Per my Bearthday:
I appreciate every text, call, post, thought, and feeling towards me for my Bearthday. I absolutely appreciate it. Forgive me for not responding to anyone, or not answering, or not returning any message, voicemail, or text. I wasn’t ignoring anyone. I worked most of my bearthday and the remainder of the day- and since- I spent gifting myself time to write this. Because it is time for my present.
“In analytical psychology, the shadow (also known as ego-dystonic complex, repressed id, shadow aspect, or shadow archetype) is an unconscious aspect of the personality that does not correspond with the ego ideal, leading the ego to resist and project the shadow. In short, the shadow is the self’s emotional blind spot, projected (as archetypes—or, metaphoral sense-image complexes, personified within the collective unconscious); e.g., trickster.
…Because one tends to reject or remain ignorant of the least desirable aspects of one’s personality, the shadow is perceived to be largely negative. There are, however, positive aspects that may also remain hidden in one’s shadow (especially in people with low self-esteem, anxieties, and false beliefs).
The shadow personifies everything that the subject refuses to acknowledge about himself” and represents “a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is spared who goes down to the deep well.”
[If and when] an individual makes an attempt to see his shadow, he becomes aware of (and often ashamed of) those qualities and impulses he denies in himself but can plainly see in others—such things as egotism, mental laziness, and sloppiness; unreal fantasies, schemes, and plots; carelessness and cowardice; inordinate love of money and possessions.
The dissolution of the persona and the launch of the individuation process also brings with it “the danger of falling victim to the shadow … the black shadow which everybody carries with him, the inferior and therefore hidden aspect of the personality” resulting in a merger with the shadow.”
-Wikipedia (Shadow/ Shadow work definition)
Happy Bearthday to ME!
Happy Bearthday to ME!
Happy Bearthday to MEEEEEEE,
Happy Bearthday to ME!
It is my BEARTHDAY!!! And this year I’m going to CELEBRATE!
The description (of Shadow Work) above came from Wikipedia. I looked up the word or concept of “Shadow Work” in order to provide a definition for context as I set out to write what I’m writing today. I was hoping to find a clear and concise explanation that would give anyone unfamiliar with the theory an opportunity to clearly see what I’m talking about. Because I hope that what I am about to express is able to benefit someone. My real hope is that someone, much younger than I, is able to contemplate and configure this information while they are younger. And maybe they’ll achieve the peace and understanding that I am certain of, much sooner in their life. It’d be a real blessing and accomplishment if my son, my bonus boys, my friends and family get it. For, what good is the riches of consciousness and elevation if my immediate influence is not recognized and respected by those closet to me?
Yet, if anyone gets an opportunity to “overcome” as a response to what I share, I am grateful. Whomever this helps. I am pleased to say that the most important thing to me is that I’ve been helped by it. I believe tremendously so. In a way I’m not proficient enough in my words to even say. But I’m about to try…
“A Winner, trying not to.”
About a year ago, I announced that I was starting a podcast. To much fanfare and support, actually. I got a great response. I had a great concept. A terrific name. It sounded like an amazing idea. I was ready to do it.
I inquired of how to put together the setup that I wanted. I knew that I could just start with a phone and the internet, but I wanted to begin with something much more elaborate and established. So I priced the equipment that some “experts” had referred me to. I did a lot of research on what was a solid setup. I came up with a package that I was comfortable with.
As I began to figure out what I wanted and what I wanted to do, I decided that I would reach out and see if I could get some help financing my equipment. Because I’ve seen “support” for some of the weirdest and wildest ideas, I thought to myself that I should be able to garner interest and support for what I know is a phenomenal idea. I know that my podcast is going to change and transform lives. My story alone is going to break generational boundaries and blockages. I’m going to help some folks! And I know this. I knew this when the idea came into my spirit. I was excited that I’d been given my next move. I hoped that I was going to get immediate and overwhelming “support”. My concept is brilliant and I see the possibilities. The few people that I explained the premise to have all been extremely positive about how “well” this move could be. It looked like I was, as my Dad would say, cooking with grease!
I sent out a message for that “support”, asking a few people to donate to my cause. Because I had a number that would purchase the equipment and help me get the ball rolling.
I sent out another message, to a different batch of “supporters”.
No bullshit. And I expected that, for some reason. I had a couple folks say that they had my back and wanted to assist me, but couldn’t at the time.
But anyway, “all” things work to the good.
