Accepting yourself, when you can’t see anyone else who does, is the hardest.
It takes strength. It takes courage. It takes what is strongest in the entire world. I don’t know that I have the bravery to prize myself unconditionally.
Instead I remember the criticisms, rejections, speeding indifference, and loneliness of being alone, trapped inside a form I didn’t believe deserved love. The most beautiful souls would implore me to see an answer beyond my understanding, that I am enough to love me. And they are right. It is the only real answer.
My heart might be broken.
I cry sometimes. I have been sad for a long time. More than a year, more than two or three. For a very long time, I have been very sad.
So there are times when kindness I witness or experience causes me to cry. Friendly words, strangers’ smiles, and much needed hugs from acquaintances all bring tears to my eyes that spill down the cheeks of my face and drop off of my jawline.
Wondering why unwarranted kindness makes me cry. The most beautiful thing: generous love, kindness to strangers, undeserved and unreserved affection – the world made better by people giving their best to someone else merely crossing their path by chance.
And it hurts me enough to make me cry. It aches. Worst than bruises or a swollen head, this kindness -this thing called love – makes some crack in me that gushes out pain and the symptom is a torrent of tears.
Maybe I have a stone heart. It would make sense. I don’t have hope, don’t want a reason to keep breathing for more than a few tomorrows. I want to give up on futures, let go of hope. Let go of myself because I can’t stand the hurt I endured by refusing to let go until now.
If kindness reaches in, it will make cracks in this stone heart of mine. But even with a stone heart, I can still feel the pain. Wondering why there is this queer pain, perhaps there is still a heart of flesh and blood underneath. Maybe my heart’s hardness is just an exterior of stone. And if kindness comes inside and the stone is broken apart, my heart will begin to pump hope and love into my life once more.
What does life look like?
Certainly not addiction, compromising your values, and greed.
But, is a healthy lifestyle really worth it?
I think so. I would be a fitter weight, have a more stable mood, function better at work, sleep enough each night, feel better physically, experience less pain, and have more meaningful relationships.
But I wonder if I will be bored.
Permanently humbled is a concept a friend and I talked about today. It happens with a tremendous loss of identity and ability. Becoming disabled or crippled would be an example.
I never realized this happens because sometimes people talk about being humbled as a transitory experience. But with any transitory experience, it ends. Temporarily humbled by a setback, when you overcome it, you regain your lost pride. (Isn’t that the definition of humble: lost pride.)
But I don’t think of humbled that way anymore. I think of being humbled as when circumstances change the way you create your self-esteem, and also that of others. It is a permanent change in perspective; a shift in worldview.
Humbled is when you can’t change the circumstances surrounding you through your power but the circumstances defining you change you forever.
I haven’t really talked about personal things too much.
I had a boyfriend. He was helping me through a hard time and I was getting better a little but he wasn’t happy. He didn’t want a sick girlfriend, he didn’t want the things I wanted for my future, he didn’t … a lot of things.
And I wasn’t the one. I wasn’t the right woman for a lot of reasons. And I wish I was.
I know I can’t change for him. I know I don’t want him to change for me, not really. I want him to be happy. I want him to make the most of his life. I want to make the most of my life. I want to be healthy. I want to be happy. I want to make a positive impact in my space in the world.
And I can … but … not beside him.
And yes, I still wish I was the one.
I am going to have remind myself that at night when I go to sleep, in the hopes my dreams won’t betray me with false hope.
I am going to have to remind myself when I wake up, so I start living my life for myself — all alone.
But the truth is, that wishing, even as hard as I can and have been, won’t change anything — I am not the one. Whoever she is, however she is, it doesn’t matter, because I am not her and I never could be her. I can’t wish this one true. The one isn’t me.
And I have to let go. Let go of him.
And let go of my wish.
After all, it is what he wanted.
“… I would say I am even more psycho than when you met me.
I pretty much had a breakdown … yesterday and told my ex-boyfriend that I couldn’t take care of myself and thought I was a rubbish person who couldn’t ever be loved. Like, probably I am under so much constant distress over this belief that I can’t cope with anything but be next to someone very kind and just watch TV. Which is all we did for the last few months when we were together. “
Recently, stopping for some icecream became a bit of an overwhelming experience.
I tried to think of all the choices I had amongst me, so as to choose the best one. Not the old standby, or the choicest of a small number, but from ALL the selection choose my single choice.
And my mind staggered under the weight afforded me by where I live is crippling. There is too much afforded to me to take in unfiltered. I simply crumple.
And practically the same can be said of ice cream with it’s many flavors . . . And cones, sprinkles, toppjngs, sandwiches, portions, brands, confections and varieties. Combined with living in Southern California, well … cultural diversity practically renders the choices beyond imagination.
I feel the sheer scope of possibilities is clouding my ability to critically evaluate and practice moderation.
Something I have been think8ng a lot about is the mixture of fun-loving, crazy and outta control pursuit of pleasure in America and the growing wealth inequality in America.
There used to be service-oriented jobs and younger people or wives tended to work these lower paying jobs. Now everyone does. A huge percent of America does qualify to pay income tax because they make less than the minimum amount or they are below the poverty line. Then you have Justin Timberlake and Jay-Z singing about suit ‘n’ tie events, truffles, and luxurious life. Even Lorde singing about all the wealth glamorized in pop culture, such as in socialite reality TV or celebrity news.
In history class, I heard that the Roman Empire put on circus performances, battles, and gave out free bread in the Colisseum as the empire began to crumble. And Marie Antoinette was vacationing in her garden residence putting on plays when she needed a break from the decadent jewels, cakes, and fashion in Versailles, until the government was overthrown by the working classes.
I feel like the working classes are grasping at pleasure as fast as the wealth try to find sufficient pleasures to defeat their boredom.
Also, the generations born in the 80s have been described as childish and unwilling to grow up but most people I know live at home, don’t marry, or wait to have children because of employment and financial considerations. When someone who is 26 can’t make more than someone who is a teenager, living a different kind of life is very difficult.
Professional jobs probably have the same competition other jobs do, and just finding an office job that pays decently is difficult.
This and our nation’s own debt, make me wonder where our nation is headed.
The federal government used to tax alcohol makers and it was more than half of the federal budget … then teetotallers got a federal income tax … but when some people make 8 dollars an hour and other people make 500,000 dollars a year … I guess, it is frailty of the psyche and the desperation of those with the least which should move us to change something. Because if the culture of fun is just an escape, how long can we ignore what is tearing apart our communities and nation.