The way the world looks to me this morning as a nearly-full moon settles down behind the western mountain ridge, as the hoped for sun waits for its gate to open to the east, perhaps my only personal power lies in my words. I feel otherwise nearly completely thwarted. So, given the comprehensiveness of my frustration the very least I can do for myself is to invent that word: Thwartation.
Those of us who were not loved when we came into the world, were not cared for, who were traumatized in all kinds of ways by the very people upon whom we depended for our livelihood — our very LIFE — end up lacking what we need to live our own full life’s potential: Resources.
Sure, we have SOME resources. We found a way to stay alive. But how do we find ways to fulfill our potential? Our best hopes and dreams? I could say, “There we are sitting on a stone with our battered suitcase watching the other half of our population, those who have safe and secure attachment-built body-brains go right on by us as they live their life knowing full well how to do that — and having the resources (both inner and outer) to get the job of living their life done pretty darn well.”
I could say that, but at these moments of my life I am not sure I found that stone along the way. I am not sure I have any kind of a suitcase. What I have is myself — such as I am.
I am thwarted in more ways that I could count. I also know that it will not especially enhance my life to begin to count what contributes to my ‘thwartation’. How do I move forward with so few resources at my disposal to accomplish what I WANT to in my life?
I have currently created 8 manuscripts that sit in a que waiting for somebody’s help to proof them, scan the photographs and size them, and to format them for upload in Kindle ebook format. I have only enough computer resources to word-process. Nothing else or my computer crashes.
I have no photoshop skills. I have no idea what any of the formatting lingo begins to mean. My precious daughter is willing to help me do what I cannot do for myself, but she is absolutely overloaded and nearly overwhelmed in her own life with the responsibilities she has to meet. She does not have time to help me in the ways I need help to get those books published.
What are my options?
Crying won’t help, even though at the moment that seems like the only choice I can make. Cry or not cry.
Come to think of it, that was one of the very few choices I had throughout most of my childhood. Being mercilessly beaten by my raging monster mother left me with exactly that option, and I choose not to cry, no matter how hard or how long she beat me. My siblings wanted me to cry. They thought if I cried Mother would stop beating me. I probably knew better, and even if my tears would have stopped the monster, I still would not have used them.
Just like I refuse to use them now. There has to be another way out. There has to be another way forward.
Those of us with insecure attachment built into our body-brain know that one thing: Survive as if your life depends upon it. But to what end — in the end? If I can’t find the way to fulfilling my simple hopes and dreams of being able to speak something of beauty and of value from what I have been through, from what I have understood of that whole long journey, what do I hold in my hand?
What do I have to show for my OWN life?
I think next of the bird that landed on my head the other day as I was working out in my garden. A blessing? Are miracles possible? Can something else happen other than tears from absolute frustration and disappointment? What are my options?
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