Alone

“Do you like yourself?” he asked.

I burst out laughing. I must’ve laughed for fifteen seconds.

“Does anyone answer ‘yes’ to that question?” I replied, once I finally got a handle on it.

“Yes,” he replied flatly. Apparently the part of therapy where they “hold space” includes pregnant pauses while they wait for you to do…something.

“Well then: No. I don’t like myself.” Things you don’t stay to a therapist: Stop this train; I want to get off.

So, in my mind, there’s this version of life where I have friends. They both (a) know me and (b) accept me. I had a male acquaintance give me a hug 6 (?) months ago and honestly it felt like that big RESET button on the old Nintendo Entertainment System–for a minute, I was alright. My nervous system wasn’t screaming at met that I was untouchable. My inner critic wasn’t barking at me that I was broken, unlovable, irredeemable, unelect. Let’s just say it: Damned.

I feel convicted of all I’ve done or failed to do in life.

I’m walking around a dichotomy of some small measure of talent crossed with rejection at every turn– maritally, paternally, familially, interpersonally, professionally. Once, I had delusions of grandeur (see this blog around 2005-2010 or so) and zero perspective on who I was or how I came across.

Now I know: Sometimes you sew the wind and reap the whirlwind. Thirty years of being a jerk has consequences.

Thus, I’m lonely. I’m broken. I’m glad of the wonderful, talented people I get to work with every day, and I try to help them as much as I can. But I feel it can’t (won’t?) go on.