People can be so competitive. I learned that after my father died, when I was ready to talk about how I suffered because of his heavy drinking. To recap, he drank himself to death. I was 22 when he died. He was 51. While he was alive, I kept my feelings to myself, even from my siblings. They kept their feelings secret, too, except for one crack in my brother’s armor. He hated the song Cat’s in the Cradle by Harry Chapin—couldn’t listen to it. His discomfort with the song stemmed from his relationship with my dad, but I can’t be sure if it had to do with all the broken promises or the alcoholism—one can be done without the other. Personally, I thought the tune was catchy and could sing along just fine without a catch in my throat.
Anyway, I was ready to share. What I went through was a big deal, and I figured the world would want to know all about it. I had a truckload of hellish stories to tell, and in the telling, I expected to earn a token for some kind of special treatment. The special treatment I was after was of the two-shoulder variety—one shoulder to cry on and one shoulder to lean on. Once normal people found out about the dysfunction I endured, they would tutor me into a normal existence. In short, pity = assistance = happiness.
That’s when I learned about my competition. Turns out that everyone has problems. I thought mine were real show stoppers—my competition felt the same about theirs. I felt like I was auditioning for American Idol. I learned quickly that everyone wants to go to Hollywood. Getting anyone to stop talking about their problems long enough for me to get mine in was exhausting. It seemed that anytime I wanted to share was an invitation for a smack down.
Sharing alone, which was my approach to resolving my childhood problems, wasn’t opening any doors into Happyland. The competition was too fierce. I couldn’t convince them that I deserved to go to the head of the line (though obviously I did). As a result, I lowered my expectations.
Fine, no special treatment.
No mentor.
No rescuer.
But I still want to fix myself.
What about a professional therapist?
Are you crazy!?! I’m too cheap!
I decided to take another look at my competition. Yes, they were wimps who couldn’t deal with their so-called problems. And no, this isn’t a story about learning to empathize. But looking at my competition helped me realize an important truth—I had no interest in trading my problems for theirs. In other words, I preferred my problems to theirs. I realized that I was keeping my problems by choice. Since I was claiming these problems as mine, I could do whatever I wanted with them, including fixing them to a point where they did not interfere with my happiness. In today’s vernacular, I guess I ooowned them. (Vernacular? Like anybody says that. So much for trying to be cool.) Once I took responsibility for my problems, and in some cases, the blame for my problems (that step took a lot of kicking and screaming), tackling them became so much easier. And the problems I can’t fix? Well, you can read all about it in New Year—Let the Dreams Begin, which I posted in January 2022. (Referencing myself? Now that’s cool!)
Into the Comfort Zone 