Walking on Eggshells

photo by Peter Werkman on Pexels

I believe that all of us, at some point in our lives, have to deal with explosive people. You know, the easily angered, in extreme cases road-ragey types. Most of the time we can navigate fairly well (with a work colleague or even a difficult family member), but it often means making an extra effort not to trigger an outburst. So we tiptoe around, walking on eggshells as it were, to keep the peace.  

That kind of eggshell-walking just enables the offending person to keep on being—offensive. And it is so exhausting, always having to anticipate and try to head off trouble at home or work. I always considered myself more of an eggshell-walker, than an offender. But now, to my everlasting regret, I look back at my childhood, my marriage, my parenting, and see a very strong, rather demanding, personality (mine). When I was a kid, there was a lot of yelling and fighting at home, a verbal free-for-all, and each of us participated. I learned to be the best in the family at this game, giving as good as I got, and when I was in a certain mood, I knew that others would try to avoid my wrath. 

 

My early marriage to Steve was an attempted escape, not just from a chaotic home, but from a part of myself I hated. Alas, “wherever you go, there you are” proved true, and soon I was picking fights and insisting on winning every argument. Luckily our union survived, and it has been the greatest gift of my life. Not only do I have a world-class husband, but we were able to have our five amazing children. 

 

Raising our kids, I tried not to be an eggshell mom, but I could never be a sweet and gentle and permissive parent, not for long. I was never at all abusive, but I was fairly strict, and didn’t shy away from a confrontation, often ending with a too-loud, “BECAUSE I SAY SO!!” Do I feel my brood was afraid of me? Maybe. Sometimes. When those eggs cracked and crunched underfoot, I did not react very well. Of course, menopause and my mental illness did nothing to help the situation.

 

Nowadays, my moods have regulated much better, and the idea of shouting matches has zero appeal. But I do hope my attitude doesn’t devolve as I age. I would really hate to be the miserable old woman in the nursing home (the one everyone goes out of their way to avoid). 

 

We all need to stand up for ourselves in this world, for sure. But we also need to be there for one  another—and that involves copious amounts of kindness and empathy. It’s an age-old problem, painfully obvious in our current, bitterly divided world, and I wish we could solve it. 

 

We’ll continue to deal with eggshells as we bumble our way through life. But maybe we can find a way to use those proverbial eggs, to make each other omelets. 

Dimitri is counting on us to figure it out