Or at least it will be funny when the new watch I ordered comes in and is fitted to my left wrist and highly satisfying to take a hammer to the one I’m currently wearing because god help me if I’m ever that mortified again.
And in the same vein,
I love that I’m independent. I love that I have the ability and fortitude to rectify this and any other situation. That no matter what I can take care of myself – and do so without pretense or fabrication. I love that I can spend Saturday running errands, then indulging in a little bit of retail therapy without buying things as a salve for a deeper emotional issue. I love that I can come home late Saturday afternoon, strip to my skin, and throw myself a mini-spa hour (and a half) – and I love that I can then order a pizza with pepperoni, sausage, canadian bacon, meatballs, prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, ricotta, sun dried tomatoes and spinach — with extra garlic. I love that it’s Saturday and I can stay home, curl up with a book – or I can go out and have a glass of wine alone – or I can wander the aisles at Whole Foods and come home with a odd mish-mash of really good food. That I live by myself in an apartment I really love (even if I don’t love the management company) and that I can provide fully for myself and my family and those I love unconditionally.
Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been in a good mood.
Maybe it’s just that I’m settling into a good groove and I’m optimistic about what’s coming next.
Maybe I’ve let go of the hidden worry and fear that I won’t be loved again – because I will.
And I’ll even tell you why: because there was a moment yesterday afternoon when I (finally) saw how important it is to love myself, if only because I’ve made others suffer because I haven’t. I’m not the enemy of myself, though I’ve sure as hell waged a damn good twenty-something year battle of self v. self.
Cliff’s Notes version: I’m the problem.
And because I’m the problem, I’m the only person who can change it or fix it or do something about it, whether it’s straight up abatement or temporary injunction or imperfect compromise.
Which brings me to a related issue:
I’m a creative person who likes – no, needs – to be immersed in collaborative work. Simply, I need to work with smart, creative people. Who are not like me — who are more than me. More visionary. More creative. Smarter. Faster. More more more to combat the collective weaknesses (my own included) and enhance the collective strengths (my own included) and achieve the common goal. This isn’t a lofty abstract desire; this is a need.
The problem with collaboration is that it requires true commitment. Discipline. Passion. Attention. Even habit. And the emotional, personal connection with collaboration is crucial – you gotta be a believer or it all falls apart. You take make anyone play on a team, but if a single member’s heart isn’t in it, the whole collaborative process is a sham, a ruse, a shell of false idolatry. Add in an inability to effectively communicate (ahem, honestly and openly), add in a layer of politics, and add in a disaffected attitude, and welcome to disaster.
Also known as my personal hell. The wide-eyed promise of collaboration for an amazingly awesome goal torn apart because the discipline, attention, and passion of one single team member rings hollow. To see the house this team has built is a case study for the gods – yet this house will be bulldozed because we didn’t choose the perfect wallpaper in the living room and there’s a leaky faucet in the bathroom, that…it destroys me. It disrupts the collaborative process – that discipline, that habit, that passion – and for what? Something trivial.
Maybe it should be seen from another perspective – that I allow the destruction of this one house to distract me from the neighborhood of houses previously constructed. That I’m the disruption on the team rather than the guy sitting in the ‘dozer.
Problem is, the guy sitting in the ‘dozer doesn’t know how to operate heavy equipment…and probably doesn’t realize what’s going on or what he’s about to do. Yet another sign something is in rotten in Denmark, another indication of poor communication and inadequate leadership.
And here we come to another rampant weakness of mine: reason and precision. Always tell me why. If only because it’s the only thing that will convince me that at minimum you understand what it is you’re doing and see the scope of things as something slightly larger (at minimum) than yourself. Or you don’t, but are still okay with things not being larger than yourself.
And another weakness: trust. I’ll trust you until you give me reason not to. You can earn trust back after that point, but not without a considerable amount of effort and energy, at least to partially compensate for the time, effort, energy I expended in cleaning up the mess I trusted you not to make. (An honest “I’m sorry” typically does the trick.)
Despite the weaknesses, I don’t know what to do about the breakdown of collaboration. Smear a layer of frustration and disappointment on as well; it brings out the troubling flavor from the overmasticated texture. Some say go to the mattresses; others say mercy; still others wonder if there’s a trusted resource able to do anything. I fear the die has been cast and only now are the implications of betting everything peaking through the veil of a hasty, backed-in-a-corner decision.