I’ve
been considering my life, wondering what I should be doing and what I shouldn’t
be working on. It occurs to me that my problem is my relationship with reality.
Back in 2006, I was a college freshman at Middlesex Community College. That’s
where I took my first Psychology class. My professor was a short, brunette
woman in her early forties. She spoke with a southern accent and always spoke
frankly. It was in this frankly vain that she told the entire class about an
important philosophy among professionals in the Psychology field.
“It’s
your shit, not mine.”
The
takeaway from that philosophy was that one should not let other people’s issues
become theirs. For whatever reason, I hadn’t internalized that concept until
just recently. I’ve been asking myself if I was the one who was crazy, if the
way other people behave was logical and I was
the one running around, being illogical. I’ve decided something when I
returned to that philosophy I heard six years ago. I’m going to do what works
for me and I’m gong to let others do what works for them, regardless of whether
it seems to be working or not. I’m writing this to remind myself to this
fact.
I
feel like I’m getting old at the age of twenty-four and I look at other people
at my age and people older than me. They seem so much younger than I am. They
walk through the now chilly streets of Lowell, seemingly obvious of the world
around them. Other twenty-four years don’t slip their hands into their pockets
and switch off their headphones to covertly listen in on other people’s
conversations, making sure that the conversation isn’t ebbing in their
direction. I do.
There
was this argument in my house. Due to the size of the argument, one would think
it would be about something big; war, rape, murder, or credit scores. You’d be
right in the latter case. The question was posed, How do you find your credit
score? I didn’t pose the question and I wasn’t there for most of the argument.
I came in when the argument had duplicated. Two separate conversations were
going on and the two men arguing were fighting with all the pointless passion
that such a conversation demanded.
I
noticed that if one of them just let it go, said, “This isn’t worth it. I’m
going to watch the game.” Then the entire argument would fall on its face. Like
seedlings about to break through to the surface, they were both almost there
and then there was the accusation of lying. These two people who weren’t scared
of being hateful and hostile to one another were suddenly concerned with each
other’s opinion.
I’m
getting caught up in this, mostly because it’s a fresh wound. I have to remind
myself of why I’m writing this. “It’s their shit, not mine.” Why should I care
if two people have a long-winded argument, loudly in the other room.
The
reality of the situation is that these people were doing what worked for them,
regardless of whether it was actually working or not. I have to do the same
thing. I need to live a life without concern for others. “It’s their shit, not
mine.” I probably should have learned this a long time ago, longer than six
years ago, or even sixteen years ago.