For a very long time I’ve been on this “journey”. This road to figuring shit out. This path of identity and definition and revelation and meaning and purpose. I’ve been at it for so long. I’ve gained a ton of experience and expertise in the journey. I know how to endure. I know how to wait. I know how to suffer. I have the patience of a rock! I’ve been at the “process” for so long, I should have an honorary PHD in the science and strategy of successful attempts at taking the long way to where you should be, lol.
No, for real. That shit is a laughing matter. That’s all you can do is laugh. Not to keep from crying either. But in appreciation for the moment. This kind of laughter is the best indication of you realizing your smallness in the greatness of God’s idea. My laughter is how I know the Universe, God, the spiritual realm, really rock with me. This particular laugh that will belt out of my soul at the most precarious of times is and has always been my confirmation of sorts. It comes packaged with a certain awareness and revelation. Every time this laugh has come out, it comes with this instant recognition of some mind-blowing presence of consciousness.
Saturday, October 1st, was no different. I was in the shower at 5:30 in the morning. Getting ready to go to work. I had slept well, for about 6 hours. I was rested and ready to get the day started. My first client was at 6am, double-strand twists. His brother was my next client and my following client after that was at 8, and a full day after. I was in the shower thinking about how fast I could get through the twists and get the day to run seamlessly, as possible.
Then I started laughing.
And as soon as the first chuckle chucked up through my throat, I knew why I was laughing.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
That’s what I said to myself. As I am smiling and snickering. Trying not to be too loud. It’s 5:30 in the morning and it would be rude to awake the house with my jovial banter of self-talk. Because that’s what I started doing, having this conversation with myself. While I’m laughing, in between the jeers, I’m speaking to myself…
“All of this time, that’s what it’s been about!”
“… Thats why you feel like you deserve less-than. That’s what you’re ashamed of. That’s what you feel guilty for. That’s why you accept mediocrity and lack and the point of you feeling guilt the way you do.”
I laughed some more.
“… You disappointed her. She asked you to do one thing. And you said NO! You let her down. You should have been there. She’s dead because of you.”
I laughed a little louder.
Then, quiet. All I heard was the water. I stood there. It was dark in the bathroom. I don’t usually turn the lights on when I shower. It’s my place of meditation and conference. In the moment I felt so powerless to controlling my power. I realized in that moment, my power. I have power. I have the power.
March 25, 1994, 7:00pm, I was walking out of the door to leave my Mom for the weekend, going to my Dad’s house. As was the routine, for my siblings and I.
My Dad was parked in the driveway, waiting for us to come out. My Mother stood on the porch to see us off. As I passed by, she stopped me:
My Mom- “Corey, don’t you want to stay home with me this weekend?”
Me- “No. I’m always with you. I’m going to Rock’s house.”
And I walked past her, down the front steps, and into the car.
I never saw my mother alive again. I never spoke with my mother again. She was murdered the following day. In our home. In her bed. And I discovered her body 2 days later, Monday, March 28, 1994.
As I stood there in the shower, in the quiet, in the loudness of the water echoing down the drain, I started to smile. Then more laughter. I might have teared up. Or maybe it was the mist and the hot of the shower that prompted my eyes to sweat but I could feel the break of the bough. The branch that has connected me to the pestilence of an impoverished place. The reason for this space I’ve occupied for such a time.
I got out of the shower, dressed, kissed my wife and left for work.
I arrived at the shop a few seconds before my clients and I walked in before them. I began to open up while simultaneously thinking about the events that had taken place in the shower. After I’d turned the lights on and prepared my tools to begin the twists, the young man was walking through the door.
The first thing I noticed was that he had no hair. Not bald, just a very low haircut. Not anything long enough to get the twists hairstyle that he’d gotten about a year ago. When his grandfather had called to make the appointment, I’d forgotten that I’d cut his hair down a couple months back. I wasn’t even thinking about it. So I expressed to him and his grandpa, who was now in the room, that we wouldn’t be able to achieve that service on this day. He understood- they both understood- and he came and sat in the chair to get a taper/lining while he grows his hair back.
But, now I’m here an extra hour or so more than I need to be for these 2 haircuts. I’m immediately pondering the purpose of this scheduling mixup. Because- those that know me, know- I’m always “connecting dots” for the spiritual meaning of everything!
