Pollyanna Shuts it Down

If you know me at all, you know I can carry enough heat from internal stress to ignite explosives from 500 yards.  I dislike this about myself and, I know it makes me who I am, but it makes my friends crazy.  Yet, you want that kind of devotion and passion in your life as long as it's used FOR you and not directed AT you.   Along with that, I am tragically Pollyanna (herein referred to as "Polly Pocket").   Those two things make for a catastrophic detonation when the stress and the nice collide.  And yes, that just happened.   I splatted on someone most undeserving.  As a result,  things were broken down for me.  I will admit it hurt a little, but I deserved it and I woke up this morning grateful for the honesty and with a clarified purpose.  Apologies have all been made.  

My friend and coworker, Megan, used to tell me to 'shut down the friendly' on days that she didn't feel like being chatty with people.  At first I laughed, but it has come to mean so much to me.   I understand that things are not so black and white. I can choose to be kind to the people who deserve that kindness and shut that off to people who don't.  I'm working diligently on not being afraid of who likes me and doesn't. "Everyone" doesn't matter; only the "someones" in my life do. 

I have made a lot of other changes in the past year.  Not all were easy, but all were necessary.   I still have many more decisions to make and they will take time, along with the love and support of those closest to me.  Sometimes I don't know how to proceed.  Thanks to my Polly Pocket, I have a hard time making decisions that may hurt some else's feelings, which can portray me as being indecisive.  Sometimes I don't know if it's a decision I am allowed to make for legal or other reasons and sometimes I just don't want to decide.   I would like to cite a  recent example of almost crying at Walmart in front of the Blu Ray players.  Yeah, on second thought, let's not re-live that event.  

What's really the core of all of this alleged stress and messiness is that I don't know whose dream I am living. Mine?  My mother's?  Gigi's?  Staying in this life and house, washing the same windows, wiping the same counter tops that have been wiped by the Swedish women in my family for 64 years.  Does it make me insane, a martyr, or sentimental?   I'm surrounded by things and memories of things, which are not a replacement for love and real life, nor indicative of moving forward.  Moving on is desirable.  

I have a friend who asks me on a weekly basis "what does Ruthie want"?  If I knew, älskling, I'd surely tell you.  I want to live in a $10,000 a month apartment on Lakeshore Drive in Chicago.  I want to play with my dogs in the front yard of the home I grew up in and still occupy.  I want to look at all the beautiful things my family has left me.  I want to take 90% of what's in my house to the dumpster.  I have a dream about the most awesome man I will ever meet and going with him anywhere his heart desires.  I want quiet moments alone with a cup of coffee.  I want stability, spontaneity, surprises, love, friendship, peace, quiet, and craziness.   I want to give that, and so much more, back to someone.   

The point of all of this is that I will have what is meant for me and not one single thing more or less.   I need to be patient in the meantime, enjoy every second, and continue to make the decisions that get me to where I'm supposed to be. I need to decide whose dream I am living and, if it's not truly mine, change it.  In the end we all die with nothing more than that which we arrived.   

So, if you see me acting crazy, hug me and tell me to shut it down.  It really does work.    So does buying me ice cream.   Double Chocolate Malted Crunch from Thrifty.   Please and thank you.