Life as a martyr definitely has its drawbacks.
We humans are cursed with a bad habit. We deem nearly every thought that puffs from the chimneys of our overheated minds as logical and true, and this leaves us vulnerable to all manner of misery. As children we convince ourselves that monsters live under our beds, for example. I once thought an elderly lady in my neighborhood chopped up little kids with a butcher knife.
As we grow into adulthood, we learn to separate truth from fiction. A reasonable assumption, don’t you think? But we do no such thing. We adults engage in delusional thinking that makes monsters seem plausible by comparison. How else might one describe the idea that other people should live up to our expectations? Equal parts absurdity and arrogance, it is a mission statement for psychopaths. You know, people like you and me.
My life is teeming with examples of such delusional thinking. It’s been one dashed expectation after another. My girlfriends didn’t understand me. My college professors were unreasonably strict. My friends let me down. My bosses didn’t give me enough credit. My chiropractor didn’t make my back better. My neighbors made too much noise. And my dry cleaners couldn’t iron a shirt to save their lives.
I simply wanted others to hold up their end of the bargain. I expect; they deliver. Was this really asking too much?
Did civility die and someone forget to tell me about it?
And if being delusional wasn’t painful enough, I tried my hand at masochism. I came to rationalize all the psychological suffering I experienced as a result of unmet expectations as a sad fact of life. The rejections, the degradations, all of it. I chalked it up as the price of nobility, refusing to lower my expectations in the face of rampant mediocre human behavior. I was in pain, but it was a good kind of pain. A saintly pain, if you will.
Life as a martyr definitely had its drawbacks, though. I came tantalizingly close to happiness without ever really touching it. It was like admiring priceless artifacts through thick glass. Living in a world where my high standards guaranteed disappointment at nearly every turn felt morally superior, but hollow. A gray cloud seemed to follow me everywhere, like I had it on a leash. And maybe I did.
Could it be that the world wasn’t really as unsympathetic as it seemed? Were those gray clouds of my own making? Could they be the exhaust of my failed attempts to regulate the behavior of others?