If I told you the kinds of things that I still deal with, you would probably think I’m making up well over half of it. Like, for instance, one of my most recent interactions. Because it involved vegetables. And a false accusation that a) I basically stole some, b) was mean for doing so, and c) showed no gratitude for said-stolen veggies, with the wrapping up comment that this was a “new low”, even for me.
Granted, I realize I’m known in some circles for my vegetable-stealing (especially seeing as I love vegetables so very much), but this is ridiculous.
But here’s what is most ridiculous: I engaged. I was trying to clear things up. And then hours later, I re-engaged. Because I was trying to vindicate myself.
When will I learn that a) people don’t act the way they’re supposed to, b) there’s no point in arguing with some people, and c) just because someone says something about you that’s mean and full of lies doesn’t mean you have to respond?
I’m not sure when I’ll learn these things, but here’s my biggest concern: that there just may be a part of me that likes – maybe even thrives – on the drama that each of these utterly bizarre interactions bring into my life.
What if I actually like the drama?
What if I actually need the drama?
What if I actually contribute to the drama?
What if I actually don’t (deep down) want the drama to ever stop, even though I keep saying that I do?
I’ve heard it said that the first place people look for runaway foster kids is with the family that abused them. Why? Because that is what they know. That is what they feel comfortable with. That is what they can relate to.
And drama – after all these years of so much emotional chaos – is what I know, it’s what I feel comfortable with, it’s what I relate to.
But I don’t want this to be true of me anymore. I don’t want to feel antsy in peace. I want to be so whole that turmoil rubs me the wrong way. I want to breathe calm in deeply and be grateful that it’s here to stay.
So all I’ve got right now is this promise to myself: the very next time there’s a menacing voicemail or something left for me in my mailbox – even if every button is pushed once again – I will not engage, even if it kills me. I will let the very next time come and go. And then I will try it again, and again, and again, until drama tastes bitter in my mouth and feels foreign to me. May that day come sooner rather than later.