M IS FOR MANIPULATION

It was a friendship that was over.  If there was blame to be placed for that, there were multiple places to do it.  Some of it belonged to me, some of it belonged to them, which is probably the case with most ended friendships.  Rarely does it fall on just one, and if you start to thinking it does, then you're not being honest with yourself.  I was at the stage of the healing where you go over every minute of the friendship, thinking of what could have gone differently, if you did right, if you did wrong, if you were right to walk away, if you were unreasonable.  I began to realize how strongly manipulation was a part of our friendship.  It wasn't until that moment that I had even seen it. I hadn't realized how easily it was to manipulate me, and it's not been something that I have been able to un-see.

Guilt trips. Passive Aggression. Self putdowns.  They're all things that I've found myself to be really susceptible to, and I cave all the time.  Do you have things that you find yourself kowtowing to constantly?  Or people?

I've been really trying to get away from that.  I don't like feeling used.  I've been trying to adopt a stronger resolve, and to be more resistant when those aforementioned methods of manipulation are used on me. I feel like people will think that, when I don't cave like I used to, that I've become a harder person, that I don't care, that I'm mean, and I don't like that much, either.  But I'm not sorry for becoming stronger, I think it's a good thing. In a roundabout way, it's actually allowed me to be a much better wife and mom, and I can't be sorry for that. I just don't want to be the girl that allows herself to be so manipulated anymore.

Don't you allow yourself, either.  Folks who use manipulation to make you change who you are aren't really your friends, and you're worth more than that.

THURSDAY TALES: GHOST

I woke up slowly and shivered. Not again, I thought irritably.  Luke was always stealing the covers at night and then hording them with an iron grip.  Without even opening my eyes, I threw an arm behind me, trying to locate a corner so I could wrestle at least an inch or two away from him.  But there was nothing.  I really mean there was nothing.  No bed. No husband. No nothing.  My eyes flew open and I found myself staring at the ceiling.  Normally, this wouldn't really be the biggest deal in the world, but in this case, the ceiling was an inch from my face.  What in the world?  Why was I not in my bed?  And more importantly, why was I on the ceiling?

I spun myself around and looked down, sure I was going to fall at any second.  I blinked.  There I was in my bed, next to Luke, who was sharing the blankets quite nicely for once.  Maybe this was one of those dreams where you're watching yourself do things from outside of your body.

As if reading my mind, a creaky voice spoke. "You're not dreaming, dear."

I somehow managed to figure my way into a sitting position, feeling something like a floating genie, and spied a very old woman, creaking away in an equally-floating rocking chair, serenely knitting a blanket.  "Grandma... Rachel?" I asked.  Grandma Rachel had been dead for 20 years.  This was most definitely a dream, no doubt brought on by all the cold medicine I had taken the night before.

"Oh no, dear.  It isn't a dream," she insisted.

"Would you stop doing that? Of course it's a dream.  How could I be up here?  And how could you be here?  You're dead!"

Grandma Rachel laughed, her needles clicking away.  "Well, of course I am, Sarah. How else could I float up here like a ghost?  And so are you."

I stared at her. "Me? I can't be dead.  I can see myself right down there!"

"And your chest isn't moving so much now, is it?"  She pointed a knitting needle at me.  "You really should check the interactions on your drugs, Sarah.  Anyway, it doesn't matter now.  What's done is done.  Read the letter from Grandpa Bill, it explains.. well, some of it."

I looked around me.  "Letter?"

Grandma Rachel looked irritable.  "Yes, the letter that's floating right next--  Oh.  Well, I always forget this part."  She snapped her fingers, and a letter appeared on my lap.  "That one."

I picked it up and opened it carefully.

"Dearest Sarah," I read. "If you are reading this, it means you're dead. Sorry about that.  I hope it was painless.  But now you're a ghost, and can carry on the family legacy.  You'll be expected at the mansion in Lexington at 2am sharp tomorrow night.  Will explain the rest then. Love, Grandpa"

BALANCE, SELF-RESPECT, AND MOVING ON

It's come at me from several different directions this week, the idea of letting go.  The idea of knowing when to stop beating a dead horse into the ground. The idea of knowing when enough is enough and when it's time to pull yourself up, develop some self-respect, and move on.

