Are We All Replaceable?

I'm laying here in bed, minding my own business, eating chips and salsa and watching a murder documentary I've already seen God knows how many times.

Because apparently that's what I do.

Metta’s dog is staring at my chips like I've personally betrayed him because I won't give him one.

He's so damn cute.

But he can't have a chip. It'll make him sick. Geezzz, Ringo!

He doesn't know that, of course.

All he knows is that I have something he wants, and I'm saying no.

And somehow, because apparently my brain cannot simply watch a woman murder her husband in peace, I started thinking about how replaceable human beings are.

You know.

Normal Tuesday-night shit.

Think about it.

You break up with someone, and shortly after there's another person.

You quit your job, and someone else sits at your desk.

You don't see a friend for a while—they have other friends. Life goes on.

Your kids grow up and build lives of their own. They get married. They have in-laws and other families who become important to them.

Your grandkids have other grandparents.

There are other people who can fill so many of the roles we once thought belonged to us.

And I started wondering...

Are we all just replaceable?

Maybe we should be a little more okay with that.

It's been happening I’m sure for all of human existence.

What one person can't give us, sometimes another person can.

But here's where my brain really started going down the rabbit hole.

What happens when you stop giving someone what they want or need from you?

What happens when you say:

No. I can't do this.

No. This isn't okay with me.

This is a boundary for me.

This hurts me.

I can't keep giving you that.

Sometimes it feels like everything is fine as long as we're feeding people what they need from us.

But the second we stop?

There's always another tree to bark up and we all know there are lots of trees out there.

And yes, I realize the irony here as I stare at a dog who is currently pissed at me because I won't feed him a tortilla chip.

But maybe that's actually the point.

I'm not withholding the chip because I don't care about him.

I'm withholding it because I do care.

He just doesn't understand that.

All he knows is:

Bitch. Give me the chip!

And maybe humans aren't always that different.

Sometimes another person's boundary feels like rejection because we're looking at it entirely through the lens of what we need.

Sometimes someone's no makes us angry.

Sometimes someone's inability to give us something makes us look somewhere else for it.

And sometimes people really do leave when we stop being who they need us to be.

That's the part I've been thinking about.

Because if I have to continually give someone what they want from me just to keep my place in their life...

Am I actually being chosen?

Or am I just maintaining my position?

Oof. Ouch.

There's an uncomfortable fucking thought.

Maybe the problem isn't that we're replaceable.

Maybe it's that we confuse being needed with being valued.

Because roles absolutely can be replaced.

Another employee can do my job.

Another woman can become someone's partner.

My friends can have other friends.

My children can love their in-laws.

My grandchildren can adore their other grandparents.

Someone else can provide something I can't.

But none of those people can actually become me.

They can't recreate the conversations we've had, the stupid things we've laughed about, the memories we've made, the ways we've hurt each other, the ways we've shown up for each other, or the history that exists because two particular human beings happened to share a piece of life together.

Maybe that's the distinction I've been missing.

The role is replaceable.

The person isn't.

And maybe part of trusting myself is becoming okay with what happens after I say no.

Someone might be disappointed.

Someone might get angry.

Someone might pull away.

Someone might even find somebody else who can give them the thing I can't.

And maybe I have to let them.

Because the alternative is spending my life handing out chips that I don't actually want to give just so nobody goes looking for another bag.

And that's not love.

That's fear.

So maybe the goal isn't to make myself impossible to replace.

Maybe it's to stop measuring my worth by whether anyone tries.

And for tonight, apparently the first step is accepting that this poor dog may very well be mad at me all night.

That's fine.

I'll survive.

He’ll survive.

He still can't have my chips.

Damn it, OK, maybe just 1.