Hi! Welcome to The Night Shift, where just about anything is up for discussion. It’s just about midnight as I start this post. Coffee brewing, sandwich made, bottle of water on the right. Were it not for me having taken ibuprofen earlier in the day, I’d be sipping a whiskey cocktail instead, because reasons.
On my left, Baby Girl Dog is on top of the bin next to the workbench (it seems to be where she likes being, it’s not hurting anything; who am I to say no?) and Youngest Cat is on the workbench next to the keyboard, looking for pettings in exchange for purrs. The other two cats are wandering about the house, doing Important Cat Stuff.
Let’s get into it.
Accompany me down this rabbit hole of thoughts I’m having after a WTF moment.
Let’s talk about ‘strong’ women. You know the kind. One of the ones that can /do/ damn near anything, or, /deal/ with damn near anything that gets thrown at them, no matter how hard, or inconvenient, or all-purpose batchit.
One would think that this ability would be celebrated. Welcomed. Cherished, even. Not misused. Ha! Not so much.
Something about this-all ‘be a strong woman's thing has always felt ‘off’, to me. But, I just didn’t know what the hell that was. I mean, I know that being ‘one of the strong women' is challenging and/or hard sometimes. I do. But then..it occurs to me that maybe it also shouldn’t be ‘this kinda hard, all the frickin’ time’?
I mean, in the beginning of something new, or new-ish, there are going to be challenges. I know that. Hell, even in the middle terms of a thing, there are going to be challenges. I get that, too. But..several years into a thing, one would think that ‘hard’ or ‘challenging’ would ease up a bit. A little? Maybe? Yes?
And the pressure to perform, and get it right this time for someone after something or someone goes wrong. That’s a thing. A weirding-one-out making thing sometimes, but a thing.
But, what no one tells you, is that the unceasing hard and the challenging and the pressure eventually serves as an erosion.
Oh sure, at first it looks like polish, but, given enough time, it really is an erosion. Of confidence. Competence. Basic belief in oneself and in one’s intelligence. And one starts wondering why the hell shit is so goddamn difficult and how to enforce ‘not so goddamn hard’..just to get a break.
At least that’s the case until one day, it hits that ‘even to someone mathematically disinclined, it’s statistically impossible to be so wrong, so often; it’s also statistically impossible (again with that math thing) for so much to go so wrong, so often, or to be so much hard, unless……… the source material/information provided to start with in the first place, or to work with as time went on, was either somehow fucked up and/or a pack of lies from go’.
Aha.
While it is true that birds of a feather stick together..
..It is also true that opposites attract. Following that logic, competence and strength not only also appeals to the fellow strong and smart folks, sometimes, it also attracts fragile-ego-ed fuckwits that pull all sorts of shit for reasons that only make sense to them.
Now what?
Legacy. Choice. Think: What can I do to ensure that no more of this fucked up shit I got to deal with is my story? I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t want it at my funeral (not that I’d want one for myself anyway, but work with me here) that I dealt with so many problems for so long that batchit problem solving is all anyone actually knows me for. No no no no.
Maybe the (or one) answer is to walk away and go on a pilgrimage of sorts. To a place where no one would know you from a hole in the ground. Change your life. Don’t bring the old baggage with you.
That’s all I’ve got for now.
Talk again soon,
Deb