Fuck the Golden Rule

First, apparently, not everyone knows about the golden rule, which is bizarre to me since it was taught in elementary school where I came from. It’s a simple concept.

“Treat others the way you want to be treated.”

Good advice, right? NO! Cause news flash; you can be that supporting, loving friend and partner. You can write heartfelt cards and plan epic birthdays. You can run to your friends' aid and cradle them when they cry. Do you know what you get for it? Jack shit! You get to plan your own birthday parties. In fact, no one will plan anything for you at the same scale you have for them. ‘Oh, you? You’re having a breakdown?’ don’t call your friend; she’s going to hang up on you. That's right folks, the girl you left work to pick up and care for all day, only to hold her in your arms as she broke later that night. Oh yeah, she’s baking for her new friends, aka the bartenders at the bar she is constantly in now. She can hear you screaming and crying as your world shatters, but she’s really sorry she has to go. Hours writing calligraphy onto a scroll, taping pool noodles together to create a clever game that leads to the next clue, thousands of dollars. And I do mean thousands! Private bowling lanes with an open bar, Jurassic Park themed escape room, axe throwing for everyone, the list goes on; without hesitation each time.

…

They forgot my birthday once.

I asked if they wanted to do anything that night, and they all said they had plans. I looked at my ex and asked if there was a surprise later, and he looked at me a little worried and said, “No.” They hadn’t planned anything; as it was explained to me, “I didn’t ask them to.” That was before I was on antidepressants. It was a rough night. It ended with me stuck in my mom's driveway as she drunkenly held my glasses, hostage. My ex had to drive to her house to get my glasses and hand them back to me so I could drive home. I think one friend dropped off cookies around midnight, or it may have been the next night. But that was my birthday. My new co-workers had done more for me than my own husband and friends. I’ve been treated like a burden or, if I’m lucky, invisible since I was little. I was the black sheep, the problem kid, the loud-mouth brat that didn’t take anyone's shit. So I tried to be calmer and quieter. I stopped picking fights. But somewhere along the way, I stopped standing up for myself too. I finally started to believe I was the burden. After 20-some years of being told the same thing, it starts to feel real. I was lucky to have a guy like my ex, I was lucky to have friends, and I was lucky anyone would put up with me.

I know I’m not owed anything. I’m not owed a nice party or sweet notes. I’m not owed love. But I thought if I tried hard enough that it might be returned. I know that my bad days are no fun for anyone. In fact, they weigh heavier on some. But they forget the heaviest weight is on me. You’re frustrated; I’m drowning. I know I’m not the easiest, but I thought if they knew how much I cared for them, it would be enough to forgive those bad days. I regret all those bonus checks I spent on others. I should have saved them. I should have been a little more guarded. I thought the world wouldn't punish me if I wasn't that 'bad' person anymore. Either the world has no karmic justice, or I racked up such debt in my last life I’m screwed for this one. I kinda think it’s the second one sometimes.

(Originally written May 2, 2023)