Without hope I have nothing

I have to be so vigilant, to make sure that I don’t mistake the shadow of my past for my present reality, and that I don’t allow my pig-parent to have any authority – the part of me that tells my life is over, things have got too bad for me to ever recover.  I’m too poor, I’m sliding down a slippery slope into a hole I’ll never be able to get out of.

This part of me is still so strong, and it makes my life seem unbearable.  Without hope, what do I have?  None.  I can’t let it be my truth.  I can’t afford to.

I feel vulnerable today.  Sore that it’s taken me all this time to dismantle all the crap I believed was true about me – it all fits into the category of worthless and undeserving, but that category has a million sub-categories, it’s like a disease, invading every fibre of my being, mind, body and spirit, causing every part of me to distort or dis-function.

Usually seeing it so clearly makes me angry. Today I just feel sore.  I ache for the infant, the child, the young girl, the young woman, the woman that I was who was trapped inside the cage of her own ignorance about her deservability.  Like a bird trapped in a cage, flying manically from one side to the other, flinging itself against the bars.  Bruised, injured by its own desperate bid for freedom.

Intellectually – and sometimes in a way that’s deeper, I know that every second of my life has value, but sometimes it’s hard not to see how much of it has just been wasted.  It’s been such a long journey to even get to a place where I could accept responsibility for my own destiny, let alone do all the work needed so I could function properly and healthily, and do something meaningful with my life and the things that come naturally to me.  I’m just sore today.


Gotta write!

I woke to the sun shining after a grey, storming, freezing day yesterday.  Sore throat last night.  Horrible dreams.  Yesterday I couldn’t get my pig parent out of my head.   Nobody wants to hear this story any more, so why don’t you just move on for Christ’s sake.

We move on when we’ve meet whatever need is holding us back.  So I must still have unmet needs over my bankruptcy and my more distant past.  When I can identify them enough to meet them, I’ll move on.   If I look at people around me who don’t deal with their past it looks like they’ve moved on, but have they really?  Maybe they’re addicted to food, alcohol, or money even, or neurotic relationships.  The only way I can avoid that is to do what I’m doing.  Feel, articulate and express the energy, listen for what I need, meet the need as best I can.

It’s got to be okay.  Moving on is a natural consequence.  You can’t force it.   I long for it, though.  There’s such a huge gap in my mind between where I am and where I want to be. I’ve spent all of my life being so uncomfortably conscious of that gap, hoping resolution will be round the corner, hoping I’ll figure it out.  I haven’t got there yet.  I think I’m on the way, though.   What am I saying?  I know I am.

I often forget that my current poverty isn’t a sign of my future, it isn’t a death sentence on my dreams and my real needs to be secure and mobile in the world; stimulated and productive.  That’s when fear constricts my being. I try to remember not to listen.

My best prospect is to carry on writing and somehow try to survive.  Hold onto my faith.  I’m working on film scripts, my blog, crime fiction.  The thing you put your energy into, that’s what you end up doing.

One day it’ll be over.  “Yes, I can” makes me feel much better about myself and my life than “I don’t deserve and I can’t”.   My choice.  I’m thrilled that I can at least some of the time make the choice that adds value to my life.

Gotta go.  Gotta have breakfast.  Gotta write!

Can my dreams come true also?

Everywhere I look I see or hear people saying never give up on your dreams.  It’s hard to believe mine will ever come true when there’s such a gap between them and my every-day reality, and when it can be so hard for me to meet my simple needs.

The debate in my head doesn’t help, either, because it’s usually won at the core of me by the message I’ve had since I was an infant.   You’re not allowed to have what you need.  Forget it, it’s never going to happen for you.  You’re not enough, you don’t deserve it.  Keep on dreaming if that makes you happy, but it’s not going to help you.  Don’ t think you can change this, you can’t.

Intellectually I know where the message comes from but my intellect is powerless to even touch my conviction at some level that other people’s dreams can come true, but not mine.   I know it doesn’t even make sense, why should I be singled out by the universe in this negative way?   It’s like a negative narcissism.  I’m the only one in the world whose dreams can’t come true.

That’s ridiculous.  I know it’s a contamination.  There are plenty of people around who get what they need, whether they deserve it or not. Maybe the problem is that I still believe I’ve got to work hard for it, that unless I do I’m not good enough.  That knowledge isn’t helping me today.

I woke up this morning to shame and humiliation that I had to borrow money to pay for a  cardiologist.  Even writing this is hard.  I know shame and humiliation are about fear of being punished – being scorned, laughed at, hated, ostractized.  Some small part of me felt pinned under that fear.  It still does.  My heart is jumping about all over the place.

The humiliation of poverty.  It’s crippling.  My car is old and rusty now.  I met an ex-client and his wife who invited me to dinner with an architect we both knew.  I arrived in my car, and parked behind their Mercedes outside the restaurant.  Their faces dropped.  After dinner, they hustled me out of the restaurant and then went back in, and emerged with the architect and his wife.  I hadn’t left yet.  They wouldn’t even look at me as I got into my car and pulled away.  I held onto my dignity as much as I could, but inside I felt crushed, dirty, worthless.

I can still feel it today.  And in my head is the voice of my pig parent what’s the matter with you, you think anybody reading this blog is going to be sympathetic?  They’re going to say this is boring, this woman’s a victim.

The only thing I know to do is to just shut my mind to that voice.  I know it comes from what I internalized when I was small that I was stupid, ugly, unlovable, worthless – and a blight on people’s lives. I know now that it was a lie then and it still is.  And maybe somebody reading this blog would laugh at me, but that wouldn’t be about me, it would be about them.  And there’s just as much possibility that somebody else will read it and think I know what she’s talking about because I’ve been there.

I know all this intellectually, but today I don’t really know it – not emotionally.  I wish – I hope – that somebody does read this and respond.  It feels like I’m writing to somebody and not just to myself… Well, I’m not going to give up.  I’m going to carry on working on my film script, my thriller novel, my bio.  One foot in front of the next.  One day at a time.  That’s about all I know how to do.  Doesn’t feel like enough.