My fall from pride without the glow of love
I possessed a fair amount of pride until recently. I had many communities of friends who all seemed to like, respect, care about, and enjoy me. I had reasonable and not ostentatious business success. I had made very independent decisions and they generally made me happy and offered success. I had a wife/life partner who was selfish but seemed to be on my side.
That's all over. I'm not embarrassed by my current life, I don't think. It's not that. It's more like I don't care.
I apparently was behaving well the whole time in order to get the approval of the woman closest to me. This is a bad hangover from my family constellation contract with my mom.
Now I don't have a single person in my non-work life I strive to "please." There is no source of approval available to me of which I would be "proud." And I live in this disrespectful and dishonorable country and its self-destructive leadership.
The result: given my choice when alone, I have no reason to get out of bed other than the guilt of not following through on promises I've made or implied to others. Work stuff. Going to therapy. Trying to sometimes call people back. Paying my bills. Making sure my cat is ok in every way. Reading a little. Avoiding the drivel of Trump-land before it drowns all of us in filth.
Staying in bed, as I'm doing now. I ate half a gummy and I'm satisfied and safe here. I'm not interested in going outside.
I can now see that I've been energized by showing off for women—by being a kind smart effective man. I've been showing off, or performing.
Lacking that single female audience for the first time in my life, there's no reason to raise the curtain—or make my bed. (Or get out of it!).
My divorce hurt so much. I lost my family, my entire NYC community—and my audience. Since my ex wasn't prone to positive feedback, I eventually lost my mental health pressing a Pavlovian bar that never yielded a nourishing treat.
This took away my spirit, my soul, and my dynamism. Here's the new me. It's 3:30 in the afternoon. Horizontal again.
My mental health is finally showing itself, perhaps aided by anti-depressants (Zoloft 50 mg). I can laugh at myself a bit finally. I can appreciate this new experience of myself with less shame. I sometimes feel lucky that I got to age 67 before I had my heart traumatically broken, and I because a victim of pTSD.
I can begin to feel that I have other sources of friendship that offer nutrition that I've never counted in the diyadic algebra of my self-esteem. I enjoy the hints of progress as I begin to nurture myself from these present-but-untallied sources.
There's some new source of love for me out there. I won't reach for it when I'm not leaving the sun lite bedroom. But I smile knowing that it's there for me.
That's all over. I'm not embarrassed by my current life, I don't think. It's not that. It's more like I don't care.
I apparently was behaving well the whole time in order to get the approval of the woman closest to me. This is a bad hangover from my family constellation contract with my mom.
Now I don't have a single person in my non-work life I strive to "please." There is no source of approval available to me of which I would be "proud." And I live in this disrespectful and dishonorable country and its self-destructive leadership.
The result: given my choice when alone, I have no reason to get out of bed other than the guilt of not following through on promises I've made or implied to others. Work stuff. Going to therapy. Trying to sometimes call people back. Paying my bills. Making sure my cat is ok in every way. Reading a little. Avoiding the drivel of Trump-land before it drowns all of us in filth.
Staying in bed, as I'm doing now. I ate half a gummy and I'm satisfied and safe here. I'm not interested in going outside.
I can now see that I've been energized by showing off for women—by being a kind smart effective man. I've been showing off, or performing.
Lacking that single female audience for the first time in my life, there's no reason to raise the curtain—or make my bed. (Or get out of it!).
My divorce hurt so much. I lost my family, my entire NYC community—and my audience. Since my ex wasn't prone to positive feedback, I eventually lost my mental health pressing a Pavlovian bar that never yielded a nourishing treat.
This took away my spirit, my soul, and my dynamism. Here's the new me. It's 3:30 in the afternoon. Horizontal again.
My mental health is finally showing itself, perhaps aided by anti-depressants (Zoloft 50 mg). I can laugh at myself a bit finally. I can appreciate this new experience of myself with less shame. I sometimes feel lucky that I got to age 67 before I had my heart traumatically broken, and I because a victim of pTSD.
I can begin to feel that I have other sources of friendship that offer nutrition that I've never counted in the diyadic algebra of my self-esteem. I enjoy the hints of progress as I begin to nurture myself from these present-but-untallied sources.
There's some new source of love for me out there. I won't reach for it when I'm not leaving the sun lite bedroom. But I smile knowing that it's there for me.
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