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Woman of Steel, Woman of Kleenex
I've somehow ended up knowing a lot of drama queens.
You know the ones I mean. The sob sisters. The fragile flowers. Women with the backs of one hand permanently stapled to their foreheads. Women who rush out of the room in tears at parties or cons and need someone to trudge after them and pick up the pieces. The TV's stuck on the Drama Channel, where the news is always bad and the volume is always turned up to eleven.
I'm not one of them.
Oh, I won't deny that I've had my spectacular breakdowns, here and there. I won't even deny crying on someone's shoulder at a con. But in general, I'm not a fragile flower - I'm a trudger-after, by lot and disposition. It's something to do with being nine-tenths a pshrink, and something to do with the kinds of personal qualities that made me decide to become a pshrink, and - you know? - probably something to do with not being frail and pretty. In the main, I'm sensible and reliable, and soothing, and good in a crisis. I'm good at sorting things out. You can count on me. I'm emotionally strong.
And you know, sometimes that sucks. Because if everyone knows they can count on you to be low-drama and reliable, then they can turn most of their attention to the person who is reeling and writhing and fainting in coils. Everyone knows you'll make it, after all, whereas her survival is in doubt. Hey, can you help out over here? There's a crisis.
A friend of mine finds herself singing the same song. Oh, she can do drama. She tells a good dramatic story, she has a complex and difficult life, she feels things strongly and is not shy in voicing her opinion. But in the pinch, she's tough. I'd want her at my back. She endures, she takes charge, she gets things done.
In the past few days, I've watched someone who's supposed to care about her trample her feelings in cleats. He's done the same to me, in the past, so when I queried him about the situation today, it had that extra little edge. It all turned out to be... so obvious, and so infuriating. See, it had never occurred to him that she had any need for his reassurance or support. She should know, absolutely, that she has his those things - without being told. If he appears to give support to someone who hurts her, and doesn't say a damn thing to reassure or comfort her, well... doesn't she just assume his support? Doesn't she assume that he loves her, and trusts her, and believes in her, and wants to vanquish her enemies?
So she didn't get a word. And even after my intercession, she got a stiff little e-mail that offered a lukewarm apology at best.
I know, know that this person says (and probably believes) that he prefers strong, sensible women to fragile flowers. But I've seen, time and again, that he'll drop everything to go to the aid of the fragile flowers. And I've seen, more than I'd like, that he'll not notice the pain of the strong and sensible. He'll assume that his regard and concern are taken as read. And when the abandoned-hurt feelings have built up to be as strong as the initial difficulty, he'll be genuinely surprised.
Would I rather be respected or cared for? Heh. I've seen people roll their eyes at the drama queens. Hell, I do it myself. I know the mocking tone in which their traumas are discussed. But sometimes knowing that I'm respected is cold comfort, when I'm gritting my teeth and bearing up cheerfully and being ignored.
But hey, don't worry about me. Or my friend. We're all right.
You know the ones I mean. The sob sisters. The fragile flowers. Women with the backs of one hand permanently stapled to their foreheads. Women who rush out of the room in tears at parties or cons and need someone to trudge after them and pick up the pieces. The TV's stuck on the Drama Channel, where the news is always bad and the volume is always turned up to eleven.
I'm not one of them.
Oh, I won't deny that I've had my spectacular breakdowns, here and there. I won't even deny crying on someone's shoulder at a con. But in general, I'm not a fragile flower - I'm a trudger-after, by lot and disposition. It's something to do with being nine-tenths a pshrink, and something to do with the kinds of personal qualities that made me decide to become a pshrink, and - you know? - probably something to do with not being frail and pretty. In the main, I'm sensible and reliable, and soothing, and good in a crisis. I'm good at sorting things out. You can count on me. I'm emotionally strong.
And you know, sometimes that sucks. Because if everyone knows they can count on you to be low-drama and reliable, then they can turn most of their attention to the person who is reeling and writhing and fainting in coils. Everyone knows you'll make it, after all, whereas her survival is in doubt. Hey, can you help out over here? There's a crisis.
A friend of mine finds herself singing the same song. Oh, she can do drama. She tells a good dramatic story, she has a complex and difficult life, she feels things strongly and is not shy in voicing her opinion. But in the pinch, she's tough. I'd want her at my back. She endures, she takes charge, she gets things done.
In the past few days, I've watched someone who's supposed to care about her trample her feelings in cleats. He's done the same to me, in the past, so when I queried him about the situation today, it had that extra little edge. It all turned out to be... so obvious, and so infuriating. See, it had never occurred to him that she had any need for his reassurance or support. She should know, absolutely, that she has his those things - without being told. If he appears to give support to someone who hurts her, and doesn't say a damn thing to reassure or comfort her, well... doesn't she just assume his support? Doesn't she assume that he loves her, and trusts her, and believes in her, and wants to vanquish her enemies?
So she didn't get a word. And even after my intercession, she got a stiff little e-mail that offered a lukewarm apology at best.
I know, know that this person says (and probably believes) that he prefers strong, sensible women to fragile flowers. But I've seen, time and again, that he'll drop everything to go to the aid of the fragile flowers. And I've seen, more than I'd like, that he'll not notice the pain of the strong and sensible. He'll assume that his regard and concern are taken as read. And when the abandoned-hurt feelings have built up to be as strong as the initial difficulty, he'll be genuinely surprised.
Would I rather be respected or cared for? Heh. I've seen people roll their eyes at the drama queens. Hell, I do it myself. I know the mocking tone in which their traumas are discussed. But sometimes knowing that I'm respected is cold comfort, when I'm gritting my teeth and bearing up cheerfully and being ignored.
But hey, don't worry about me. Or my friend. We're all right.
On target
I feel skewered by your post, principally because it’s accurate, although not in exactly the same way you first thought. I catch myself thinking, ...and then I catch myself up, and have to explain to my interior monologue that no, sie doesn’t necessarily know what’s going on, or even that something’s going on at all, and that I’d better sit down and figure out a way to speak up about it that’s not accusatory or confronting. Sometimes I succeed at this.
Sometimes I feel as though I play situations for sympathy, dramatizing my situation, and I continue to feel that way even when my friends and family tell me I “should have said something” long before—but I figured they had their own stuff to deal with, and didn’t need me bothering them with mine, until mine’s to the point I can’t stand it any longer—and then I do what I, at any rate, see as dramatizing. Which I then feel guilty for doing.