On People That Dissapoint You

I think I have quite high expectations of people.  It's something I'm aware of, and it's something that has certainly caused tension in my relationships before.  I expect people to be perfect, to never make mistakes - and I have the hardest time forgiving them when they do.  I tell myself all I need is a hearfelt apology, but even with that, sometimes I'm not quite ready to move on when I feel angry.

 

And the only feeling worse than feeling angry?  Feeling disappointed by people.

 

Do you have anyone in your life who just seems to constantly disappoint you?

 

I do,

and you know what?

 

I'm done.

 

I am done giving those types of people the power to turn my day from wonderful to tearful.  Done giving them the power to make me feel worthless and low on the totem pole.  I am done allowing someone to make me simply an option in their life, when I continue to make them a priority.

 

Done.  Done.  Done.

 

But, how do I know that these people are actually in the wrong, and it's not my high expectations causing frazzle in my life once again?  I don't, and I won't.  But take me or leave me, I want the best.  And I can love you even if you're not perfect, and I can be there for you even if you're impeccable, and you don't have to be flawless to be in my life.  But I have to make a choice to remove the toxicity from my life - and something I find more toxic than almost anything?  Constant and continual disappointment.

 

Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
Love the people who treat you right.
Forget about the ones who don’t.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a second chance, grab it with both hands.
If it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy.
They just promised it would be worth it.



 

Friendships That End

Sometimes I feel like I am crazy.

Too invested in my friendships, maybe.

Too adverse to change, and people leaving my life.  (Totally unsure of where my abandonment issues came from, but I'm self-aware enough to know there are some.)

But am I the only person in the world who kinda thinks that friendships that end weren't ever really friendships at all?

I'm not talking about growing apart.  I'm talking about friendships that are ended, a fight that doesn't get resolved, or one friend consciously deciding to walk away from the other.

I just don't get it.

I could never even imagine ending a friendship with any of my friends.  There have been many a time that I've had a disagreement with one, but choosing to sever that relationship entirely?  Not my style.

Recently, a very close girlfriend of mine completely blindsided me with the revelation that she felt that my husband was malicious, and a bully.  This, for lack of a better expression, shocked the shit out of me.  My husband is so kind, and friendly, and fun - how could anyone think of him as mean?  Sure, he has a thick sense of humor, one that might take some adjusting to; and to be honest, if you can't take a joke, neither him nor myself are the people to be friends with.  These insults this girl flung towards me about my husband, this girl who I loved and adored, who was in my wedding, who had spent countless hours with my husband and I laughing, who I had considered a part of my family, devestated me.  It felt like such a betrayal that came out of nowhere. 

(Yes, this girlfriend has been mentioned on this blog.  And no, I'm not going to name her right now.  Though those of you who know me outside of the blogging world know exactly who I'm referring to.)

The worst part?  She wasn't saying he needed to be "nicer," she wasn't asking for his consideration of her feelings, she was saying I can't be around your husband.  I'm not quite sure how to recover from that one.  Look, I'm not the kind of girl that brings my husband everywhere.  We are not inseperable, and we have our own lives.  But, to make some kind of declaration like that - that you cannot be around someone pretty entwined in my life?  Hard to work with. 

At the end of the day, I don't really care whether my friends like my Handsome Husband.  Sure, that would be nice, and it is my understanding that, in general, they do.  But does it really matter?  Not really.  Just like, quite frankly, I don't give a damn whether my husband likes my friends.  These are my relationships, and while it would be wonderful if they all comingled perfectly, that's not always reality.  But just as there are some of my friends that HH doesn't completely adore but he puts up with for me, that's what I would have expected from this girlfriend who I so held near to my heart.  The fact that she couldn't?  Boggles me.

Have you ever lost a friendship in a way that confused you?

Tune in next week when I pledge something to my girlfriends.

Anxiety, or When it Feels Like an Elephant is Sitting on Your Chest

Last week I talked about the time when our house was broken into.  This week I want to share the aftermath of that for me, which was not an easy thing to go through.

After our house was broken into, I started really thinking about what that meant.  Someone unwelcome had forced their way into a sacred place (where you live and sleep seems inately sacred), and had been in our home.  They had walked through our messy kitchen, and seen how we live when (we think) no one is looking.  They strolled down our hallway and into our bedrooms.  They had seen the homework on the dining room table, and knew what were learning.  They had looked at our photos on our walls - seen photos of us happy as can be, photos of our friends, photos of our families.  They had rifled through our drawers, seen our undergarments (even the ugly ones you don't want anyone seeing).  They had opened my engagement ring box in hopes there would be a big ticket item to their taking.