This is a hard issue for me to get my head around.  I have feelings about it coming at me from all sides.

We prize loyalty.  And I think we should.  But we also convince ourselves that we prize blind loyalty, the whole "I will stick by your side, no matter what" sort of attitude.  On the one hand, that's noble. To accept someone for whatever crap they throw at you, that takes a deep loyalty and capacity for forgiveness that I admire. We revere Jack in "Titanic" for floating in the ice-cold ocean, all the while reassuring his beloved Rose that he'll never let go.  It's sweet, it's loyal, it's romantic.  But, guys, Rose was a whiny pain, and Jack became fish bait. Is fish bait the most respect we can give ourselves?

A good friend of mine had this to say this week and it resonated deep within me (I was going to edit this to make it shorter, but I can't find any part of it that I'm willing to part with):

I think that in many cases where a person is trying to decide whether to let go of someone, the relationship has reached a point of imbalance. Imbalance isn't healthy. Imbalance sucks at your mental health and your sense of worth. Imbalance means you're giving more than you're receiving, or vice versa, and every one of us deserves to be in - and our heads should demand from our hearts - relationships that are balanced. If the other person has stopped giving back what we need, we can't change them. It's then that we have to slap ourselves and demand that we recognize our own worth. We are worthy of having relationships in which we're getting what we give! Balance balance balance. Yes it's hard, because we're not just giving up the relationship but also all the hopes and dreams we had for that relationship. But each of us has a responsibility to ourselves to treat ourselves with kindness.

Yet on the other side of the coin, I know that there have been times when I've been the one who's hoped for loyalty.  I've been the one who's been selfish, who's screwed up. I've been the one who's been grateful that someone else waited long enough for me to come to my senses and get off my raft floating in the ocean to SHARE it with those alongside me.

But even then, I suppose, that's when it's become balanced, hasn't it?

THURSDAY TALES: ASHES

"Taxi!"

The yellow cab came to a stop outside the airport and I climbed into the backseat, pushing my carry-on onto the seat ahead of me.  The driver turned around to look at me and inquired, "Where to, Miss?"

"Victor City, please," I replied in a tired voice, and we were off.  I leaned my head back against the headrest, and closed my eyes.  It had felt like a long trip, even though I'd only been gone for two days.  A successful one, though.  I'd landed two major accounts, so I'd say that was a trip well-spent.  But, I was exhausted, and I just wanted to be home, climb into my own bed, and curl up for a well-deserved nap.

The trip home had been somewhat of a disaster.  The wake-up call I'd ordered at the hotel hadn't come through, they were out of coffee, I'd nearly missed my flight, and I'd forgotten my phone charger on the kitchen counter at home, so I felt virtually cut off from the world with no way to be contacted.

As we rolled into town, I gave my address to the driver and watched the morning walkers stroll down the street, so intent on going nowhere and ending right back at home where they started. I just wanted to be in bed. The driver's voice pulled me from my tired stupor.

"Oh wow," he exclaimed.  "I think someone just lost a house."

I looked through the front window of the cab to see the smoke from a put-out fire twirling into the sky.

"Oh no," I whispered.  "Oh no, oh no, oh no."  That wasn't someone's house.  That was my house.

My beautiful house with the wraparound porch.  As soon as I'd seen it five years earlier, I'd had to have it.  It was reminiscent of every childhood book I'd ever loved.  It was old and drafty, and probably more trouble than it was worth, trying to keep the pipes in repair.  But I loved it and I had spent so much time restoring it.

There were fire trucks everywhere, firemen with sooty, tired faces...  and no house.

I jumped out of the car before it even stopped and ran over to a group of them.  I recognized Peter, a guy who had gone to high school with me...  now a father of three, and coaching football at the school he'd played for.  "Peter!  What happened??" I asked, the panic rising.  "Why didn't anyone call me??"

