Accusations underfoot

Passing along a new mantra

Today’s accompanying tune: “New Noise” by Refused

I’ve picked up a new mantra as of late, and it has gone on to prove itself time and time again. So, I’ve decided to pass it along:

Most accusations are merely confessions.

I can’t remember where exactly I heard this the first time, though I do know it was in response to something political at a time when every aspect of life has devolved into the political. The name-calling, the finger-pointing. The ugliness of it all, prostrating itself for the world to see. At each turn an accusation of deceit, of corruption, of malfeasance. The finger only ever pointing back at itself, the accuser only ever telling on themselves, the way they would do it, the way they think, the worldview they hold.

Even removed from politics, the mantra holds. Holds in such a way that I’ve come to nearly trust my life with it. Holds better than most building materials, on par with the equipment rock climbers often place their lives into. I’ve found myself repeating it, a silent prayer or decibeled thought, as scores of online bullies descended on my Instagram account after winning a contest. They accused me of fraud, of being undeserving, of collusion. They spat words out through a keyboard and onto the vastness of the internet, showing the world their entitlement, their misplaced degree of fairness only as it applies to themselves, their inherent belief that anything not in their favor must be rigged. Their attacks came swiftly but never quite landed — after all, I had spend the better part of my formative career hanging out on Twitter with my full identity on display. If you know, you know. It was that they felt their words would hurt me, their accusations truthful if only in that the harms aired would make the airer feel better, lighter, over their loss. To feel better, their only solution was to tear down. That told me all I needed to know, said all I needed to hear.

If the mantra was powerful enough to resist the online onslaught, then, would it work retroactively? Would it put to words a practice my therapist and I have been circling for nearly a decade? Because, boiled down to its essence, the phrase is merely saying, “it’s not you, it’s them.” Most people are thinking only of themselves, their perspectives, their hopes and dreams, their challenges. In an individualistic society, it almost feels as if that is the only option, looking out for yourself. But in practice, this begets a self-centered nation focused solely on individual perspectives, and any challenges to that perspective be damned. The role of facts in this society is limited at best — what remains are simply vibes. Because something feels a certain way — feels rigged, feels at odds with your beliefs, feels uncomfortable — makes it so, in the eyes of the accuser. Without facts, we’re left only with disparate perspectives shaped by forces greater than any of us individuals, forces that benefit and profit from the mundanity of greed, of distrust, of compliance. As trust erodes, so too does the society on which we depend, the community in which we live.

Looking farther backwards, I see the mantra holds. I see it in classmates that wanted to cheat off me in high school; I see it in accusations of desertion and selfishness lobbed at me from family members. I see it in workplace conflicts; in recounts of drama from friends of friends long past. More often than not, I’ve come to see these disagreements, these unfordable chasms, in a new light — many of the baseless accusations levied were the leviers’ worst fears, the worst parts of themselves. The part that would abandon their life, their family, if they had a chance. The part that would do anything to get ahead, even the ethically gray or morally wrong. The part that felt entitled to an assistant rather than a coworker much younger than he was but whose reporting often out-performed his own. The part that was unhappy with her financial situation and the drudgery of daily life, sharpened into routine dismissal of anything further afield. The distrust of newcomers from the woman who told me to “Go back to LA” — a city I’ve never once called home and only reluctantly visited — outside of my small town post office. Each instance had previously caused me to cave inwards, unearth parts of myself I found unpleasant, parts of myself I feared fell short in my unceasing goal to become better, kinder, gentler. Prompted by guilt, prompted by fear, prompted by the barbs tossed out from an otherwise unknowing stranger in the parking lot. I didn’t want to be the person these people had said, didn’t feel like I was that person at all. But as the accusations continued to come, my sense of self, my confidence, slipped. Who was I to know my intention, my thoughts, my goals?

I spent years in therapy trying to reason myself away — I would happily disappear to make life easier for someone I’d never met. I shrank and shrugged and scrubbed myself clean of personality, of opinion, of want, of need. I’d taken the accusations to heart and wanted to begin anew. Wanted to be the person any one of those people would embrace. I minimized and chastised myself. I politely smiled and nodded, but the accusations only grew in force, grew in number, grew in themselves. I quit the job with the coworker; I took ample distance from my family. I blocked the comments and their authors. I fortified the boundaries around the shell of myself that remained, only to discover the mantra. Most accusations are merely confessions.

It was never about me. That self-centered, individualistic lens had prevented me from seeing it so clearly before — the problem had not sat with me, with the essence of myself I had almost entirely squashed. No. It was them, something in them that needed to be satisfied, that needed to be made to feel better, that needed an outlet I willingly provided. It wasn’t personal; the inherent badness I thought I carried they could have found in anyone, in anything. If anything, it spoke to something else, something strong and capable that left them uneasy, that provoked them in the first place.

Maybe to you, dear reader, this all sounds quite trite. For that, I’m unabashedly happy for you. Of course, you’ll say, this was about them all along. Most things people say are about themselves, so rarely are they engaged with the world around them in a meaningful way. I am sincerely happy you’ve had the time and experience to live that reality, the one in which I am only just making an entry. You are all quite kind and a joy to be around, if you’ll have me. For me, it is nothing short of epiphany. Nothing short of making sense of the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve been, this welcome respite. And so, if you are in need of respite, in need of counsel, in need of a dawning recognition, I hope so desperately you can find it. I hope you can find it here, or where ever this thought takes you. Because, at the end of the day, you are the one who knows you, your intentions, your heart, the best. No accusations can take that away unless you let them.

Here’s to seeing the truth and trusting yourself.

- Megan