I have deleted the list

Keeping it was only making me mad.

I added Fostar last week after he told my boss he couldn’t get his job done because he was receiving no support. But putting Fostar on the list did not make me feel better. There is no justice. It’s just a list.

When I am losing an argument, I change the subject. When my way is blocked, I change course or change my mind about wanting to go that way. What I’m really trying to do is regain the control I feel I have lost.

The result is a good one, though. I am always satisfied. Someone bet me last week that I always get what I want. My answer was, “no, I just always want what I get.”

Sometimes the only thing you can control is yourself.

I am not sure which is more unpleasant: to lose control to another person or to lose control to a situation. For me, people seem easier to control or escape. Situations can be very tricky.

Of course you can run away from a situation, but you don’t have to be in a situation to still want to (and still try to) control it.

How many exes are obsessed with controlling the ones they left?

And running is just another way of controlling anyway, even if it’s simply controlling how much the situation really matters to you.

I am becoming convinced that the root sin we choose to cultivate has everything to do with what we feel is most out of control in our lives.

The list was an attempt to control my irritation at the futile yet continual employment I observe around me. But the frustration remains because I have no control over the root issue.

And keeping the list made things worse. Is that the list controlling me, or me not really wanting to escape the anger?

So, I deleted the list, and that puts me back in control, right? If nothing else, I am in control of what I do next.

Maybe I will just let it go.

Enough

I used to think I became myself during my early 20s. Some people say you continue to become your whole life. But I have just realized that I’ve been myself all along.

You know that embarrassing childhood story your parents always tell? Well, mine is actually very telling.

Maybe it was black eyed peas, it doesn’t matter, but it was my favorite food at the time. When they were fixing my plate, I said I wanted “too much”.

Okay, that’s not the real embarrassing story, but did you really think I was going to tell it to you? You’ll have to talk to my mom about that!

Even as a child, too much didn’t seem inappropriate to me.

I am excessive, that’s me. Always have been, always will be.

Every word is superlative, every story exaggerated.

I like my music too loud. I stay up too long, sleep too late. I say too much. I go too far.

Too much is more than enough. But what is enough? I don’t think I even know what enough is.

I never recognize the moment when I am standing right on the line. I only notice the line after I have gone well past.

It’s arguable that I need a boundary setting exercise. But how do I set a boundary on how much I talk? Do I limit my words and then count? Some of you can imagine me actually doing that, but numbers seem sort of arbitrary here.

I can’t foresee where the edge of a conversation will be, nor can I tell when I am dangerously close. But there is no doubt when I am out of bounds.

Perhaps I ought to look back on an unfortunate conversation and try to pinpoint the line from this angle.

Coincidentally, the boundary seems to be the starting line.

Enough was none at all.