The Story of Blame
Blame was the shield. As I pointed my finger, I didn’t have to face what was really inside me. If I was the victim now, I could be the hero later. Blame gave me distance and deflection. Career was the mask. I wanted to say: “I’m responsible now. I’m all grown up. Can’t you see? Don’t the numbers prove it?” A title. A way to pretend. To act as if external success meant internal transformation. It was order on the outside without order on the inside. And then we ask: why do we blame? Why is it so difficult to say, “That was my choice”? We love to own it when it’s in public and things are working in our favor. We love to let everyone know: “I decided that. I was the reason for that success.” But when it comes to failure, I can’t tell you how many fingers I’ve pointed. I can’t even begin to explain the logic I built up—the constructs inside myself—so that I could always find a platform of hope. Because if it didn’t matter what I had done, it was always because of what someone else di...