And, in the workaday part of my life, exactly that may be happening ... a meeting tomorrow with my boss and somebody from the corporate office, detailing what will happen next at our local group of two newspapers when my boss moves on, as she told me today that she's doing.
All this as I still try to get out of newspapers, and at the same time try to figure out ... from newspapers to where? And what geographic location?
And, all this just 3.5 months after moving here from a bad job, which I needed to escape. And feeling I've been sold a partial bill of goods now. And, per my previous post, still wondering what I need to do to change job/career paths, and where I go to learn some tips, tricks and techniques for how to do that, while doing another slow burn at feeling unskilled by nature, negative nurture, upbringing issues and more.
I don't expect too much sympathy, or empathy. First, there's people in today's America in worse circumstances. Second, from the majority of family, I don't expect sympathy or understanding about, or acknowledgement of, the background issues I just listed. Nor do I expect much of anything else. Add in my irreligiousness, and that cuts down more on the sympathy route.
It's also cuts down on the amount of confiding I can do.
I hate change, too much, too quickly, especially being sober for years and no way to hide from it, and being older, and somehow feeling more trapped by it.
Sometimes, I'm a survivor, in a good way. Other times, I'm a survivor who only wants to survive and not risk the risks of being a thriver more.
Showing posts with label personal growth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal growth. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Emotions - the iron mask, part 1
THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK PART I
I hate myself,
I tell myself at times,
But do I really?
I hate who I am,
I hate some of who I’ve become,
That much is true.
I feel a failure,
Lazy, weak, spineless, empty
A faker, to boot.
No adult inside;
Rather, a 16-year-old
Who’s not yet grown up.
And doesn’t want to be
So he says, “Leave me alone,”
Even to his ego-self.
He hates adult life;
Duties, decisions, stances,
And hates even more
Missed teenage life,
No wild oats sown, no fearless fun,
No adventurousness.
No bits of playboy
For the man in the iron mask
Of caged emotions.
Of course he’s angry
And angry beyond that, too
For all those reasons.
And now? He’s at
His emotional break point
Sans guarantees.
In the iron mask.
April 28, 2012
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Boundaries and others, growth and relationships
I've upset someone. I've more than just "upset" this person; they are angry/sad, and say they have lost trust in me.
Then, after being chewed out strongly, very strongly, over this ... I argued back.
I'll admit (as this person said) that I "fired back" in part out of defensiveness. Entirely so, though? No.
I raised some real issues, which I had been holding on to for a while, and said I had some real anger myself.
Relationships are real ... and I hate using the word "practice" as part of growth.
At the same time, this person knows I have trouble expressing anger, especially.
Anyway, I have apologized since then. And, said I'd like to talk more about the emotions I triggered, and some fears this person has related to that. Right now, though, I appear to be getting the cold shoulder.
At the same time, this person has heard me say, and I believe more than once, "I don't play games, and I don't chase." I have dropped a follow-up "Hi, how are you e-mail," but, am not sure how much more I should say, and with what timing, without risk of violating what is a major boundary issue for me. I'm not sure what I should say without risk of being thought a game-player myself.
Life hurts at times, it is true.
Obviously, some ongoing patience here is part of the situation. But, when does patience become "drift"?
That said, back to revealing boundaries.
I know I absolutely stunned my dad when, after I had a bit of sobriety time, I told him, albeit by mail, not on the phone, let alone in person, how much I feared him as a child, just what was happening under his roof and nose in terms of sexual abuse and other things, and more. "Passive, pliable Steve" suddenly had a bit of backbone and a bit of self.
Throwing out the defensiveness/attacking part of my response to my friend, I do wonder if there's a bit of shock with this person, too. And, beyond that, how much we may be able to talk about these issues without a fair amount of time-water under the bridge, for a number of reasons.
I still don't know that one, either. But, an intuitive suspicion says it could be some time ... and I'm talking months, not weeks. And, that assumes this person will want to talk to me on that level at that time.
Meanwhile, back on "my side of the street." Part of my is sad, part is lonely, part is anxious, part is frustrated, part is a bit apathetic or "drifting" already. Because I've been single all my life, and not just in the sense of "unmarried," but without much real, longer-term relationships, and careful with close friends of either sex, it's kind of "easy" for me to drift like that.
That said, is my not wanting to "chase," and not telling more about my feelings as part of that, itself a form of games-playing? It's complicated.
Then, after being chewed out strongly, very strongly, over this ... I argued back.
I'll admit (as this person said) that I "fired back" in part out of defensiveness. Entirely so, though? No.
