The Boss of Me

The Boss of Me

Somedays I feel like the only reason folks want me around is for what I can do to make their lives nicer. I know, even your goofy, giggly philosopher guru has her moments. I also know that, when I am feeling that way, I have fallen into an old habit, an old thought rut, and that I can get out of it quickly and easily, and the more I do that, the easier it gets.

When I feel like that, I think of it as the Drudge Syndrome, I know I have some regrouping to do, because, in addition to being a drama queen, I was also a martyr, oh, yeah, and a victim.

The moment I really got it was while complaining to a beloved houseguest. I was going on about how he didn’t help me, and suddenly noticed that I was standing in the doorway with my arms outstretched in a classic crucifix posture. It totally cracked me up.

When I am a drama queen, I allow and encourage my feelings to escalate and cascade until I am a screaming harridan, or sobbing snotty mess and nothing was EVER this bad. When I am a victim, I feel set upon, I feel hopeless and powerless and scared, and nothing will EVER get me out of it. When I am a martyr, I feel superior, I feel isolated, I often feel angry and resentful, and nothing you do will EVER be good enough.

Yuck-a-roni.

You know how much better my life is now. I had to make it better or die. Seriously. I had to decide, and commit. I had to let go of my drama queen, and yes, she left kicking and screaming and scrabbling at my ankle. I had to cast out my victim, who wondered what on earth would become of her, and I had to evict my martyr, who said, “You’ll never survive without me!”

I have no words for how much I prefer living without those roommates.

The other one is also really common, she’s the “unwanted one.” Not as catchy a moniker, but then she wouldn’t have a flashy name, would she. She’s the one who only gets to hang around with us because she treats, or she drives, or she has a pool, or something like that. As far as she is concerned, no one would have her around if it weren’t for X.

Sigh.

She never quite includes herself, and, even though we include her, she always hangs back, she never joins in.

How do I feel when I feel wanted? Why do I feel welcome? What makes me included?

When I choose to be a part of my community, everything shifts. When I decide that I am welcome wherever I go, people are happy to see me. No, really. It’s freaky. When I choose to be on your side, stuff goes so much better. You can try to include me until your eyes cross and your lips turn blue, but until I decide to include me, I’m on the outside.

Over and over, it seems like I am the one who is responsible for my happiness. May as well just suck it up, and get happy.

How have I changed from feeling like it’s all your fault to knowing I am the boss of me?

(c) Pam Guthrie 2013 all rights reserved 08302013