When Life Gives You Rocks

Someone really hurt my feelings. I felt crushed, adrift in a sea of disbelief and sorrow. Yes, that sounds like an angsty episode of “Gilmore Girls,” but surely I can’t be the only one who suffers when disparaged. After all, isn’t it eminently human to feel bad when someone wounds us? Whether it’s an unthoughtful comment or deliberate malice, hurt feelings sting and linger.

It was a person I trusted who hurt me. After the surprise of it, I examined their behavior to an exhausting degree and came to one conclusion. They’re delusional. Then, I realized, oh no, I’m the delusional one. I’d been thinking they’d give me a thank-you, never expecting a boulder of crap feelings to carry around instead.

Intellectually, I see the only remedy is to Elsa-fy the problem and “let it go.” But no matter how many times I sing that song, I can’t seem to do it.

First, I make the common mistake of asking others what they think. Do they see why this feels bad? Even as they empathize with me, I don’t feel better. Nope. Never do.

Oh, I know how uncool this is. It’s hard to admit how emotionally stunted it makes me seem. I should be focusing on the people in my life who love me oh-so well. Great, now I feel embarrassed along with a heaping side dish of self-recrimination.

Yes, I’ve read “The Four Agreements,” particularly #2, “Don’t take anything personally.” The author Don Miguel Ruiz explains that even if a stranger shoots me on the street, it’s not about me. It’s about them. But, Don, aren’t I still wounded? 

I saw a documentary about a renown therapist who recommended I close my eyes and flood the person who hurt me with love. So much love, I love the pain away. I tried it and, although I felt forgiveness, I still desperately wanted this person to acknowledge their hurtful behavior. Fat chance, that’ll never happen. I should close my eyes and try again.

The whole thing reminds me of someone decades ago who told me flat out, “Not everyone is going to like you, Carole, get over it!” I’m still waiting to get over it.

Come to think of it, these two people have something in common. They both say whatever they think whenever they think it. It’s an alien characteristic to me. The way I was raised, you had to think twice before you spoke only to follow it up with three apologies and a curtsy. No wonder I’m sensitive.

Listen, I’m not clueless. I understand I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Nor is everyone my cup of tea. But wouldn’t it make a difference if we all at least care about each other’s tea?

Meanwhile, I’m still carrying around a rock of hurt. Don’t bother telling me to put it down. It’s superglued to my back. I’m not proud of it. Besides, who needs the extra weight? 

What’s funny is that this person seems unaware of the impact of their words. Could it be they never saw the rock of hurt they handed me. Which begs the question, why do I even take the rock? Habit? Training? Unconsciousness?

Since I can’t seem to put the rock down, maybe I’ll make peace with it. Decorate it or something. To start, I can stop beating myself with it. So what? I carry a rock of hurt because someone was careless with my heart. How about I tend to that heart? Stop focusing on said person, for they’re certainly not thinking of me.

Also, I remind myself of the bigger truth. That this rock lies atop a cairn of childhood hurt from mistreatment. Perhaps this newest rock has a vital purpose? A mission of a lifetime to help me notice this cairn so I can begin to dismantle it. One stone at a time. 

When I do, I think I’ll build a sculpture with the remnants and paint it white. I’ll call it “Freedom” and “From Whence I Came.” In the meantime, I can stop collecting other people’s rocks.  

Carole Vasta Folley's In Musing column has won awards from the Vermont Press Association, The New England Newspaper and Press Association, and the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.