Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Let's Make a Deal

As you may or may not know, when I sit down to write some of these posts, I think back over my week and try and come up with some small kernel of humor or irony from which I can expound.  Today I got to thinking about Monty Hall and the old Let’s Make a Deal TV show. 

This week something happened to me from which I am still suffering a hangover of consequences.  Although there is more than one of you who know what I am talking about, the specifics are somewhat personal, include another individual and are not entirely germane to the point of this little muse.

However, to lay some small foundation, I was ensnared to help with a problem by someone who by mutual consent, I have no contact with.  I was faced with the quandary of my instinctive desire to help anyone in need, juxtaposed to my concern over a prolonged unhealthy communication and potential confrontation. 

Monty kept asking me if I wanted Door #1, Door #2 or Door #3, so I weighed my options.

Door #1:  I could surrender to my innate ire at the unexpected incursion into my peaceful existence.  I knew there was no chance at reciprocity; this was not a favor between friends, but an exploitive one-way street paved with the remnants of a distant troubled history.  Inside my anger grew, but I was in no mood for an altercation.  I passed on Door #1.

Door #2:  I could swallow my pride with hope that it might digest my anger.  If I could solve the problem, the irritant factor might retreat back into the desolation of ignored existence and my life could maintain its status quo.

Door #3:  Or I could bow out politely leaving a defined implication that I was not interested in being listed as one of her problem solving resources.  This of course could result in a retaliatory response not unknown to this person.

I chose Door #2 because I thought I had conceived a simple fix to the request for help.  Unfortunately, a few hours passed and I was called again and informed of the failure of my solution, that the problem was now augmented by additional difficulties and a re-plead urgent appeal for my assistance.  The new wrinkles in the dilemma immediately suggested an alternate plan of action that contained a small, finite number of variable postulates guaranteeing its success.  Confident that I had solved not only the distant issue but my own interpersonal predicament, I retired to my bedroom for some late TV and much needed rest.

After a few hours, my phone lit up with a text explaining the incomprehensible failure of my new plan, the suggestion that I should accept the transfer of the problem to my own computer, that I should solve the scenario without the participation of the other person and the announcement of an impending face-to-face visitation.  I, rightly or wrongly, perceived this as a bridge-building ploy; a tactic not unknown to the arsenal of my adversary, and one that I have fallen prey to on more than one occasion.  I closed Door #2.

The next day, I composed a brief text that explained that I had no additional time to devote to the problem at hand, and that due to the years of our estrangement I could foresee no benefit in meeting again face to face.  My reply was met with angered declarations that every transgression ever committed against mankind, including those she committed, were the result of my personal actions and all the sins of the world were, of course, my fault.

I allowed those words to piece my skin like the venomous fangs of a snake and spent two days in the torture of self-doubt and insecurity.  As is my habit, I sought cathartic relief in my writing, starting and stopping a half dozen formats whereon I thought I could bleed a little for the mutual benefit of my readers and my health.  Each attempt was met with insurmountable obstacles of wordless feelings and incompetent construction.  I could not find my safety valve to release the pressure building inside me.

Fearing yet another failure, I persevered on this piece, discovering only as I started this final paragraph, that my quest for resolution lies not within me, but within my antagonist.  For if I was as vile and unworthy as her words suggest then why her persistent need to reconnect.  I am far from perfect and perhaps my faults do merit occasional derision, but I am unashamedly me.

All these things are who I am,
I am me,
It’s who I am.

I stand here now
both humble and proud,
for I have sinned
and I have failed,
I’ve known Grace
and tasted victory,
I have disappointed
and been let down,
I’ve learned knowledge
and shown great ignorance,
I have loved
and been loved,
In some eyes
I shine bright,
in others,
I am but a tarnished relic.

All these things are who I am,
I am me,

It’s who I am.

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