Some days I care. Most days I don’t. Today, I’m wondering again, what’s the point?
Zõmbïē Sølö

Please feel free to ignore this and certainly don’t feel the need to respond if you don’t want to. I do not have the answers. I only have my take on it.

Your writing smacks of the “I am not worthy” trap that our mind lets us fall into.

Fight or flight. Your mind wants to protect you at any cost, the cost being you, again.

When we are hurting this badly, we view everything through a hypercritical lens. Once we really and truly believe we are not worthy, everything starts to make sense. We think. If we are not getting what we think we need, it’s because we’ve gone beyond the point of being able to recognise it. It’s easier to see the lack, in us, and in them. The more we want something, the less likely we are to get it. Sort of like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

This is your mind overworking. Telling you the same old narrative. And you buying into it and adding to it. Which achieves nothing more than exactly what you expect.

My mind didn’t need fixing. I needed to start feeling my pain, in small doses, then properly comfort myself (you know, the actual compassion that we so easily give to others in need, particularly small children). By the way, I am the ultimate skeptic and so I hate all that schmalzy, touchy-feely shit, but once I started acknowledging and then apologising to myself for the incredible hurt I had caused, to myself, everything slowly began to change.

I started loving the way that I wished to be loved, without expecting anything in return. I stopped analysing everything he said and did, or didn’t say, and didn’t do. I started to let myself believe that he loved me in the ways that he was able to, and to not judge him for a perceived lack. In short, I stopped searching for reasons to feel hurt, and I started to believe that I didn’t need to be alone to stop being hurt. I started to really care about me, and to stop giving in to my self-destructive ways when it started to feel pointless again (that doesn’t go away). I started to focus on the things that really interested me, and not feeling like I need to apologise for it. I stopped paying any attention to all the little things every day that I used to analyse to death. I wrestled control back over my ‘story’.

I stopped craving the sick drama of me.

I know you are probably not ready to hear this. It took a lot of weekly sessions of therapy late last year (my first time ever) for me to start to believe. I am 47. It is never too late.

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