Thursday, August 25, 2016

One of the big guy's photos.

I'm supposed to be taking a break from work today, a day to relax, but still I worry.  I was raised on worry, taught it at a young age by my mother and my father, fed a daily diet of it for many years.  The world is not a safe place.  Bad things happen.  Don't think that.  Don't be like that.  How should I be?  Is it wrong to be me?

Worry has carved deep ruts into my brain and my heart, ruts that sometimes I can't climb out of without help.  The worry serves no purpose but it is so familiar.  I wear it like a familiar old jacket.  It fits my body, although of late it feels too tight, restrictive even.  I recognize it's smell and the feel of it against my skin. 

I breathe.  I tell myself to breathe.  In and out, that this will help.  I try.  Breathe in, breathe out and fall back into a rut.  My brain races.  I snap. I feel irritated for no good reason.  I breathe in, breathe out.  I want out of these ruts.

I'm rereading a very good book, "Becoming The Kind Father" by Calvin Sandborn.  Although he is talking about men, his idea of a kind parent resonates with me.  I am not kind to myself.  I beat myself up.  I have a nonstop reel inside my head that tells me shit and pushes me back into those ruts. 

Who the fuck convinced me that I was such an awful person?  That's what I want to know.  And why?  Why did they do that?  Or was it just me?  Did I convince myself that I was this awful person?

I look around and wonder how others do it.  How do they get through life?  What do they tell themselves?  Would it work for me?  Is it even me?





 

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