“You didn’t tell me!”
After I told her yesterday that I’m putting money aside each month from my pay, and I overlooked telling her that the money would be used for My 50th party.
Money money
I’m eating a lot of chocolate
I’m smoking the pain away
I’m uncomfortable receiving compliments
I searched “can I get kicked out of my own home”
doesn’t look like it, unless I have been abusive, I’m going to stay.
just breathe.
it’s going to be ok.
she just doesn’t talk. scarred. not scared.
yes I’ve been a prick, an arsehole, mean, self centred, selfish, still am, it’s all about me fuck it’s my life so it should be all about me!?
should it? maybe it’s all about them. Without them, I am not me. without me they would still be them.
we’re always looking at justifying the status we place on ourselves, which places us on a level, in the hierarchy of existence. How far up can we get? The higher I get, the happier I’ll be and I’ll win the game of life, I did alright. Right?
By noticing and stashing the faults of others, we save up ammunition to fire and attack when we falter. We need to blame, it can’t be me, I’m am the master of my own reality, how dare an outsider tell me who I am meant to be. is the attack meant to weaken us, to make us surrender to align with the reality of them. I must defend myself, my character, the very essence of what makes me who I am is under attack.
This ammunition is the baggage. The baggage that ways us down. The baggage that holds us back. We can’t let go because we might need it for when we are attacked and we can defend ourselves. reach into the treasure trove of bad memories, “the time you were bad to me, you said something awful, 5 years ago, remember?”
Sure I remember, I’m sorry you feel that way.
The experiences, environments and relationships have placed me in a present that is now. The memories of those continually shaping our being, how we choose to become or how our memories influence who we become.
We can payback because of the bad memory inflicted, and if we cause enough pain in return, we can balance the pain, here take some of my pain you caused in me.
Do we still have the original memory and subsequent pain, or do we have a newer memory of the payback which works a different neurological and nervous system response.
If we choose to just let go of the memory, forgive with certainty,
Release the pain through words of compassion and understanding.
Just keep writing, keep it flowing, it does help, I’m here again reminding myself that this is good, I’m now experiencing the moment of focus and freedom, this is the focal point, I was having trouble hitting the leys then, I stopped and the words were going around slowly, “freedom” focus”, is this a thing, the pinpoint attention on the flow, there again, the pause, the slow motion, are these the words, shouldn’t I be writing something else, something a bit more interesting? It will come, this is like a balloon going down, not popped, just deflating as I feel I have got everything out, and I just want to write because of the therapeutic nature of the process.
When I read back, I read a perspective of a person who existed 2 minutes ago, another time, in the past. I sense an ego. Someone who likes the sound of their own voice, who thinks he’s got important things to say and people will give a shit. Why should anyone give a shit, you’re not writing about anything, like literally, nothing, you’re writing about writing, is this getting confusing now? Maybe it is a bit like inception (the movie) words inside of words inside of words. I can read back on what I’ve just written about what I wrote earlier when I didn’t write about anything in particular, just the most mindless ego centrical, (that came after a pause) I certainly do like the sound of my own voice, inside my head that keeps commentating on my existence, always reminding me of who I am, what I should have done, where I should be, what I should be doing, never telling me that now is a good time, and where you are is perfect, because you are here, and nowhere else.
If you were really meant to be somewhere else you would have been there, but you’re not, you’re here, now. Not in the past that ship has sailed, never to be seen again, only a memory, that’s the idea, use the memory to relive the past to fire off the (searching, what hormone is released when thinking about fond old memories) maybe dopamine, the anticipation, the maybe that I could live that memory again, or something like it. There something about Oxytocin released by the pituitary gland at the base of the brain, the “cuddle” or “love” drug.
That’s right the voice inside my head the commentary, maybe by writing like this I’m distracting my inner voice from wandering off into those dark places, the ones I was talking about before. Here voice, look over there, some random words to write down, no , no, don’t go there, back here, come on, you can do it, here voice, over here, no, don’t go there . .
Don’t worry I didn’t go anyway I came right back, straight away, maybe if I keep writing the voice will get tired and he’ll shut up for the night and I can get a good night sleep, I sleep ok actually, I do stay up late to tire myself out, maybe to stop myself lying in bed over thinking about stuff, I did enjoy the earphones, the audiobooks, that’s a habit, a comfort, more words, structured into meaningful sentences.
Reading back over that last paragraph, the first sentence, the voice was tapping me on the shoulder reminding me to write about it explicitly give it all the attention, voice and words, over here, write about me, just me, no-one else.
Go to bed! Oh and then shutup, maybe shutup first then go to bed., shutup and go to bed.
Inevitability sinking in, I will need to manage the next phase carefully, no pushing forcing, plenty of space, continue to give.
Good night
My inner voice is my ego
