Protection

First, a definition:

transitive verb1 a: to cover or shield from exposure, injury, damage, or destruction : guard b: defend 1c <protect the goal>2: to maintain the status or integrity of esp. through financial or legal guarantees: as a: to save from contingent financial loss b: to foster or shield from infringement or restriction <salesmen with protected territories> <protect one’s rights> ; specifically : to restrict competition for (as domestic industries) by means of tariffs or trade controls 3: defend 5 <protect a lead>intransitive verb: to provide a guard or shield <protects against tooth decay>

People protect me. They do this mostly by withholding information. Because they love me, and are so driven to shield me from ugly things. This is partially inspired by my penchant for obsessing and reacting with my trademark intensity. I get that. I understand that it is a gift, given in love and caring concern. Most of the time, this protection is temporary, in that I will discover the truth eventually and obsess and react. I’m pretty sure my protectors realize that, and figure that any time they’ve spared me from rumination has value. They are mostly likely right.

Problem is, they can only protect me so much. At some point, the shit is going to hit the fan. This is where I take issue with my protectors. I’m the girl with the shovel. I do clean up. This is who I am. My role. Not absolutely my identity, but a facet thereof. Yes, I realize that while I excel at shoveling, perhaps it’s best that the need for my talents takes me by surprise. On the other hand, I resent the not knowing. I resent the juxtaposition of the protecting and the impending clean up I will face. Truthfully, I guess I resent being the only person in the room that doesn’t fully understand the situation. I’ve never been comfortable with the unknown, and the idea that I am the only person not to know something is terrifying, angering- it gnaws at me for much longer than it should once I know what’s really going on.

Which is strange, because to extent that I’m capable, I trust my protectors. I don’t suspect them of spite or malice or ill will. Perhaps I find it unnecessary. Perhaps I find it insulting. But neither of those really fit. I make it kind of necessary sometimes. I’m not really insulted by it. I guess I could be, but again, I understand the love that motivates it.

It still bothers me, though, and I can’t really put my finger on exactly why. Not in an angry way, but in an angsty way.