F*ck You, I'm Nice

When I was born, my family had a big, red mutt named Dillard. Well, actually his name was Phil, which is short for Phillip, which happens to be my grandfather's name. So, my dad, being reasonably uncomfortable calling a dog by his own father's name, decided to adapt. Dillard was a runner, a climber, and fiercely loving toward his people. He was my first friend. In fact, he is the first person (fur-person) I can remember loving. That's not to say I didn't love my parents or siblings, just that I don't remember developing relationships with them. I think loving your caretakers is just a factory setting. But that dog was something else. He was a protector, my pillow, my entertainment, and he just adored me. He'd lick my head if I was upset (or if I wasn't), and he knew how to play hide and seek, which was rad even if he was always the seeker. Basically, before I go on any longer, Dillard was the best god damn dog ever. I've loved all of my furry companions, and they've all loved me, but I think Dillard has that tiny edge of being the first, and he will always be special to me. He had an incredibly long, adventurous life of nearly eighteen years, before finally crossing the rainbow bridge when I was nine years old.
I found out when I arrived home from school the day he passed. I knew something was terribly wrong when both of my parents were home in the middle of the day, and everything was just silent. Since we all went to different schools at the time (high school, middle school, elementary) my oldest brother already knew, and my middle brother would find out about an hour or so after I did. I was told my buddy just didn't wake up that day. Our house was stuffed with an excruciating sadness, and I clearly remember thinking we'd never be happy again. That's a nine year old for you, though.
It wasn't until the next year, when I was in fifth grade (still considered one of the rougher years of my childhood) that I found out Dillard had, in fact, awakened on his last day. My brother let it slip that my parents had our beloved pup put down. Now, looking back, I am grateful they did. The last bit of Dillard's life was rough. He was in so much pain, and he was so weak. There was a while that my dad would carry him up and down the stairs so he could interact during the day, and sleep in his bed at night, but slowly, he never came upstairs again. Eventually, he only got up to use the bathroom, and even that was a struggle. He had every right to peace, and my parents absolutely made the right decision. There's no telling how much longer he would have held on. Good job, parents. Unfortunately, I had been having a hell of a time adjusting to many things that were happening to me, and when my brother reopened the wound that was my first friend, as well as confirming my parents had lied right to me, I was not crushed, but I was furious. Everything had been changing so quickly for me in school (probably a story for a different day, but it was propelled by one teacher trying to convince my other teachers, as well as my family, that I had a learning disability which I didn't have), and I felt as though I'd been drowning in the opinions of adults who wouldn't listen. I felt disregarded, unheard, and ultimately dismissed by nearly every grown up meant to protect me, and now my parents had LIED.
Which leads me to the first time I intentionally hurt someone. Not physically, of course, but with my words. It was my dad. I don't know why I chose him. I guess I just assumed he was the decision maker because he was louder than my mom. Sure, I could throw a tantrum with the best of them, but this was different. This wasn't me trying to get my way, or get out my feelings, this was me wanting to make someone else feel the pain I was feeling. I retreated to my room, and waited for dinner, when I planned to confront this most heinous crime. Finally, when my family was gathered for our supper, I wouldn't answer anyone. I spent most of the time sighing and rolling my eyes dramatically. Eventually, I was called out for my cold and rude behavior with a "What is the matter with you?!" which was just the opening I needed. Nobody saw it coming.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you MURDERED MY DOG."

To this day, I'm pretty sure it was the most hurtful sentence I've ever said to Pops, and I'm fairly certain I threw in an "I hate you" or two around thirteen. He didn't say anything except "wow" under his breath. I stood my ground for all of about four seconds before apologizing, but it was no use. The damage was done. I can still see the look on his face. I realized very quickly that what I had done had made me feel worse, not better. I received no satisfaction from "revenge." God, it felt just terrible. But I also realized that my tongue was sharp, and my aim was fantastic, which was a rather unfortunate recognition.