Just then I had this feeling that I was here on this morning, this early, to deliver a message. Or at least I thought that, in the moment. Why else would I have forgotten that I’d cut all that young man’s hair off and that he couldn’t get twists that day, but for the opportunity to have a conversation with these two young men? Because they’d recently lost their Mom, to cancer. And I’d been thinking about them and feeling that I should reach out to talk about their grieving process. I know what it’s like to lose your Mom at that age. I know what it’s like to experience that disruption and the devastation that comes along with it. I know the man that their mother had in her life as a partner. He’s a good friend of mine. He is not their biological father but he had accepted them and they he. He and their mom were engaged to be married. He is still in their lives. I admire his integrity and character as it relates to how he’s handling that part. But I know- all too well- how traumatic and complicated this type of situation is for those young men.
And maybe I’m here this morning to speak a few words of encouragement into them. To offer some support, and another ear to hear their voices. To supply them with the resource of my experience and the information I have from having been dealt a similar blow.
Or so I thought.
I contemplated how I should start the conversation. Should I just dive right in? Should I ask if it was okay to talk about the loss? Should I wait until I feel like the moment is “right”?
“How are you feeling young man?” I asked as I placed the cape around him.
“Oh, we’re doing fine, See.” came from across the room. His grandfather interceded the conversation and answered me. I looked over in his direction and smiled to myself, thinking that he’d just interrupted my moment. I wasn’t even talking to him! Danggit!
I waited about 3 minutes into cutting and I decided that it was time to ask again…
“How’ve you been feeling?”, I said, with my hand on the young man’s shoulder so that he knew that I was talking to him. And I lowered my voice a little bit more this time. Maybe I’d spoken aloud and Preston, that’s their grandfather’s name, had heard me and assumed that I was speaking to him.
“We are well, See. How are you doing?” Preston belted out this time.
I smiled. A little laugh creased out the side of my grin. I now knew this was the reason that I was here this morning. To speak with him. I just knew it. I felt it. I laughed a little more.
“This part of my life, this part of my life is going to be called “Stupid”.
Preston laughed as I said that. Then he responded, “… We all have a time in our lives that could be defined by some of the stupid that we do. I’ve had some stupid moments in my life too.”
We both laughed a little.
Then there was a brief silence, as I gathered myself to say what I was about to say. I wanted to squeeze the previous 28 years of “duh” into just a minute or so of dialogue. I wanted to express my profound gratitude and glee at what I’d realized in the shower a short while before we found ourselves here.
And just then I realized the opportunity to have that conversation and speak to the boys. I got it!
“… I lost my Mom when I was 15. She was murdered. I discovered her body in her bedroom in March of 1994…”
Preston gasped. “Oh man, sorry to hear that.”
“… Yea, thank you”, I continued, “… It has been a long and difficult road since then. I’ve gone through just a ridiculous amount of suffering and frustration all this time. The grieving process just seemed to drag out for these past-almost- 30 years. I’ve been depressed and stressed and hurt and down and inconsistent. And all this time I thought that I was feeling that because of her death.”
“That is understandable”, Preston said.
“But it was none of that. That’s why this part of my life is called “Stupid”. Because I realized this morning, what all of this time, all of these years, what I’d really been hurt about.”
Preston looked over my way. Ready to hear what I was about to announce.
“… The last thing my Mother ever said to me was her asking me to stay home with her for the weekend. And I didn’t. I left. I didn’t stay with her and because of me not doing what she asked, not honoring her request, she was murdered. Murdered because I disappointed her. Dead, because I wanted to ‘live my life’.”
“… I realized that is why I walk away from blessings. Why I turn down opportunities. Why I allow myself to be hurt or have the harm of hell happen to me. That’s why I don’t feel right walking in my power, enjoying myself, having fun, smiling, taking advantage of my gifts and talents, or the opportunities that come for me. This is why I abandon relationships or expect abandonment and pain and trouble and dysfunction. Because I felt like I deserved that. All she wanted was for me to stay with her that weekend. And if I would have, things would be different. Because I let her down.”
The next 2 hours were magical. Preston and I talked about so many things. The most profound of them being the common and repeated tragedies within the black family. The secrets and the skeletons that keep us mired in shame, guilt, and the poverty of lack. Preston is probably twenty years+ my senior and he shared stories of his life that were fantastically similar to my own experience. Talking with him came with a brilliantly cloaked awareness and satisfaction with what has been this long route I’ve taken to this point. I’d been comfortable with the scantly clad outfit that unknowingness and silence wore on me. I thought it fit. I accepted that it was what had been destined or meant, purposed for my life. At least my life post March 25, 1994.
