Through grief or loneliness, loss or dismay. In joy or satisfaction or creativity, this has no map. I have my own path, as I always have. I was lost, got righted, and more will only turn me back under. I am an archetypical introvert. I'm happy alone. I want my guide to help me to my seat, then bunk off.
I have D, who loves me as I am. I have two cats, same sort of thing.
I always just wanted my parental repeat loop tapes silenced. Done. Not permanently, but I know how to hammer them down. Including the one from my father, that I didn't have friends because I wouldn't let anyone help me. Just like he didn't have friends, the poor old bastard. He wanted friends with all his sad, black, little soul. Poor sociable, but inept, creature that he was. He needed me to counteract that, fulfill his own desire for status, in some twisty way. Doomed to disappointment, for which he, in a way rightfully, blamed me. Shouted at me for being a "women's libber!" and "Miss Independence!" Well, yeah, and? I thought that was the point, being liberated and independent. Couldn't see why my taking unwanted help from someone made me a friend-worthy person. Female, perhaps, but wasn't that secondary? Not to him, apparently.
They forced on me what they most needed themselves.
Thinking about Pooh as a potential guide, and how A.A. Milne was not a good father, nor (at least to P.G. Wodehouse) a good friend. Who created this character, who perhaps feed the child in himself. But he seemed not to have taken Pooh into his heart. Perhaps rather the opposite.
Sure could use one of those electric tappers, though. Really helped, that did.
Hell, just use my electro stim.
I will stay open to friends, active to classes and experiences, but otherwise count my numerous blessings.
I love and am loved. To include two amazing and lovely cats, who are at least sometimes enjoying each other's company. Tonight, Moby chasing her, paused in the hallway, and Eleanor cleanly leapt over his back and sprinted away.
And all of you, especially those who chimed in my lament, are friends. As I am yours. This is how things are, and we have each other.
Not to be sneezed at.
Nor is a good heating pad. Under an ancient red wool blanket.
4 comments:
you will do well. there is a core of strength in you that comes through clear as a bell.
and yes, there comes a time where it's up to you. i must say i was a little disappointed when i realised that my counsellor wasn't going to help, but then i'd been doing all the heavy lifting by myself anyways…i guess i wanted at least a little coping mechanism or technique. you got those. hang on to them.
and good luck on the thorny path.
I'm sorry not to have been around more, but I've checked in from time to time. Your posts have charted the work you've done and the tools you've learned to wield. There's more strength than struggle now.
I think you first showed me the poem of the Archer, in reference to parenting. You are your own Archer.
I don't think I would sneeze at a blanket; I'd just have to go wash it.
Phil,
This is an elderly wool blanket, that Moby has got furred just right. I dare not wash the old thing, would no doubt fall to bits.
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