Martyr-dumb

We all know this person.  The perpetual victim, the seemingly selfless martyr, the person who will do a favor, but then you have to listen to her litany of sorrows and sufferings and how her sacrifice inconveniences her life.  The missed opportunities, the long hours of traveling, the fatigue, the emotional toil, the list goes on and on, ad nauseam (Latin for "if you talk about his one more time I will throw up).  Drama.  Lots and lots of drama.  Going into the well of past good deeds, parading every gift of time, every thoughtful gesture, every visit, and weighing them against the cost of the favor, on the perpetual balance sheet where the victim is never in the black, or fairly compensated their time and trouble.  By the time the favor is done, you are left feeling guilty for even accepting their help.  Not even going to try to point the finger or name these people...there are too many of them in my life.  Far too many.  

But wait, sometimes that person is me.  I try so hard to be perfect, to do things out of Christian love, to love everyone, and to do it all with a cheerful heart, but sometimes, I, too, play the victim.  I start to feel superior, as if I am sacrificing everything to be Christ-like.  Yep, I'm a regular 21st century Joan of Arc, the Mother Teresa of western North Carolina, and my mission is to help everyone else with their problems and shortcomings.  Ha!  I can barely handle my own!  And I seldom ask for help , and sometimes I even forget to pray first! (Hard to believe, huh?)  A need arises, a family member calls, someone needs help with finding a job, or a local charity is in dire need for volunteers.  Before I can even fully process what that need may entail, I raise my hand, sign my name on the clipboard, and excitedly jump right in.  And while I offer my help to someone for the right reasons (out of love and a desire to serve), soon I hear that grating, raspy voice whispering and muttering in my ear, twisting my soul and my heart, filling me with fear and, yes, even hatred, and placing a hard, nasty-tasting lump of resentment in my stomach.  Try as I may to block that voice out, it persists, whining and cajoling me and reaching up at me with cold, long, clawing fingers, trying to pull me down into the pit of despair.  

Depressing, isn't it?  Playing the martyr for all the wrong reasons.  Going it alone.  

Just plain dumb.