Over the next few years, as my peers became more and more awful at being decent human beings (like most teenagers), I became more and more skilled at cutting people with words. It wasn't for amusement or pleasure, it was for my own defense, but eventually my fuse became short. After a while, it became second nature to hit below the belt. For a little bit, I was pretty ruthless and pretty reckless with people's feelings, all because I believed they'd been reckless with mine. It was exhausting being on such high alert at all times, though. Constantly waiting for someone to wrong me so I could push them away swiftly and harshly. I wouldn't scream or yell or name call, but I had a tendency to just make someone feel small. I developed a knack for figuring out exactly what a person's fear or insecurity was, and I became ready to exploit it at a moment's notice. It made me think I was invincible, even if all it really meant was that I was an insecure, angry young woman who was so afraid of letting her guard down that she would hiss and scratch and claw her way out of the lives of anyone who tried to get too close. I was basically a shelter cat on her first day out of the sewer.
Each time I cut someone down, I would feel worse, but it had become such a nasty habit. It took a long time, and witnessing several other people behaving the same way, to make me realize I wasn't who I wanted to be. Most of the time, my friendships only stayed broken because I was too ashamed of my behavior to come crawling back to apologize. My ability to talk things out efficiently improved before the rest of it, but all in all, I was really kind of a jerk for a few years. Luckily, I was young enough to be dumb for it.
Honestly, the change was sort of overnight. I really did wake up one morning and go "no more." Maybe it was whatever dream I'd had the night before, or maybe some slow, imperceptible change that was bubbling under the surface, but for me and my conscious reality, it was instant. I think I was seventeen. When I went into work that day, the same kid who annoyed me every day gave me his usual crap, but I smiled at him, put on my apron, and laughed along with him instead of walking away irritated. This actually made him try a lot harder to get under my skin, but I was determined to remain bright eyed and friendly. I had a theory that if I could keep my cool and not let myself feel angry about the things this particular person said or did, that I could tolerate practically anyone. Seriously, this guy was the worst. It worked. Actually, it worked so well that we went to grab lunch one day and talk everything over, since we worked together nearly every day. You might be thinking "duh" or "yeah, everyone knows you have to turn the other cheek sometimes" but it's deeper than that. Just because you don't say something, doesn't mean someone didn't hurt your feelings. I could turn the other cheek, and I could bite my tongue. Hell, I was a waitress back then, so it's not that I would get into a heated verbal altercation every day. In fact, by that time, it did take a decent amount to set me off, but I would want to say something every day. I did have anger every day. I didn't want to be so enraged, and I definitely didn't want to hurt anyone. Who wants to be mad all day long? What I realized that morning, what made me dedicate the last more-than-a-decade to validating the feelings of others, was that for every time I let someone dictate my mood, I was harming myself, and setting myself up for the potential to harm someone else. I thought of it in terms of a resource, like power. Every time I gave power away to people who didn't like me, or didn't respect me, that was power I wasn't going to get back. This meant that I had to generate even more of that power every day, every hour, and I had to use so much of it just to stay pissed off and ready to defend myself against perceived attacks, that it was simply unrealistic to maintain. It sounds trite, but I started greeting anger with compassion because that's really all I wanted someone else to do for me. In this whole "get what you give" universe, I figured if I, a kind, compassionate person on the inside, was capable of lashing out and creating a shell because I was hurt, then I would assume the same applied to everyone else. I would recognize that if someone is hurting me, it's because they also hurt.
For years now, my arguments have been discussions, and I've hardly a grudge. Sure, there are still traumas and things to work through, but as far as still being mad at Sally SoandSo from middle school? No. Hardly a grudge. Truthfully, I can't imagine what things would be like right now if I was still full of all that bitterness of top of everything else. Sure, I can still be pushed if somebody really, truly wants to push me, but it takes an incredible amount to get me to go off. I also hope none of this is coming across as self righteous, or holier than thou, because I'm not better than anyone. I've backslid a few times here and there. I'm very human, and I also have a ridiculous hormone imbalance. I get bitchy, I have awful days, and sometimes I still snap at people. But what I don't do anymore is hang onto that anger. I won't allow you to ruin my day because of your poor attitude, but I'll recognize your poor attitude probably had nothing to do with me. I can't take it personally if it isn't personal. More than that, nowadays if people are bad for me, I walk away from them. Not everything deserves an emotional, Hollywood ending. No burning bridges, no hateful sendoffs, no explosions. It's saved me a lot of time and trouble, and it's also given me plenty of opportunity to understand the difference between someone who is toxic for me and someone who is just working through their demons.
At the end of the day, we can't control how people act, but we can control how we react to them. And wouldn't things be a hell of a lot better if we reacted with a little more understanding? Wouldn't you appreciate it if just once, someone would want to genuinely discuss a topic with you instead of yelling about how your opinion is wrong? Wouldn't you be more inclined to listen, and be open to someone else's thoughts if they refrained from calling you names while they explained their side?

Just like everyone, I have grown from my experiences. We all make mistakes. We can all learn. We can all change. I'm proud of everyone who can admit their faults and work on them, and I'm proud of myself for working on mine. Being a work in progress feels a lot better than resigning myself to being some defective finished product. I haven't turned into a different person, and I'm still pretty "abused shelter cat" -ish when it comes to personal relationships, but my claws aren't quite as sharp as they used to be. I still have them, though, and I can sharpen them any time. In other words, fuck you, I'm really nice.

xoxo