A Tank With No View

tank

Transfer of blame (TOB).  A term I had heard before a million times but was never interested in digging any deeper to understand what it implied.  If I was right, I was right.  If I was wrong; I’d apologize.  If someone else was wrong … and there was a chance that Bosses, Parents etc. might think it was me … I made sure the owner of the mistake was labeled.  But not just acknowledged or finger pointed, noooo.  I am talking billboard size:

 

THEY DID IT!

It wasn’t me!  I swear.  I am so hardworking, and organized, and responsible and perfect that I don’t make mistakes and you are not going to blame me for hers/his.

I’ve considered lately that we are still kids no matter how old we get.  Things hurt our feelings.  We imagine things sometimes, making up “stories” as I learned in Landmark Education.  When you don’t have all the facts you tend to create your ‘version’ around it.  Your story is about as accurate as a bent rifle.  And it can do as much damage to the person, shooting them in the foot.

When I say “them” you know I mean “myself” right?  Just checking…

I had a tremendous growth thing happen to me this week (inside growth, not strange scientific outside growth).  We almost lost Diego and got bad news about his heart.  The good news is that the medications seem to be working and as I type this, he and Dante are in a small dog bed they love at my feet.  Snoring.  This makes me very happy to count “two” snores.  One day it will just be one.   And that hurts.  And if you ask me about it I’ll cry because I am still wrestling with the grief of it.  I think I can do anything but apparently not stop or turn back time.   It always comes back to the damned clocks.

Follow me for a second and see if this makes sense:

  1. Open and honest, very sensitive writer girl moves to Texas after a year of very bad things happening.
  2. Open girl decides being open is dangerous.
  3. Mostly closed girl shuts-in in Texas.  Focuses on husband, kids, immediate family but pours herself into working the crazy hours that were supposed to be tamed, once she became a Mrs. once more.
  4. Almost-All-The-Way-Closed girl starts daytime job again (after over two years of working only with snoring dogs and Skype conferences).
  5. Closed-Girl isn’t sure who or even HOW to trust.  Instead of being the dog with the waggy tail and a ball in her mouth (like usual) she is the dog under the porch growling.  Watching.  Observing.  Categorizing… but still growling.  And no one is allowed to touch her ball.

But the problem isn’t me.  It is the culture of Texas.  It is the culture of American’s.   It is the culture of network marketing.  It is the age gap between co-workers it is… anything but me?  The numbers didn’t add up in my head, which is the first sign that I am wrong and running a few stories in the background, chugging away my bandwidth like open processes on my computer.
One of the things I loved most about myself was the ability to love everyone.  Find something special in anyone.  I have friends from every walk of life with their own unique histories, challenges and victories.  Poor, rich, fat, thin, brilliant, funny… creative.   I have always thought of the world as this big, magic tapestry that God paints by putting every flavor of the rainbow in terms of personalities, skills and appearances.  I loved people, and I didn’t care what they did, or how they lived, or what they thought of me.  I found something kind to love in everyone I met because I wanted to connect.  I felt orphaned by my family and so I decided to make the world my family instead.   And God was the only Father I really needed, and if nothing else, I was positive my adventures made him laugh.

So how does someone go from a trusting, open, generous, lighthearted daisy to a dog growling, isolated under a porch?  Pain.  <— This stuff can also clean grills with one wipe. It’s caustic.  It changed me without my permission in ways I could not see.  And I am pissed for the right reasons now because I never wanted to be changed.  I liked who I was, even if it meant I was wrong about people from time to time.

Iz human… mistakes are part of life.

So I am doing some reading on the ramparts.  The walls that you construct to keep people out also strangle out the sunshine.  They paint your motivation and hobble your ambition.  I used to be complimented frequently on having a kind, loving and positive aura.   I imagine it’s like … green right now.  Or black with crunchy sharp edges.

The problem is me.

How I chose to process pain may have got me through the dark days, but those days are over now.  For good actually since I have no intention to revisit them (or the people who dealt the blows that turned my world upside down, and kept coming… and coming… and coming at me).  They tried to sink me and didn’t.   But they sink me ifMe and Diego I let the experience dampen my happiness.  My lightheartedness.  My creativity and in some ways, my naive nature.  I’d rather continue to go through life as I always have ASSUMING people are inherently good.  I think that’s the right way to live.

I am inherently good too.  I help whenever I can.  I love my little family.  I am generous.  I am working on things like birthday’s and acknowledging others more.  I want to get back to the core of me which is to elevate and support others.  Not to avoid them at all costs or minimize my interactions and stifle new friendships, business opportunities and more because I am under a self-lock-down.

The problem right now isn’t the people who did what they did to shock me into this state of protectionism.  The problem right now… is me, allowing that pain to echo and limit my life, optimism and sense of adventure.  My innocence.  My playfulness. I can be that outside the four walls of our house too.  It’s okay to come out of the tank now, all the bad guys don’t have passports.

My attitude and perspective took a quantum leap forward this week.  I am responsible for the “blah” and working my way back to my “woot!” for life.  Trusting, being more open, sharing and not worrying about the consequences.  God made me an open person.  I’m tired of pretending to be a tank.   The view sucks.

You can be alive and act dead.  Or you can forget the scars and start living while you still have the time.    So said the little black dog nudging my slipper…  x  So said the grown up who just grew up a little more this week.  And I feel ashamed, but changed.