I started doing “shadow work” a couple of years ago. Well, I guess I’ve been doing shadow work for the past 12 years. Ultimately that was the reason I moved back to Chicago. I came home to get some peace and resolve, some information. I wanted clarity and closure. As much as I could possibly get, given the limited access that I had to details that I’d discovered over time. I’d been trying to deal the best way I knew how for a very long time. The problem was that it wasn’t the best way available, only the best way I knew. And I didn’t know much. Just thought I did.
Eventually I’d exhaust so many of the defense mechanisms and measures that my natural inclination had come to rely on. And time did what time does. Time forgets itself. Time forgets anything that is not a now. Time callouses the soft edges of innocence into the rigid realities of what has become of us. All that is left then are the scars of happened and hurt. In time, that’s what I’d become: One big heap of what happens when you’re hurt.
Now, there are soooooo many things that have gone wrong in my life. So much that I’ve done wrong. I’ve absolutely hurt, caused pain, lied, manipulated, stolen, hidden, misled, avoided, deceived, and disappointed. Sometimes beyond repair. I’d love to acknowledge just how sincere I am in saying that I have never intended to hurt anyone, but I accept full responsibility in the truth that what I intended is insignificant. What I did is what I did. Who I hurt is who I hurt. The pain that I’ve caused is pain, nonetheless and regardless if I can justify my actions. And who am I to attempt to minimize the magnitude of what my actions may have been to someone else?
I beat myself up EVERYDAY for contemplating that I could.
I’m learning all of these psychoanalytic terms and theories lately. Concurrently blazing this trail of ascension and growth out of the old version of me. In this very moment I’m learning that much of what I’ve experienced is absolutely normal for humans. That’s the message that I got out of my conversation with Preston. That we are all flawed and fucked up in some sort of way. We all make mistakes. We all let people down. We all fall short of some expectation. We all mess up. We all go through some shit.
A good friend of mine, Mr. Marvin, once told me, “See, we all have a little red wagon we’re toting along behind us. You never know what the next man is carrying in his”.
My wagon has been filled with trial and tribulation. Destruction, dysfunction, and detriment. Pain and procrastination. Anger. Shame. Guilt.
I’ve been pulling that shit along with me for as long as I can fathom.
The thing is that I’ve been obsessed with feeling that I was supposed to have this lot. Not because of any plausible theory and set of circumstances that could legitimately prove responsible for my disposition, but more of an idea that I didn’t have a choice. I had come to believe that my purpose was to be this “strong” person that patiently dealt with whatever the ugly of this life did to me. “Did to me”. I didn’t see it any other way than that I was on the defensive. Life happens to me. It’s been happening all this time. I have to deal with it. Helplessly.
Ever heard of “Toxic Shame”? Well, I’d never. Just like I’d never heard or properly understood the terms encapsulating conditions like Arrested Development, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Acute Stress Disorder (ASD), Secondhand TraumaReactive Attachment Disorder (RAD), Disinhibited Social Engagement Disorder (DSED), or other Adjustment Disorders, and etc.
I’d never had counseling or therapy services either. I was always told that I was “such a strong young man”. Everyone always commends or comments about how proud they are of me and the way I handled myself. I bought into that. Years later I appreciate that most of that came from a place of distancing. Those people, most of them, said those things to channel the responsibility away from their own lackluster and futile efforts to provide or produce any help in my situation. And that is just the truth. I’ve written about a lot of that before. This isn’t the time to go in greater detail. This is about my own accountability. My own bout with the demons I know.
And back to Toxic Shame.
So let me see if I can gather a good explanation of “Toxic Shame”…
Toxic shame is a feeling that you’re worthless. It happens when other people treat you poorly and you turn that treatment into a belief about yourself. You’re most vulnerable to this type of poor treatment during childhood or as a teen. When you feel toxic shame, you see yourself as useless or, at best, not as good as others.
What’s the Difference Between Shame and Guilt?
These two emotions are often confused with one another. You feel guilt when you know that you did something wrong. It can be a helpful emotion when maintaining relationships. Guilt can keep you on track when you’ve drifted from your moral standards.
But you feel shame when you believe you’re not enough, usually because parents or peers keep telling you so. Your confidence suffers from this deep-seated emotion that affects the way you see yourself.
