My Story

Yesterday, I was pumped to write this blog post.

I had every intention of venting, ranting, finger-pointing – yes, it was to be my moment of glory. The day of reckoning. The grand hour of justice when I exposed, for all to see, the insanity, the venom, the deception of the foe whom shall not be named.

I’m sure you’ve had one before. The person who pushes every button which ever existed in your anguished psyche. The person who acts angelic in front of others then sends texts or letters filled with hidden barbs. The one who, oops, forgot to include you in “whatever event”, all the while you know – YOU KNOW – this person meant to insult you.

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I’ve been plagued by that someone.

Then I realized –

It wasn’t about me.

Whatever it is, I know beyond all doubt, I did no harm, caused no offense.

So whatever misdeed or perceived threat – it isn’t me.

It’s her.

And her story.

And her pain.

Not me or mine.

And in the very moment yesterday, when I finally engaged her and thought I was calling her out on the carpet, I saw myself. I realized while texts flew in the void,

This is dumb.

Getting involved in her story only brings me pain, stress and anxiety.

I didn’t write her story.

I can only write mine.

And I choose to write mine without this headache in it.

Later, in conversation with a friend, I realized –

I worried about her because I was fearful she would destroy pieces of my life.

And revelation!

She can’t.

Because that story is mine.