I raised some real issues, which I had been holding on to for a while, and said I had some real anger myself.
Relationships are real ... and I hate using the word "practice" as part of growth.
At the same time, this person knows I have trouble expressing anger, especially.
Anyway, I have apologized since then. And, said I'd like to talk more about the emotions I triggered, and some fears this person has related to that. Right now, though, I appear to be getting the cold shoulder.
At the same time, this person has heard me say, and I believe more than once, "I don't play games, and I don't chase." I have dropped a follow-up "Hi, how are you e-mail," but, am not sure how much more I should say, and with what timing, without risk of violating what is a major boundary issue for me. I'm not sure what I should say without risk of being thought a game-player myself.
Life hurts at times, it is true.
Obviously, some ongoing patience here is part of the situation. But, when does patience become "drift"?
That said, back to revealing boundaries.
I know I absolutely stunned my dad when, after I had a bit of sobriety time, I told him, albeit by mail, not on the phone, let alone in person, how much I feared him as a child, just what was happening under his roof and nose in terms of sexual abuse and other things, and more. "Passive, pliable Steve" suddenly had a bit of backbone and a bit of self.
Throwing out the defensiveness/attacking part of my response to my friend, I do wonder if there's a bit of shock with this person, too. And, beyond that, how much we may be able to talk about these issues without a fair amount of time-water under the bridge, for a number of reasons.
I still don't know that one, either. But, an intuitive suspicion says it could be some time ... and I'm talking months, not weeks. And, that assumes this person will want to talk to me on that level at that time.
Meanwhile, back on "my side of the street." Part of my is sad, part is lonely, part is anxious, part is frustrated, part is a bit apathetic or "drifting" already. Because I've been single all my life, and not just in the sense of "unmarried," but without much real, longer-term relationships, and careful with close friends of either sex, it's kind of "easy" for me to drift like that.
That said, is my not wanting to "chase," and not telling more about my feelings as part of that, itself a form of games-playing? It's complicated.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
I care
I CARE
I care;
I care when I say “I don’t care”;
I care that I say “I don’t care”;
I care when I think I actually mean that I don’t care;
I care that a defense mechanism may be too imbedded.
Why would I not care?
Lots of reasons.
Seeing other people not care about me.
Feeling other people not care about me.
Feeling powerless to care about myself.
Seeing no guarantees results when I tried to care about myself.
Feeling hopeless about the result of asking for care from others.
So, I didn’t care.
Or acted like I didn’t.
Meanwhile, buried with repressed anger
Against both myself and others,
Repressed anxiety, and other repressed emotions,
Was repressed care.
For myself, above all else.
But for other people, too.
I hope.
June 30, 2010
I care;
I care when I say “I don’t care”;
I care that I say “I don’t care”;
I care when I think I actually mean that I don’t care;
I care that a defense mechanism may be too imbedded.
Why would I not care?
Lots of reasons.
Seeing other people not care about me.
Feeling other people not care about me.
Feeling powerless to care about myself.
Seeing no guarantees results when I tried to care about myself.
Feeling hopeless about the result of asking for care from others.
So, I didn’t care.
Or acted like I didn’t.
Meanwhile, buried with repressed anger
Against both myself and others,
Repressed anxiety, and other repressed emotions,
Was repressed care.
For myself, above all else.
But for other people, too.
I hope.
June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Road maps for life
A COFFEE-STAINED ATLAS
Analogies. Metaphors. Deeper meanings.
My atlas is a road map in more ways than one.
Torn, tattered, browned pages of internal road trips;
Nostalgic for past journeys to American wonder,
Hopes for future getaways,
And the emotional escapes and release of both.
I haven’t opened my atlas so much recently,
Nor looked as much at old photo albums of past trips.
The nostalgic side of that atlas has little savor
At this moment, and its hint of future escapes
Is almost equally dry to my lips.
If life is an eternal now, a succession of present moments,
Then past and future gain flavor from the taste of today
And my reflecting on them.
I may need to break metaphorical bread together
And share an atlas printed for two.
Analogies. Metaphors. Deeper meanings.
My atlas is a road map in more ways than one.
Torn, tattered, browned pages of internal road trips;
Nostalgic for past journeys to American wonder,
Hopes for future getaways,
And the emotional escapes and release of both.
I haven’t opened my atlas so much recently,
Nor looked as much at old photo albums of past trips.
The nostalgic side of that atlas has little savor
At this moment, and its hint of future escapes
Is almost equally dry to my lips.
If life is an eternal now, a succession of present moments,
Then past and future gain flavor from the taste of today
And my reflecting on them.
