I once had a little black book. I started it when I was
working in a particularly nasty, thankless job. It was a job, ironically, that I was good at; a fact that locked me into it for 13 long, stress filled years.
My little black book was not the kind with lovers’ phone numbers or anything,
but a record of who I considered black-hearted people. People in the book had
intentionally hurt or disappointed me or were rude or difficult. They were people
who held power over me, people I couldn’t directly combat. The book was a way
to handle my anger and feelings of helplessness. Since I tend to hold a grudge,
the book helped me to reset and move on.
A few friends who were aware of my book warned me to stop
recording stuff like that because the very essence of the book would hurt me in
the long run. But, at the time, it was a means for me to put the actions of
these black-hearted people away, so I could stop thinking about what they did.
It moved the hurt from my heart and mind and onto the pages of the book for the
Universe to deal with in time. Among my friends, it became a joke to say,
“Uh-oh, that will go in Connie’s book,” or “Oh, don’t do that! You will end up
in Connie’s book!”
I didn’t review the book unless I was making a new entry.
There were no consequences to those who were recorded in the book. I didn’t
stick pins in them or do any other voodoo type rituals to hurt them. However, if
they repeated themselves, they would get a check mark next to their name. Some
people ended up with a page all to themselves because they were repeat
offenders. And, there were people who actually qualified to be in my black book
who never got in it because I wasn’t done with them yet. I wasn’t ready to let
go of the hurt. I was still angry with them and didn’t see a way of ever
getting over their transgressions against me.
Eventually, when I was finally moved out of the nasty job, I
got rid of the book. I looked through it one last time, giving thanks that for
the most part, I would never have to deal with those people again. I tore each
page into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. I tossed the cover of
the book into a dumpster.
To this day, there is only one person who was in the book,
who if they cross my mind, I feel a wave of rage against. Same for one person
who never made the book, against whom I still hold a grudge. Two people who
devalued me and over-powered me. Two people still causing damage to my psyche
because I was helpless to fight them.
