Repeat the mantra: it's not about me.

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Perhaps I should go back to my assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say, and try to make that work. It may require my asking additional, occasionally uncomfortable questions: did you mean, X? Are you OK? Is Y a problem? What is going on, really?

That strategy might backfire, though. If someone is in a hurry or bent out of shape for miscellaneous reasons or otherwise preoccupied, more questions won't be particularly helpful. I don't want to make anyone's life harder, or to occupy mental space they don't have at the moment. 

Perhaps I'll just resort to wordlessly offering Grace: an assumption that my exuding kindness, patience, and most of all, not-about-me-ness, is what people need most. And I can return the favor if I am ill-tempered or crabby, by letting other people know: I'm just having a moment. it's not about you. Perhaps that will make everyone's life a little easier. 

Let's see what we can do. 

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* The way that I am: anxiously attached (whether anxious-ambivalent or anxious-avoidant, may vary from day to day). 

Through Someone Else's Eyes

 Herself speaks.

My father has written his biography. I've started reading it, so I can tell him if there's any parts that might benefit from further details.

I've now read about his early years, and the way it is written is heartbreakingly lovely. All the small details are there: of his dog, who would take the shortcut through the woods to meet him at a relative's house; of my grandparents in their heyday; of the two-room schoolhouse, the high school hangouts and activities, the 14-cent Saturday matinees. It's beautiful. A slice of time that will eventually be forgotten -- except through his written word. 

One of the most fascinating aspects of his autobiography, is seeing the world through his eyes. He's a quiet, kind, and brilliant man, and hearing his 'voice' and his stories from his point of view is wonderful. It brings tears to my eyes.

Perhaps it's time for me to write a little more about the people who are important to me. One day, possibly, someone may find it meaningful in learning more about this slice of time in which we now live.