I may need to break metaphorical bread together
And share an atlas printed for two.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sobriety groups are recovery groups, too
Two things on my mind tonight.
First?
It hurts me, angers me and scares me when people "go back out," and it's because they've either not reached out, whether to other sober people, or to a counselor, especially if they have depression or other mental health needs, OR, it's because they've let an anger, a resentment, eat at them. And, I'll be selfish enough to say I want it to scare me.
Second, is that I'm a bit of a resentment mode myself, not about someone in a sobriety group, but, in another group. I know part of the anger is based on my perceptions, and part of it's based on my reactions to how this person reminds me of two males from my childhood. That said, I feel confident in saying that it's not "just" my perception, or my perception plus my personal history. I really think this person has a couple of issues. And, as part of my growth, rather than "detaching" in a way that feels like passivity to me, I need to do something else. I'm not sure what it is, but, I'm groping in that direction.
First?
It hurts me, angers me and scares me when people "go back out," and it's because they've either not reached out, whether to other sober people, or to a counselor, especially if they have depression or other mental health needs, OR, it's because they've let an anger, a resentment, eat at them. And, I'll be selfish enough to say I want it to scare me.
Second, is that I'm a bit of a resentment mode myself, not about someone in a sobriety group, but, in another group. I know part of the anger is based on my perceptions, and part of it's based on my reactions to how this person reminds me of two males from my childhood. That said, I feel confident in saying that it's not "just" my perception, or my perception plus my personal history. I really think this person has a couple of issues. And, as part of my growth, rather than "detaching" in a way that feels like passivity to me, I need to do something else. I'm not sure what it is, but, I'm groping in that direction.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The little boxes of life
Thinking about moving, going to a new job, but within the same career path, my post on David Brooks’ new column about America’s “advantages” over other Western countries having its price, and, lo and behold, an e-mail from a friend sums this up well. From that e-mail …
Not my poem, but the song that used to intro the HBO series “Weeds.” Malvina Reynolds wrote it in 1962:
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,1
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
YouTube link here.
Not my poem, but the song that used to intro the HBO series “Weeds.” Malvina Reynolds wrote it in 1962:
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,1
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
YouTube link here.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
A reply to 'Invictus'
Am I indeed the captain of my soul?
I find it hard to believe that is so.
Translating the individual “I”
To the global core of humanity
I think that it’s well-nigh impossible.
The individual human psyche,
Convoluted and self-referential,
Means the “I” is not quite that simple.
As for that “master” subroutine inside,
The one that supposedly masters “I”?
The king always faces peasant revolts.
If not that, a master can go haywire.
And, when that happens, then who masters it?
– April 2, 2009
INVICTUS, by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
I find it hard to believe that is so.
Translating the individual “I”
To the global core of humanity
I think that it’s well-nigh impossible.
The individual human psyche,
Convoluted and self-referential,
Means the “I” is not quite that simple.
As for that “master” subroutine inside,
The one that supposedly masters “I”?
The king always faces peasant revolts.
If not that, a master can go haywire.
And, when that happens, then who masters it?
– April 2, 2009
INVICTUS, by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Has anything changed in 11 years?
SUNSET DRIFTING
The sunset this evening
Was like the one I saw
In Jacksboro eleven years ago.
Where have all those years gone?
Treading water?
I haven’t even done that, economically.
I have done that, and more, career-wise.
I have higher levels of confidence, dedication and skills
Than in Jacksboro.
All in the name of a career
In an apparently dying industry.
A non-Jungian symbol for my life?
I’m not quite dead yet, though.
And neither is my current job,
Nor my career hopes.
The sunset is long faded into night now,
As I try to reflect on what emotions it stimulated
Besides a bit of nostalgia
And a full measure of semi-poignant reflection.
No, my past eleven years don’t feel “wasted,”
But, whatever “better” means for me,
I wish I were “better” off than I am.
Whoever I am.
— March 18, 2009
The sunset this evening
Was like the one I saw
In Jacksboro eleven years ago.
Where have all those years gone?
Treading water?
I haven’t even done that, economically.
I have done that, and more, career-wise.
I have higher levels of confidence, dedication and skills
Than in Jacksboro.
All in the name of a career
In an apparently dying industry.
A non-Jungian symbol for my life?
I’m not quite dead yet, though.
And neither is my current job,
Nor my career hopes.
The sunset is long faded into night now,
As I try to reflect on what emotions it stimulated
Besides a bit of nostalgia
And a full measure of semi-poignant reflection.
No, my past eleven years don’t feel “wasted,”
But, whatever “better” means for me,
I wish I were “better” off than I am.
