Who’s usually cracking it?  Of course, you guessed it, me.  Self-flagellation has always been the way I do things.  I know I suck; I’m simply beating you to the punch.  When I’m told I’ve done something wrong, I totally agree, two hundred percent.  I’ll double the mistake, double the seething, and double my belief that I’m an all-around terrible person.  It’s even sweeter when I know deep down that it’s not my doing.  Nothing feeds my disease better than accepting blameless blame.  Fine.  It’s my fault.  I’ll take the hit.

Step 10:  continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

It’s an emotion that I love, one entirely of my own making:  a thick blend of self-loathing and superiority that goes down smooth.  I’m so tired of being the bigger person, the one who turns the other cheek.  In the old days, I was the one who erupted with truth, spewing out blame and anger over the entire situation.  I wouldn’t call out anyone specifically, but I’d make it pretty clear that I was tired of fixing other people’s mistakes.  It’s the intermediaries that I can’t take; the in-betweeners, the project managers that don’t understand either end of the conversation, but are required to be smack-dab in the middle of it.  Explaining to others what I feel they should already know can be done in a number of ways, and I used to always choose annoyed condemnation:  that head-shaking, eye-rolling acceptance that I’m surrounded by idiots.

Today, being somewhat right-sized and a little more understanding, I’ve eased up on the crying, complaining, and blaming.  All those emotions do is extend my day, mucking up my forward progress and making me feel trapped, stuck, miserable.  Time becomes something that I’ve got to beat, to overcome, to sadly sit through.  I’m not using any of my tools, I’m not trying to get out of my mental twist, I’m just waiting for it to pass.  Which is something; quietly seething has to be better than loudly exploding, right?

In theory, yes.  But if I’m merely saving up my anger for the commute home, to build up a backseat full of resentment that I can then unleash on an unsuspecting family, which once again ends with me off alone, isolated and depressed, then what’s the point?  Carrying self-made pain and sadness from one situation to the next guarantees nothing but misery.

Today:  Keep things in their proper place.  Dumping everything out onto the floor only makes a bigger mess – one I’ll eventually have to clean up.  I need to constantly ask myself: is it worth it?

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