Check your Shoes For Shit ~ From The 2016 Archives

Luckily, it’s three years later and I mostly hang out with animals and department store mannequins so this doesn’t happen to me so much anymore. But I was talking about this very thing to a friend this weekend, about not caring about getting to the bottom of things and the heartless asshole who taught me the extremely valuable lesson of not going there. 😉

Generally speaking I suppose you could describe me as an optimist. A Pollyanna even. After reading about my life I think that’s pretty safe to say.

So naturally, people come to me to have their spirits lifted. To lighten their emotional load, so to speak.

But what ends up happening if I’m not careful about my energy is: I cheer them up—and they cheer me down.

Not too long ago I consoled a friend whose business had fallen on hard times. I can do this, I thought through her torrent of tears.

No big deal. My business tanked almost seven years ago. I’m over it! I said to myself. And I meant it.

But her stories of debt collectors, empty bank accounts, no customers, and an evil, puss-pocket, scum-bag, hell beast, shit gibbon of a partner (he must have been related to my old landlord), sent me down the rabbit hole.

Obviously.

Before I took my journey to hell, I did manage to mumble a few things I thought might help. She felt so much better when she left. “I feel so much better”, she said. That’s all I can remember. My transformation into Zohar, the gatekeeper of hell had already begun, so my understanding of the English language became sketchy.

Driving home I came down with a splitting headache and a couple of hours later I was in full-on migraine mode which for me looks like incoherent muttering in a dark room about f*cknobs, the horrors of retail and the unfairness of life—with breath that could peel your face off—and an attitude to match.

WTF?

It doesn’t happen to me a lot, but more often than I’m comfortable with, and I see you my coach/motivational expert/fellow optimist friends. I can see your exhaustion, your edge, and your drastic need for a break because This shit can wear you down!

We may have no problem listening to our friends vent about their shit. But maybe we’re not doing anybody a favor by re-telling the story over and over again. I know, I know! We do it because we love them (and they’ve sat through our endless bitch sessions)  but I’ve gotta say, it is hard work keeping their shit from sticking to my shoes. Especially if I’ve been through anything even remotely similair—which is pretty much everything they’ve ever been through except maybe an alligator chewing off my arm.

The optimist in me has started to scream Awwwwww! My arm! My arm!

Besides that, I’ve started to remember the advice I received from someone very wise who was trying to help me crawl out of a bottomless eddy of despair over twenty-five years ago. Talking about something over and over again is NOT helpful, and he refused to do it, much to my dismay.

He would listen my sad story ONCE. Only one time would he listen before holding his hand up and shushing me. That’s right, he shushed me! (Truth be told, that was the only way to shut me up once I was on a roll.)

“You think you’re going to find answers to your problems by talking about them,” he said. “But the answers aren’t found in the problem and it’s just making things worse. It’s keeping you from progressing and I won’t go there with you.”

Huh… And fuck you.

I think that’s when I lunged over the table with a fork and threatened to tenderize his face. All I wanted was to hurt him as much as I was hurting, and that’s the truth.

But he would have none of it.

Because he knew how sticky that shit is when you give it life with words. “When you speak its name and give it language, you give it power,” he said. And he wasn’t willing to be cheered down. Not under any circumstances. Not even love.

Besides, what I know for sure is that if he’d gone to the depths with me to chew on that problem—I wouldn’t be here today. Swear to God. I needed him to stay with his head above water so he could throw me a line when I was drowning. You know what they say about rescuing someone who’s drowning: Be careful or they’ll pull you down with them.

So, I guess my advice to all of you optimistic uplifters out there would be (if you’re asking), speak briefly to each other about the shit. Don’t dwell on it and if you’re not up to it energetically—don’t sacrifice how you feel—even to temporarily lift a client/friend.

And check your shoes. ‘Cause that shit can stick.

How do you feel about this? Do you hate it? Does it feel shallow and selfish and other names that start with an ‘s’? Or, are you strangely relieved? Like, thank God I have permission?

Carry on,
xox