What's so good about my own way that's worth upsetting myself over because I do not get it?
An impossible question with no apparent answer, ...
Unless, of course, upset is the actual purpose, not the by-product.
What might be the purpose of upset?
Being the hero of the dream, the centre of the maelstrom, the embattled emperor, the aggrieved one, the victim, the poor, straining martyr with my brave, bitter little face, reproachfully insistent on the inevitability of suffering in this gruesome world, in league with the antiheroes of Chekhov and Ibsen, the tortured novelists, the tragic Sensitive Ones who see through this shallow charade.
It's captivating, flattering, and has the additional bonus of requiring someone else to do the work, not me, and someone else to take the blame, not me.
As ever, go for guilt as the go-to explanation for the projection out of my problems onto others:
There's nothing better than a suffering alcoholic to blame to rid myself of my own gnawing anxieties.
When I started to face the perilous attractions of unhappiness, I started to see through the structure and really want a real solution: to be sprung, once and for all, from the Karpman trap of victims, persecutors, and rescuers.
The chief tool in this: Al-Anon's detachment.