Guilt tells you, “That thing you did was wrong.” Shame tells you, “Because you did that thing, you’re a bad person.”
I found quite a few definitions of Toxic Shame. That one added a little more context in regards to “guilt”. For me, shame and guilt have been synonymous. Not even sure- before seeing the definitions- if I’d ever differentiated the two. Reading the above excerpt summarized or solidified my idea of why they were the same in my purview.
I’m new at this place. This place I’m coming to find as being healed, being free, being okay. Being selfish for the sake of prioritizing my own needs and wants. I’ve been selfish before, it’s just usually me being selfish to one person or thing for the sake of another person or thing. Not for myself. There is a BIG difference. It makes a difference.
I have to pause for a second. I just received a text message containing a link to join a livestream for a church service.
At first I kept writing while listening. Then I stopped writing and gave the service all of my attention.
And I almost deleted this entire message.
Then I realized that herein lies the problem. You know what, I won’t speak for anyone else. I’ll speak for me…
One of the MAIN reasons that I am just now, at 44, seeing this process through is because the prevailing message that I’ve heard over the last 28+ years had been that I should LET IT GO!
Leave it alone.
Don’t worry about it.
Put “that” behind you.
That’s what I’ve been told, relentlessly. Religiously. And I believed it. So every journey that I began towards resolution was upended by the decision to let it go. Because, what good was I doing to bring up the past? How much more pain could I possibly inflict in the lives of others by bringing up these truths? How necessary was it for me to get “closure” at the expense of opening wounds and digging up buried secrets?
I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I was causing “trouble” with my insistent pleas for acknowledgment and answers regarding some of the things that I’ve been dealing with.
Mmmmmh, Mmmmmh, Mmmmmh.
I almost fell for it a few minutes ago. The sermon that is being preached is about “letting go”. And to that messages’ credit, yes, letting some things go is a pivotal step in the process of moving forward. But it is most often not, and shouldn’t be, the solution to real problems.
Some shit has to be acknowledged. Recognized. Discussed. Accepted. Dealt with. Resolved. Some shit has to be explained. Or an attempt made to get an explanation. Communicated. You don’t just “get over” real trauma! What you do is pretend to get over it. But it hurts you. It harms you. It haunts you. And it affects everything that has to deal with you.
The short of this long story:
Stress is a killer. “Letting go” is stressful. Deal with that shit. (Note to Self). Trying to accept “No” as the answer when you are not prepared to respect or respond to what “No” means for you can be a big(ger) problem.
And don’t assume “No”. Make them tell you “No”. Assuming a “No” because someone is avoiding dealing doesn’t always mean “No”. Sometimes it just means that we don’t know how to confront or communicate ourselves through.
That’s another talk. I have to get back to why I’m here at this moment.
There are so many layers to this.
It’s been almost 2 weeks since the shower moment, and the conversation with Preston. I’ve been stealing opportunities to write this every day. Life is busy.
I love that there is such a great and seemingly credible interest in mental health right now. It is so necessary that we acknowledge that our community is in dire need of services that can and will be used toward the betterment of both our individual and collective selves. I’m excited to see so many new advocates and organizations enter the space.
The mind is powerful.
I didn’t really go into great detail about the specific shadow exercises that I’ve worked on because I think that anyone that undertakes the work should find what is going to work for them and follow through. It took me years to even discover the term, let alone to attempt the work. I will say this though, that I believe my own determined and direct desire to find out what was “wrong” with me intrinsically placed me on a path to healing. Sure, I could have been where I am today- as it relates to a better health report, peace of mind, and energy level- much sooner had I had an opportunity or awareness of resources that would have benefited me. But I’ll accept that my journey had to bring me this way, in order to see and say things that way that I can. And I believe in God. That God exists. Maybe not the way we want to assume or assert that God exists, but I believe that God does. I trust that God has a way. I think that “all” thing’s somehow work towards that way. That’s as much as I have on that subject. I don’t believe that I’m on earth to attempt an inquisition into Gods intention. I’m here to experience life, that God created.
That brings me back to “stupid”.
I haven’t been “living”. I’ve been existing. I’ve been surviving. I’ve been struggling. I make it look good though. You’d never know that I was going through much of the torment that I have because I’ve conditioned myself to present “fine”. I was raised to do that. Taught it. “What happens in this house, stays in this house” is the mantra I was given instructions to follow. I grew up and kept that same energy.
