Everything is Personal

Chapter 1 The Library Fiasco

“Itʼs nothing personal, really." Play Misty for Me

I have always had a problem with the phrase, “itʼs nothing personal.” I think it is one of those catchphrases we all say at one time or another, whether we mean it or not. It is heard so often that it is embedded in our culture. In fact, some variation of “it’s nothing personal” or “nothing personal” has been repeated in over seventeen hundred movies since the 1940’s. (Subzin). I honestly thought I believed the thinking behind this expression. If someone verbally attacked me or someone else, it was more about the perceived attacker than it was about the person who was being assaulted. I had read a few books that dealt with this topic and nodded the whole time I was reading them. They all seemed to profess that if I adopted the idea that nothing is personal, I would be much happier. I agreed with the authors that it would be an excellent philosophy to adopt; however, that was on an abstract level. In real life, what I thought I believed and what I felt during the experience were two totally different concepts. When I was in the process of being unduly and unfairly criticized, at least from my point of view, I judged the encounter as quite personal. I instantly forgot the encouraging message I had read and thought I believed. The disapproval from someone I loved, as well as from a stranger, sometimes caused me intense mental anguish. A few years ago, I had a very unpleasant experience at my local library that led me even further away from the belief that nothing is personal. The whole episode, one that I later dubbed the “Library Fiasco,” seemed extremely personal. At the time that the incident occurred, I was still in the process of recovering from a stroke. I had decided that since I was finally out of the wheelchair, I would inaugurate my reentry into the real world by returning to a safe place, my treasured library. Ever since I was quite young, I have always been a prolific reader and after the stroke, reading was one of the few activities I could still enjoy. Libraries had always meant a lot to me, much more than just my source for reading materials. They were peaceful and cozy oases, a welcoming place to get away from it all. To my surprise, I was a little nervous about going back. I knew the library had been closed for a while for remodeling and had just reopened the day that I elected to return. Even though I was recovering quite well from the stroke, I still had some lingering aftereffects. I probably looked perfectly fine to others, but I was acutely aware that my cognitive abilities had suffered. It took me much longer to process information, and sometimes I just couldn’t think of the words I wanted to use. I also didn’t adjust easily to new situations. My last thought as I was walking into the building was that a lot of changes might have taken place, but at least they couldn’t move the heavy, bulky bookcases. I would just go to the shelves that held the mysteries I loved, pick a couple that looked intriguing, and leave quickly. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Contrary to my obviously limited knowledge of bookshelves, I discovered they could be moved after all. Not only were they moved, they were in a completely different configuration! I felt totally discombobulated and spent almost an hour trying to figure out where they were hiding the books that I treasured. The general area where I normally found my beloved mysteries now contained cookbooks. Considering how much I hate to cook, this seemed to be some kind of personal cosmic joke. I eventually found some novels that appealed to me, but I was quite rattled by the whole experience. I gratefully took my new detective stories to the checkout counter, looking forward to some well-earned rest and reading the latest whodunit written by my favorite author. Unfortunately for me, the moving of the bookcases was not the only change that had taken place. A stern-looking librarian begrudgingly explained to me that the staff no longer checked out books. They now had computers for self-checkout. I told her I would still like her to handle it because I didn’t think I could manage checking out the books by myself. The librarian came around to the front of her desk and speaking in a fairly loud voice informed me, “It’s easy to check out books on the computer. Anybody can do it.” Somewhat sarcastically, she added, “Why do you think you can’t?” I was stunned by her words and tone and felt like I was going to bawl any minute. Instead, I went on the attack, or to put it another way, I totally lost it. Although I usually never want to create a scene in public, I turned to her and speaking in a loud, shrill and somewhat shaky voice, said,“ I can’t believe you are talking to me this way. How dare you?” I then used my stroke as a weapon to make her feel guilty. “I am recovering from a stroke, and I’m not perfect, like you. Thank you very much for embarrassing me by calling attention to my problem in front of everyone.” I think I even heard the F-word bandied about at some point, and I don’t think that she was the one who used it. I threw my books on her desk telling her I no longer wanted them. I vowed never to return, and I literally ran out of the library, at least as best as someone who until recently was confined to a wheelchair could run.