I Blew up My Life

And people had a lot to say about it

My friend pops into the restaurant and scoots up a chair. We order a drink and begin to chat. I’m blissfully sipping my pinot, oblivious to the incoming emotional explosive. Boom. She hurls an insult. It’s the infancy of my divorce, and you know newborns, we’re fragile.

She sits back marinating in the cocktail I purchased, pleased with her boldness. My head spins and it isn’t the wine.

But shock silences my words.

Instead, I recite my retaliatory fantasy.

You’re invading my personal space.

You might want to take a few karma steps backward.

I’d really like to tell you some of your faults. But I don’t think you’d take it as well, being that you think it’s normal to tell someone else theirs. But no worries, I love this uncomfortable feeling of being judged in my darkest hour.

It’s really letting the light shine in, thanks for the direction.

I know I’m not doing life so well and I’m totally impressed you are.

That didn’t sting at all, it bounced right off me.

Then ricocheted from heart to my soul, to my head to my heart, and back again.

But I’m fine, really.

I glance over at my friend, still unphased by my quiet and tongue-tied heart. She doesn’t understand boundaries, or that with age, comes wisdom. We mature and realize it’s tricky to point out faults.

Why?

Oh, that’s right, because we have them too!

What’s that thing I always tell my children? “You better be confident enough, to never make another person feel bad to make yourself feel good.”

Oopsy, she doesn’t know that either.

My friend’s missing the discretionary conversation most of us have with ourselves before we dive into another’s personal space.

Is this a good idea? Do I sound holier than thou? Am I overstepping? Could I be a hypocrite? Could I level someone with my words? Is this well-intentioned or judgemental? Is it constructive or simply critical? Is this a bad time?

There was a day her blistering banter wouldn’t have hit me.

I am as strong and tough, as I am caring and vulnerable.

But only one side of me exists now.

The vulnerable one.

My heart was unarmed. She entered a personal zone that lacked protection. I stood unguarded. This wasn’t an attack of my space, it was a slaughter.

I was exiting a time of mistakes and loss.

I didn’t need help with the beating.

I’m already hard on myself.

If you want to make me feel bad, as if it’s a sport, I’m not the competitor you’re looking for. If you choose this time to cross into my world, you’d better be compassionate and confidently respect boundaries with finesse.

If I buy you a drink, you can double that thought.

People have so much to say when you aren’t doing life well.

They will even make your space their own.

I can’t control my friend, that’s her job. But I won’t engage someone who enters my territory while I’m wounded. A younger me would have whimpered a response, rendering me more defenseless.

I chose an imaginary dissertation and distance.

I have always said, “I enjoy being liked. I don’t need to be liked. If the situation calls for it, I will step away from the crowd and do the right thing, popular or unpopular.”

I know I blew up my life.

But be careful what you say to me about it.