For most of these years, what happens to me, stays with me.
Some traumatic shit I learned in childhood.
One of the things I’ve learned in the last couple of years is how vital the way we listen and learn as children is to the rest of our lives. It’s pretty much all learned behavior. Our processes, coping mechanisms, thought patterns, habits, emotional capacities, triggers, traits, characteristics, operating practices and such are all part and parcel of our childhood experiences. The formative years create the ideas and identities that shape our everything! What we do now is the result of what we were exposed to then. And that goes for everyone. Not just me. I’m really learning to acknowledge and accept that it is NOT JUST ME.
One last story:
A few weeks ago, a young man whom I consider a nephew, or younger brother, shared with me that he and a close associate got into a physical altercation after an incident that happened between the two of them while in the company of their social circle. The young man that I know took offense to something that his friend did/said and he swung on him. That resulted in an altercation that led to him “beating up” his friend. It was a real fight that led to the friend sustaining some bloody injuries.
When I first heard about the fight, I got worried. I asked worried parent/guardian questions. I was concerned about the ramifications.
Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been worried about retaliation and the blowback that might come as a result. It’s been on my mind tough.
A couple of days ago I had a talk with the young man that I know and I asked…
Me- “Dude trying to get his lick back?”
Him- “No. He knows he was wrong. Ain’t no lick back.”
Me- “Have you seen him since the fight?”
Him- “Everyday. Actually I’ve seen him more since that happened than I’ve ever seen him. I guess it’s true that fighting creates the brotherhood. We’ve been real good since that happened.”
And I realized in that moment, just how significant my childhood trauma is.
I don’t fight. I don’t argue. I don’t confront.
I walk away.
Confrontation leads to murder.
Arguing leads to murder.
Fighting leads to murder.
Love leads to murder.
Secrets and hypocrisy lead to murder.
Money leads to murder.
Calling the police leads to murder.
Involving your family in your business leads to murder.
Being gay leads to murder.
And after the murder is isolation and rejection and confusion and abandonment and stress and sickness and hurt and pain and conspiracy and unfairness and misunderstanding and trouble and grief and depression…
And this cyclical process of going back and forth between these devastations.
I grew up in a home that had a lot of secrets and silence. I have fond memories of my childhood, and of my mother. But my most prominent recollections are ugly. I remember the silence. I remember the secrets. I remember the hurt. I remember the details that I was forbidden to discuss outside of our home. I remember the pain. I remember what went on behind those walls. I remember the things that I now understand but I only “saw” then. I remember the arguing. I remember the fights. I remember the silence. I remember the murder.
And so I didn’t fight. I’ve just, existed. Better to walk away, to leave, than to stay and argue, then fight, then one of us kills the other one.
That is how I have engaged every aspect of my life. EVERYONE will tell you this too. Even while I’m perceived as being so calm and strong and resilient, there is this suspicion about me. About my motives, my intentions, my agenda. Because I have a weird way of acting around people. Especially when there is friction. I retreat. I get quiet. I don’t engage.
It’s never been that I didn’t want resolve or resolution, I was just afraid that one of us is going to die at the end of our problem. So I ignore it. I abandon the mission. I avoid the argument. I distance myself. I’ll be the bad guy.
Simple shit, too. Minor disagreements. Shit that could have easily and instantly been worked on, worked out, worked through. I didn’t. I ran. I shut-up. I shutdown. I avoided.
I’ve messed up so much by living like that. And I didn’t know why I did it. I didn’t know that I was doing it.
It was the only way I knew.
This one is all over the place, I know. I’m trying to keep up with the pace of my brain, using these fingers. Trying to get the main points, or some of them, before I wrap this up.
But yea, I feel stupid. That’s the message here.
All this time, all these years…
That’s the answer. That’s what I’ve been dealing/struggling with. That’s the culprit responsible for my issues. As much as I’ve tried to be responsible and accountable and “better”. I was hurt. And I made mistakes. Like ALL HUMANS ARE SUPPOSED TO! I just thought that I didn’t deserve that grace, that mercy, that opportunity. To move past it.
Your mind really plays tricks on you.
Getting better, doing better, being better… that takes work.
I’ve been doing that work.
Anyway, this is my last post for awhile. The next time I post, it will be to premier my Podcast, present my products, and promote my new book. I have nothing else to explain. Time to do.
Thanks for listening.