This afternoon and evening I helped a client repair the fence in their backyard. (It was falling over, and their dog was jumping into their neighbor’s yard. Their neighbor didn’t like this.) And whereas the fence mending itself went well, while moving a heavy rock along the fence I smashed my middle finger and ripped my fingernail open. There was blood and everything.

And then I stepped in dog shit.

These things happen.

You know how you can begin a project with a good attitude, with hope in your heart that things will go fabulously, but then you start hurting yourself and stepping in shit (and there’s no one to blame but yourself) and your good attitude goes down the toilet? (I do.) That being said, today as my finger stopped bleeding and throbbing, I worked to regain proper perspective. Your finger will heal, I thought. The dog didn’t purposefully shit where he thought you’d be stepping. He just needed to go. We all need to go now and then.

Just about this time, a mosquito bit me.

Looking toward the heavens I thought, What?! I haven’t had enough for one day?

Since I only had about thirty minutes left on the fence project and hate having bug spray on my skin, I thought about taking my chances. But then I thought about how much mosquitoes love me and how badly my skin reacts to them, so I took a break, walked to my car (right through the dog shit gauntlet), and reached for the bug spray. I’d rather be covered in DEET than itching to death, I thought. For me, using the spray was an act of self-compassion, a way to prevent further suffering. Sometimes this is the best you can do. Earlier I’d put a Bandaid on my bleeding finger. It didn’t change the fact that something shitty had happened, but it did keep things from getting worse, and it did support healing.

Twenty years ago when I was a teenager, I had a family friend who was a mentor of sorts. Our relationship isn’t private, but it would take a while to fully explain, so suffice it to say that this person and I communicated by letters because their personal circumstances didn’t allow for much more. They were in poor health and had limited resources, so I did a lot for them–typed up and made copies of documents, that sort of thing. Looking back, I can see that I didn’t know how to say no. For one thing, they were an adult. I was seventeen. For another, they were offering a lot of “sage” advice about matters I was interested in at the time–the Bible, the government–and it didn’t feel like I could question them. I remember thinking I had to do whatever they said.

For the last twenty years, the letters from this person have remained in a binder untouched. When I went through all my things and had my estate sale three years ago, I thought perhaps I should toss them. But then I thought I should read them first, so I just kept them, imagining one day I would. Well, tonight was the night. I opened the binder and read all twenty-two letters. (Yes, I numbered them.) And whereas most of the contents were benign, some of this person’s statements, quite frankly, were rude and inappropriate.

“You should do as directed.”

“I haven’t heard from you in a while. I guess you only write when you want something.”

Followed by, “Send me a copy of such and such.”

The primary emotions I felt tonight were anger (because this person was brash, passive aggressive, and lacked boundaries) and overwhelm (because at the time I didn’t realize they were asking for more than a teenager could give, but I still felt obligated to act as their–unpaid–personal assistant). These are the SAME emotions I felt when I initially received the letters, of course, but I didn’t know how to express myself back then. I didn’t know how to say, “Whoa, Trigger!”

However, I do know. As I was reading the letters, I actually said, “Fuck you!” Now, does this person care? No, they died a long time ago. Besides, it’s not about them. It’s about me, about me finally letting go of an unhealthy relationship and the old emotions associated with it. Along these lines, after I talked to my family about the letters, I burned them. (The letters, not my family.) Every single page. Up in smoke in our backyard.

Sweeping off the ashy patio, I said, “The past is over” then walked back inside.

“The past is over” is a common phrase in the self-help world, but I’d like to be clear. Until I said, “Fuck you” and burned the letters tonight, it wasn’t over for me. Had I not given voice to my previously unacknowledged frustrations or had I held on to something that only upset me to read it, the past would have continued. This is the deal. You don’t just get over something. Despite what Frozen and even I sometimes say, you don’t just let it go. When your finger is smashed, you first have to admit that you’ve been hurt. You can’t just mutter, “Oh, I’m fine” when you’re really not. No matter what you’re feeling, you’ve got to be honest about it. Even if the feeling started twenty years ago. Even if the feeling isn’t “nice.”

Another way I could keep the past alive with respect to this situation would be to bitch and moan about what an awful human this person was, to go around for the rest of my life and say, “Can you believe the way they treated me?!” Now, the truth is this person didn’t treat me terribly. Sure, they were at times abrupt and overbearing, but at times they were quite endearing and kind. As my therapist says, people are complex. Even if they had been all-the-time mean and nasty, I know it wasn’t personal. Dogs shit on the ground because that’s what they do, and people are mean and nasty because–I don’t know–they are. What I do know is that how this person treated me is how they treated everyone (mosquitoes bite me, mosquitoes bite you), so what good would it do for me to complain and play the victim?

That’s right, it wouldn’t.

In the world of speech and debate, which I was involved with in high school and college, there’s something called a turn. A turn is when one side brings out a piece of evidence supporting their argument and–later–the other side shows that the evidence, properly interpreted, ACTUALLY supports THEIR side. The kids these days would call this flipping the script, and it’s what I suggest doing anytime you smash your finger, step in dog shit, get bitten by a mosquito, or unearth something from your past that upsets you. That is, use a difficult situation for your benefit. Rather than playing the victim, play the victor. If it’s a simple injury or irritation, use it as an opportunity to slow down and practice self-care. Remind yourself that life isn’t out to get you. If it’s something more serious and involves another person, consider it a chance to practice emotional expression, boundary setting, and better communication. Even if the person is dead, see that they’ve helped you get clear about something important and that–going forward–you can be that much more clear with yourself and others.