Today the Queen wanted to pick a fight because someone didn’t say “I love you too” when she said it first…It was an instant reaction. The third one actually. Though she started the fight with,
“Hey, that’s the third time YOU didn’t say it back…”
When what she should have said was…Well, nothing. Or this;
“Hey, I’m going to say I love you again, for the third time, even though I know you aren’t going to say it back, ok? And then, I’m going to get mad about it. It’s called setting us up for failure. It’s what I do when I can’t face my own fears. If you fail, I don’t have to admit that I do too.”
But that’s all accountable and unconfrontational so the first way worked better for her. There was a time when it would have worked better for me too…just not today. Not anymore. Somewhere back in March I realized that I was not her. She’s a lot of things, not just a queen, but a big ol’ baby too. She throws fits and yells. She threatens lives- the lives of others as well as her own. She cries and begs and spits and punches…She’s quite the piece of work. I’m just saying- don’t think she’s all regal. She often rules the kingdom, but most of it was done through sheer manipulation and brutality- not grace. She’s not THAT kind of queen.
Anyways…Today I caught her red handed and here’s what happened;
I ignored her.
“It’s all him” she said. “This is all his stuff and he’s just trying to make it look like it’s yours.”
“You’re projecting.” I said, giving her less than a sideways glance.
“I’m holding him accountable.” she retorts.
“Shush.” I said. And I turned up The Mastery of Love by Ruiz in my headphones.
Here’s the thing. It isn’t ‘perplexing’ as one of my readers commented. (I was as gracious as possible in my reply to her but seriously- IT isn’t perplexing at all.) It’s rather simple, if you really want to see it. It’s always ME- or HER- Depending on how you’re reading this. Always self. Maybe you don’t think I’ve suffered anything so terrible…Maybe you think that if I had suffered something as horrible as you, then I wouldn’t be able to say this. The truth is, even as a victim, it’s me. I choose to be the victim- even if I don’t know that’s what I’m doing. Even if I don’t know I have another choice. We all do the best we can in any moment. Some moments we feel that we have no choice, but I’m past those moments. Now it’s just me making some not so good choices and my awareness catching me at it.
In the book, The 8 Habits of Love, there’s a part where, after a story of the holocaust by a survivor of one of the camps, the woman says something to the effect of Hitler being capable of love…and the question is asked, who but her could say that and get away with it? I get that. Here’s the thing, just because I haven’t told you my story, doesn’t mean I don’t have one. Or that it’s never been told. I do. It has. I’m just done telling it, but I can tell you this; my story allows me to say things like, it’s your choice- being a victim. I can say it because I’ve been there and I know that eventually you find that you really do have a choice and then you make a new one. You tell a new story. At the bare minimum you stop telling the old one completely because you understand that there’s a chance that someone else might figure out what you have…that the story has one author. YOU.
My story used to be absolutely horrific. I loved it. People loved it. We loved the drama. And then all of us finally said,
“Soooooo….What happens next?”
And here I am. At my next. In a story that is as old as the first one and all the subsequent ones since. But I don’t mind this story because I know that it leads to a new chapter. That’s the trick really…Write a new chapter. Let the story go on. Yes, it was a fantastic story once. It brought all the emotions that a great story needs, but often left me with the sentiment of, That’s it? God, don’t let THAT be it.
The thing about this fight was that it didn’t go very far. I’m tired of the fighting. And, it wasn’t true. I don’t love him. Not on that level. The fight was the Queen, trying to make things look “normal” in the egoic sense of things. The grasping, the energy it takes to think, plan and then react- it’s so exhausting to me. Maybe to her too because she didn’t fight either- not until later. The truth is that the fight was my inability to be authentic- my guilt, which is fear. What am I afraid of? I used to think I was afraid of being alone. Of not being loved. The truth is I’m afraid of failing alone. Not of being alone. I can hear my father telling me that I’ll never make it without a man. I’ll never be financially secure. I will always struggle. And I believed him to the extent that I am exactly those things.
And then she started in. Then the fight began again and I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t know how to stop it, so I prayed this:
Please take the fight and grant me surrender.