You Made Me Do It

Who, me? Own what I did? When I lose it and come apart at the seams, surely that falls on someone else. You bruised my feelings. You set me off. If the rest of you would simply back away and leave me be, none of this would happen.

Clean up your own mess. I never signed on to be the person you dump your bad moods onto. Point me toward the exit before the eruption starts.

So who ends up carrying the blame here? And does it make your skin crawl to imagine that maybe, just a little, you had a hand in how things went sideways?

The drama queens and kings run the whole show. Everything orbits around them.

Try sitting with the idea of responsibility for a minute. Because if you actually accept that you own a piece of the mess, the next step is doing something about it rather than performing.

There's a selfish streak hidden inside getting worked up. You grab the spotlight from whoever genuinely needs help, the same person you could have been helping if you hadn't been so wrapped up in yourself.

Flip the coin and you find the reverse problem. You're the one struggling, help is standing right there, and you wave it off. The martyr role suits you. Surrendering even a sliver of control terrifies you.

Step aside. Clear the lane. Let's fix what's broken. Throw your pity party if you must, then be done with it and keep walking. Stop adding to the wreckage that's already piled up. Keep yourself in check. Vent if you have to, just don't let it run wild.

Most of us burn far more hours stewing over a problem than actually untangling it. What on earth can I do, oh, poor me. Grab the reins on yourself instead. Crack a window and let the air move. Handle it like a person who means to.