His eyes widened, "Oh god, there you are, Jennifer.  No one knew how to get ahold of you... you didn't answer your phone and no one knew where you were staying.  I'm so sorry.  We tried to save it, we've been here all night.  But, it just went up like someone had poured lighter fluid on it, and..."  He gestured apologetically to the ruins and ashes that now sat where my home once was.

I stepped toward where my porch had been, but he put a hand on my sleeve.  "Jen, we just got it out...  It's not safe yet."  But I pushed him away and kept walking.  I couldn't just stand there.  It was dark and smoky and everything I loved was in there somewhere.  The pictures of my mother, my childhood memories, all the letters I'd saved.  It was all gone... how could it be gone?  I knelt to the ground and ran my hand through some of the ashes that had cooled.

A shrill voice cut through the morning, "Why, Jennifer...  what on EARTH happened to your BEAUTIFUL HOUSE?"  I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the noise, but I knew it was just going to keep coming.  Rachel Baxter.  High school cheerleader, daughter of the richest man in town, and first class pain-in-the-ass.  I pasted a tight smile on my face and turned around to meet the oncoming onslaught of annoyance. Rachel was dressed for the morning cool in pink and grey velvet and matching sneakers, her long blond hair perfectly styled. I felt just a little bit dowdy in my wrinkly travel clothes, my light brown hair limp and up in a ponytail. I smoothed my hands across my face, tucking my bangs behind my ears.
Douglas was behind her.

"Hello, Rachel," I said with a sigh. "Doug."

"Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer... it is just SO TERRIBLE what has happened to your HOUSE!" She spoke in capitals.  "I guess you can NEVER be too CAREFUL, can you?  I don't know WHAT I would do if anything like that happened to ME.  You just NEVER know what could HAPPEN when you turn your back for a SECOND."

"Yes. This appears to be the second time I've had to learn that lesson," I muttered drily, with a glance at Doug.  "You'd think I'd have learned it by now.” I’d once had his engagement ring on my left hand.

“WELL,” Rachel moved to head back the way she’d come.  “I suppose we’ll LEAVE you to get ON with your clean-up.  WE just wanted to come and make SURE that you were alright.”  She looked pointedly at Doug.  “Come ALONG, Douglas.”

I watched Rachel march pointedly back up the sidewalk the way she’d come.  Doug lingered behind.
I turned around and surveyed the damage again, still not quite believing what had happened while I was gone.

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here, Doug?” I asked, tiredly.

He stepped around me and looked down into my eyes.  That curl over his forehead kept falling into his eyes.  “You’ve got ashes on your cheek,” he said quietly, and he touched his thumb to my skin, slowly wiping it away.  My eyes closed of their own volition.

“DOUGLAS! We’re GOING now,” came from down the street.

I drew a breath and glared up at him.  “Doug... someday, I hope you really understand what you threw away... and for THAT.  I think you’re being paged.”  He opened his mouth to say... something, but I stopped him.  “Just go.  She’s only going to keep calling.”

TRUST IS LIKE A VASE

Loss of trust sucks.

It is tremendously hard to take personal responsibility that you are the one to blame for someone else losing trust in you.  But, I'm coming to realize that it is sometimes just as hard and heartbreaking to be the one who has lost trust in someone else.

It's not just something you can fix with a simple solution.  You can't patch it with tape or glue. It's just there, undermining everything.  I'm reminded of the lyrics of a song I like:

"Well, a month or so has passed and now you're back again with me
But the cracks remain unmended in our once so-perfect team.
We seem to spend all our time just trying to make things right
But there cannot be a winner in this neverending fight."

It's like that.

You can try to fix everything else... but the loss of trust just sort of hangs out in there, picking at the tape, melting the glue. Just always there...  and that's true whether you're the one that broke the trust or the one who lost theirs.

It's just sad... that's all.  It's just sad to know there is no trust where there once was much.