Wayward tales

Tags

channelling, Depression, higher consciousness, perception, PTSD, self-beliefs, Something Important, worthlessness

It’s a little mystical, the way my fingers seem to know what to write before I’ve formed a cognisant idea about the things that appear before me on-screen.

Seems I’ve got a lot to say right now, but none of it is what I planned on saying.

And y’know, it’s almost like my keyboard is hijacking the schedule here, perhaps in collusion with my heart. No, it’s deeper than that. My higher consciousness (whatever that is) has hacked the system or something!

There’s a takeover going on here, over my words and my stories. I’m feeling a touch fragile as a result.

But because its stuff that usually comes out poetically or abstractly, I’m having a hard time putting it together rationally.

Like… This morning.

On the tram going to work, I realised Something Important:

I’m still holding onto this idea that my life isn’t meaningful or worth anything unless I’m loved and/or doing something useful with myself.

So, right now according to this logic my life is worth nothing. It’s pointless. I’m not anyone’s significant other. I have a crappy job. I have no money. I have no children. I don’t have any concrete plans to set the world on fire and be useful.

But today I decided to challenge this thinking!

So, if some/all of these things were happening in my life – that would suddenly mean I was worthwhile?

Yes!

But though currently I’m essentially the same person, just not actually engaging in any of the things that I think will make me happy and fulfilled… because I’m not doing those things, I’m not worthwhile?

That’s right!

Hmmmm…

Asking myself questions like this, I can see just how ludicrous such self-beliefs really are.

So… I’m not worth anything unless I’m being useful. And I can’t be useful because I’m not worth anything?

You got it!

Ah, a glimpse at the craziness we humans operate in, as we beat ourselves up time and again. This is a peek into my very own personalised version of it.

It’s fascinating.

But circumstances change. The things we think make us happy change, too. Geez am I glad I don’t have the same definition of happiness I had as a teenager any more!

And this means our likes and dislikes are a moving target, and so then it can’t mean anything about us if we haven’t attained those things we like/want. Right?

I try to remember my thought processes pre-assault, depression and PTSD. That was a life I knew, a way of being happy. Its stuff I can no longer relate to in the same way.

I try to recall how I coped with life, what I wanted and how I felt about myself in general. It’s not easy to dig into those memories, because much of it is obscured by the assault.

I do remember events that happened as much as is possible with my fallible human mind.

But my perception of myself was altered so much that it’s hard to see anything as I used to. The memories of how I felt about myself pre-assault are hazy at best.

There’s a solid disconnect there. Different life, different time.

I’m pretty sure I used to be relatively confident. Even though I’ve never been happy with my looks I was always still confident in who I was. Or maybe that’s a lie and it just looks that way in comparison to how I feel now. No… I’m pretty sure that I had some things I was confident about and others where I felt vulnerable and shy.

But I used to have a lot more energy and ability to commit myself to things. I was stronger and fitter. It wasn’t a struggle through every single day. I didn’t have to push myself to cook nutritious meals. I had boyfriends, I went out and socialised much more than I do now.

And that was then.

Okay, as I’m typing this, here’s the breaking story from wherever the hell this stuff is coming from right now…

Being assaulted that night, just that one single night, made me feel completely worthless. Or rather, those feelings about myself existed already somewhere in my psyche, but it wasn’t actively how I saw myself. That night, I thought I was going to die.

And so somehow I made what happened to me mean that I might as well be dead. Or at the very least, as small as a piece of fluff caught on a hedge. Where does the fluff go eventually? Who knows? But that small. That’s how I felt, and in some ways, its how I still feel.

Maybe because if I was that small or entirely worthless, then maybe no one would ever touch me like that again. Or betray me. Or lie to me. Or pretend to be one person, only to reveal Dr Hyde later on.

What I’m just beginning to understand is, this was the story I allowed myself to believe.

A deep sense of worthlessness overwhelmed me and it seems that while I’ve been trying to recover, I’ve never actually addressed this belief about myself directly.

And I’ve never really seen it like that before, until now.

~ Svasti