Whoever I am.
— March 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Recovery... sometimes it's like pulling away a scab
And, sometimes, it has to be done more than once.
Though I am an atheist of some sort, an old C.S. Lewis word picture popped into my mind earlier tonight:
This is Eustace, a relative of the four Pevensie children from “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe,” who is sucked into Narnia along with the two younger children in a later book. From “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” and the scab-pulling incident. Eustace had been changed into a dragon, and Aslan tells him he must rip off his dragon skin as part of his “recovery” to humanness:
"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming slowly toward me. And one queer thing was that there was no moon last night, but there was moonlight where the lion was. So it came nearer and nearer. I was terribly afraid of it. You may think that, being a dragon, I could have knocked any lion out easily enough. But it wasn't that kind of fear. I wasn't afraid of it eating me, I was just afraid of it -- if you can understand. Well, it came close up to me and looked straight into my eyes. And I shut my eyes tight. But that wasn't any good because it told me to follow it."
"You mean it spoke?"
"I don't know. Now that you mention it, I don't think it did. But it told me all the same. And I knew I'd have to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me a long way into the mountains. And there was always this moonlight over and round the lion wherever we went. So at last when we came to the top of a mountain I'd never seen before and on the top of this mountain there was a garden - trees and fruit and everything. In the middle of it there was a well. . . .
"Then the lion said -- but I don't know if it spoke -- 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.
"The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know -- if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy -- oh but it is such fun to see it coming away."
"I know exactly what you mean," said Edmund.
"Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off -- just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt -- and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me -- I didn't like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on -- and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."
Though I am an atheist of some sort, an old C.S. Lewis word picture popped into my mind earlier tonight:
This is Eustace, a relative of the four Pevensie children from “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe,” who is sucked into Narnia along with the two younger children in a later book. From “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” and the scab-pulling incident. Eustace had been changed into a dragon, and Aslan tells him he must rip off his dragon skin as part of his “recovery” to humanness:
"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming slowly toward me. And one queer thing was that there was no moon last night, but there was moonlight where the lion was. So it came nearer and nearer. I was terribly afraid of it. You may think that, being a dragon, I could have knocked any lion out easily enough. But it wasn't that kind of fear. I wasn't afraid of it eating me, I was just afraid of it -- if you can understand. Well, it came close up to me and looked straight into my eyes. And I shut my eyes tight. But that wasn't any good because it told me to follow it."
"You mean it spoke?"
"I don't know. Now that you mention it, I don't think it did. But it told me all the same. And I knew I'd have to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me a long way into the mountains. And there was always this moonlight over and round the lion wherever we went. So at last when we came to the top of a mountain I'd never seen before and on the top of this mountain there was a garden - trees and fruit and everything. In the middle of it there was a well. . . .
"Then the lion said -- but I don't know if it spoke -- 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.
"The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know -- if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy -- oh but it is such fun to see it coming away."
"I know exactly what you mean," said Edmund.
"Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off -- just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt -- and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me -- I didn't like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on -- and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A 10-point roadmap for breaking improvement down into small steps
After a job downsizing/job hunt/forced move to new job in January, combined with me getting back into more journaling, I knew I needed back into more counseling, too.
Well, even though he is “just” a grad school intern, my counselor has had some insights.
One of the best is the use of a 10-point scale to rank myself on big issues, such as male-female communication.
Rather than just a “where do I think I’m at right now” ranking (which would be a guesstimate, since I’m not in any intimate relationship) he has me, this week, applying it to specific woman friends and relationships. Specifically, we’re looking at my “timing literacy,” that is, how comfortable am I talking about sexual and other intimate issues, bringing them up myself, having a sense of timing for this, and so forth.
We talked a bit about this in session last week, before he gave me an assignment. I wanted to split the difference between, say, a 2 and a 3 on one particular past issue, and he said, that’s good. It is fine-tuning the system more.
Well, even though he is “just” a grad school intern, my counselor has had some insights.
One of the best is the use of a 10-point scale to rank myself on big issues, such as male-female communication.
Rather than just a “where do I think I’m at right now” ranking (which would be a guesstimate, since I’m not in any intimate relationship) he has me, this week, applying it to specific woman friends and relationships. Specifically, we’re looking at my “timing literacy,” that is, how comfortable am I talking about sexual and other intimate issues, bringing them up myself, having a sense of timing for this, and so forth.
We talked a bit about this in session last week, before he gave me an assignment. I wanted to split the difference between, say, a 2 and a 3 on one particular past issue, and he said, that’s good. It is fine-tuning the system more.
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