I'm sitting at the bar that serves as my work desk, taking a moment to absent-mindedly trace the deep scars in the surface of the wood.
I'm replaying an imaginary conversation in which I respond to a customer's angry ranting online review. It's the same conversation I've been having in my mind and occasionally in my dreams for the past week.
My Trevor says I need to let it go.
I just can't seem to release this feeling of indignation, of offense, that the best I could do was still not enough for this customer. Instead, the restless feeling of unresolved conflict winds its way around my thoughts and my heart and my stomach and makes it hard to find the waters of peace. It dries me out- I'm parched and rough, inflexible and brittle. Exposed.
It's a symptom. I know that this fire-in-my-veins restlessness comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere where my identity lies.
And I've spent long enough tracing the dry, old, worn out cattle paths in my mind to know where this trail comes from.
I have an unquenchable thirst for approval.
Being liked, or needed, or valued by other people drives so many of my decisions, so many of my behaviors. I don't handle it well when they (whoever they are... it really doesn't matter) are unhappy with me.