An Essay A Day For A Year
By Roe
Day 48, February 17, 2012
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I have been paying attention for years to my defects. Many years ago I realized that I was really messed up, and as a result of being messed up I was very unhappy. Having been an auto mechanic for years, I decided to treat myself like a broken down car. I opened my hood and looked underneath, and I found the problem. I figured out that I had blown a head gasket, my transmission was slipping, and both of my motor mounts were torn. I said to myself, “it seems that you are intolerant, arrogant, impatient, and a general asshole”. Normally the car just sits there and listens, and the customer reels backwards and rolls her eyes, but the reality is faced, the repairs made, and the bill paid.
Boy, am I a funny automobile. I argued back at my own diagnosis in an intense way. “I am not intolerant, and who are you to call me arrogant, and BANG!, I do too have patience!” And I closed my hood. “You are the asshole, you asshole!” OK, I thought, that didn’t go very well. Accepting self fault and self responsibility and self blame is a very difficult endeavor indeed. I decided to go out for a second opinion, and then another, and then several dozen, dozen more. I figured out eventually that I was intolerant, arrogant, impatient, and a real asshole. Ouch. If I were me I would send myself back to the factory as a lemon and demand a refund.
I went back home to face my parents and I asked them what happened to me. Why was I defective? I questioned the assembly line itself, and more hell broke loose than the big three have ever seen. It was like I peed on Ford’s and Chevy’s and Dodge’s fancy shoes simultaneously. Both of my parents called me an intolerant, arrogant, impatient asshole for even suggesting any intolerance or arrogance or impatience or assholeness or bitchness on their part. Hmm, I thought, I definitely see various patterns here. Since then I have been watching people factories and their products very closely, and there are indeed some very ironic patterns.
I have a lot of pet peeves. When X does Y, or such and such even dares to do an uh oh, boy do I come unglued. I am the first to bitch, and yet technically I need to be a female to be a bitch. Now when I catch myself bitching I picture myself with a mean vagina and I start laughing at myself. I have had so many mean vagina moments that I might as well be the biggest female bitch in history. I have discovered that I hate all the faults in others that I myself have. Now when I catch myself doing the things that I rail and rank on others for, I laugh at myself. By now you could just about tattoo hypocrite on my forehead. I make myself laugh. Last week I was in the supermarket, and I warned a nice old lady that I was going to drive my shopping cart just like I drive my car, and I said, “honk, honk”, and then I cut her off. When she griped, I flipped her the bird, (that is the F finger for those that don’t know the bird). Then we both laughed. “It’s true!”, she said. “If only we had supermarket manners everywhere”.
I figured out that intolerance is a result of feeling emotional pain. I guess my blown head gasket hurts. I figured out that arrogance is a force field that protects insecurity and fragility, so I guess my transmission really is slipping. I figured out that torn motor mounts is a sign of inner angst, and my impatience is a sign of my immaturity. Overall, being an asshole is like being a Ferrari in the Bronx, or the only 4 ton ugly Edsel racing with the cute Mini’s. I figured out that being disliked by everyone from myself to the big two people maker’s (mom and dad) was serving me to keep my own pain down and at bay.
Once I accepted that I needed repair, and that my own factory was at fault and to blame, the repair has been arduous indeed. Just getting back to my parents in heart and mind has been a real conundrum. I finally made a plan in the present day, face to face, to honor and value and respect the whole paradigm of child to parent, or at least keep my distance from their toxicity. I learned that I gained nothing peeing on their shoes in complaint for their own hurts and insecurities, fragilities, inner angst, immaturity, and general asshole-bitchiness, since they could not look under their hood or accept their diagnosis any better than I could. Then, “at my pillow”, and privately, I rank and rail and cut them off, flip them the bird, open hoods and blame and send bills, and mostly feel very, very angry, right before my considerable tears. My tears have saved me, and my child factory Mom and Dad have never seen a one.
You can’t fix something unless you realize and accept and admit that it is broke. Acceptance of fault and blame and responsibility is painful indeed, and we all resist and deny and run the best we can. When we do accept that we are mean, or at fault of hurting, or lazy, or responsible, now we can begin the repair. I learned that even if the repair is arduous, it is far easier than accepting my faults and problems. Now, rather than earmarking how many times someone feels that I am an ogre, on my first Shrek experience, I say to myself, “you are an ogre Roe, and it’s time for some hood opening”. Of course no one should put their self in for ogre repair every time a person screams Shrek. But if you do, and your heart and actions are pure, then you can’t call a kettle black that is in fact not even a kettle. “Roe, you are a real insensitive ogre!” Since I know my own Shrek-dom very, very well, after thousands of repairs, I am keenly aware when and why, or if not, I Shrek. “Yes ma'am, you are acting like a real bitch, and you deserve it!” Or, “thank you for relating that, but maybe you are having a bad day?” Or, “I’m sorry, you are right, I’ve got a blown green head gasket again”.
Right now I’m learning all about misogynist me, selfish me, two faced me, and bastard me. It really hurts. I’m going to invest in a pillow factory I have so many fist blows on my pillows and tears on my pillows. Then when I go out into the world and hear, “you selfish, two faced, misogynist, mean bastard!” I laugh and think of all my time under the hood with that guy. “Yup, that’s me. I’m it, I accept, I know, and I’m working on it, thank you”. I don’t mention that it is not my fault, and that I did not choose to be a mean bastard, or even invent the archetype. The repair bill goes to my parents and my culture and my society. I am going to pay it though, because being blamed for being a victim is the alternative, and that is racing gas for an asshole. I will not put on a happy face and work on my political correctness, for living as a male hypocrite with a mean vagina and laughing at myself gets really painful and silly.
So I am to blame. I think that is true, but still funny.
See you tomorrow.
yourpersonalmuse@gmx.com
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