Goodbye, Grumbling

Mr. Grumbling,

I’m not sure what to do without you. You’re part of who I am: my instincts and my culture. You feel good to my wild side: you tap into my raw, unfiltered humanity. You and I have been together more days than not this last year, I was starting to wonder if you’d propose to me. Then, I realized you didn’t want to marry me; you wanted to kidnap me. So I ran. Breaking it off with you was the hardest thing I’ve done this year. It’s going to be easy to slip back into your clutches; I miss you already. You feel good on my lips: you take the fault and blame away from me and put it on someone else. You remove my responsibility to that dastardly obligation called change. Without you, the man called change knocks at my door, he calls on me day and night to grow. I felt safer with you.

           

 You know so much about me. You know all the difficult, challenging, and hurtful things that happened to me. You always assured me I was right, and others were wrong. You told me I deserved better than this. I could always turn to you when my emotions were bubbling up: I needed a quick way to “feel” everything hurting me, everything destroying my life.

             

It's true, you helped me make good decisions in the past, like avoiding the same mistakes. You also helped me bond with people as you taught me how to have conversations with them. When you started my conversations, I receive comfort from my friends and family. They usually told me I’d be ok, that I am strong enough to get through anything. They sometimes gave me support by saying they’d gone through the same thing! When you started my conversations, you helped me feel strong and smart. With you by my side, I felt superior to others. When you started my conversations, I became entitled to my own pain: no one could tell me how to feel or not feel. I was powerful and independent.

           

At least, that’s how I felt at first. Being with you felt empowering and limitless. But then I started noticing something. When you opened doors for me, I got stuck in your threshold of voicing my hate, while abandoning grace. You never let me ask for forgiveness, and you told me I couldn’t improve my circumstances. After I moved in with you, I felt increasingly hopeless. I started to see less of the light, flowery meadow leading to your realm; instead, I saw only the long, gnarled branches of the dark forest you call home: The trees so tangled they let no light through at all. I looked into your eyes and started to forget I ever knew what good was, what happiness felt like. I started to believe you when you said nothing turns out right, and everyone hates me. You started to control all my friendships. You edited every conversation until the people in my life started avoiding me, exhausted by your presence and demands. This is what you’ve done to me. This is what you compelled me to do. Why did you offer me sweet fruit only to switch it for bitter seeds? I am ruined.

            

 I hate you. Because of you, I spent the last year crying over spilt milk. I doubted my ability to become a good counselor. My best friend felt like he couldn’t help me, so he left. Because of you, I couldn’t see any good in the world and I became bitter and angry. I gave up bits of myself: compassion, resilience, bravery; you had no room for my treasures. Because of you, I shut down. I never let anyone beyond the surface. I felt lost and hopeless. Because of you, I insulted my professors and undermined their authority and wisdom. I stopped going to church and became angry with God. Because of you, I withdrew socially and spiritually, forcing myself to occupy less space, afraid to take risks. You stole my spirit of adventure. You squashed my creativity. You damaged my kindness. You hid my freedom. You broke my initiative. You sacrificed them all on your alter. You are done taking things from me. It’s over.

No Longer Yours,

Rachel