They had invaded our privacy in the worst possible way.

When your own home becomes a place that seems unsafe, nowhere seems safe anymore.

The weeks (maybe even the months) following our break-in were incredibly difficult for me.  I've always been a bit a of a stress case (hehe), but I had never experienced the kind of paralysing anxiety I did for those few months.

Immediately after the break-in, I was constantly terrified of coming home.  Like I mentioned last week, out of the four people who lived in that house, I was usually the first one home during the week.  I also had a habit of coming home, taking a nap, and then getting to work on studying and dinner.  However, in the weeks following the break-in, I couldn't nap, I could barely move from staring at the front door.  I was petrified someone was going to try and come in, and how could I possibly protect myself or my things if I was passed out after my day at nursing school.  

We moved out not too long after the break-in at our house.  Our lease was up, and HH and I were ready to get an apartment of our own.  We found a little two-bedroom that was old and looked suspiciously like a motel and not an apartment complex, but it was ours and ours alone - no roomates, no parents, just us. 

I will always remember moving day.  Not because of my excitement, but because of my paralyzing fear.  I stood in the doorway of our new apartment, and could not bring myself to go out to the car and bring in boxes.  I was too afraid to leave our things unattended.  Afraid someone would still something valuable from our apartment, like our television, our computers, or my sense of safety.  That was the night I called my therapist.  (Yes, I've done therapy, I'm a huge proponent of it, and I'd be happy to talk further about it if anyone is interested!)

This break-in happened years ago, and at the time, the anxiety following it felt unbearable and like it would never go away.  While it did last quite some time, thank God it faded in time, and it is not nearly as all-consuming as it once was.  Sometimes I even completely forgot to be scared!

Have you ever dealt with anxiety in your life?

The One Where Our House Gets Broken Into

A few years back, when my Handsome Husband and I were only just en fianced, we lived in squander a dirty little San Diego house with two 21-year-old men boys.  It was not quite the ghetto, but it certainly wasn't the suburbia I grew up in.  It had a killer backyard though.

Evidence of aforementioned killer backyard.

We were all in college, with the three of them working on their bachelor's degree in various fields, and me in nursing school (we were quite the eclectic group actually, I think we had a nursing major, a political science major, pre-med and engineering majors).  We came and went at different times, sometimes were out until 3am, and other times we never left the couch (oh college life).  I was often the first one home in the afternoons as I was off of school at 3pm most days, and would head home, nap off my nursing school exhaustion and then get to studying while I waited for the boys to come home. 

One Tuesday afternoon heading home after a long day of lectures of mental health or pressure ulcers or something, and while chatting with HH as I pulled into the driveway of our little house, I noticed our front door was wide open. 

Here's the thing, for some people this might be an immediate red flag.  But I was living with three 21-year-old boys.  Something most 21-year-olds are not known for?  Responsibility and reliability.  Sorry, it's true.  It wouldn't have been out of character for one of them to have left the door unlocked and for it to blow open during the day, or for one of them to actually be inside but have left their car elsewhere the previous night out.

So while I mentioned to HH the fact that the door was open (I might have prefaced that statement with a What the F), I went inside without hesitation, barely looked around, and headed straight back to our bedroom.

And that's when I saw it.  All of my jewelry boxes that I kept so stealthly hidden in the drawer of my nightstand opened and strewn hastily all over my bed.  I think I may have screamed into the phone when I realized our house had clearly been broken into.  I ran outside, petrified that I had walked in mid-breakin and there may be someone still in the house, got off the phone with HH, and called 911.

It was the only time in my life I've ever called 911.  Terrified, I told the operator what I had walked into, and then realized that there was no one coming out of the house, and that it was probably all clear.  And that's when I made the biggest mistake that day.  When the 911 operator asked me if I thought there was someone in the house, I was honest and said I didn't think so.  And then it took six hours for an officer to come out to our house and take our report.  Six hours of thinking about what had happened, six hours of not wanting to touch anything (they did end up taking fingerprints). 

After hanging up with 911, I waited for HH to come home before I went inside.  While I was fairly certain there was no one inside, I was shaking and scared, and waited in my car for him.  We went in together, and tried to survey the damange.

It was hours (maybe even days) before we really realized all the things that went missing that day.  But in the break-in we lost:

A brand-new (literally a week old) MacBook Pro

Brand-new, still in the box, subwoofers and amp for HH's car

A stereo system

An older laptop belonging to one of our roomates

A jar full of coins, probably valuing over $150

And I gained?  A whole lot of anxiety.

Tune in next week when I talk more about how I grappled with getting back to real life after the break-in.