apersonaljourney – stories of love

I wonder at present about an inability to move beyond circumstances that drag me and those people important to my life down. Is it simply an unwillingness, some deep seated desire to maintain a grasp upon the reality of our lives that prevents us from going forward? Perhaps it is a lack of desire to define that reality and the components that are determining the healthiness of our lives. Perhaps I am responsible for staying stuck rather than moving forward.

Well, the last sentence is pretty clear. It is me. As much as I recognize the truth of my own denial, I am still lost in the reason why I need to move on. I believe our lives are designed around emotion, and as is commonly known, we live short lives in the grand scheme of things. I will not reveal the circumstance of my dilemma; however, if you follow my blog(s) for the last couple of years, you should be able to quickly ascertain the issues that drag me down. They are certainly a self-fulfilling prophecy, a refusal to let go of that which is important, I feel to my well-being.

I’ve lived a life of ease in some respects that all the pain I have had to deal with does not measure to the crisis many people suffer through with the human condition. I have not had major medical issues that were not immediately resolved. I am not faced with a terminal illness. I have not been threatened or lived a life of fear based upon dire societal perils, so in essence, I am a whiner. However, happiness is an important attribute to one’s self awareness, and that is an area I have struggled with most of my life, as a young child, young adult, newly married man, and now having spent the majority of my life raising a family.

I have a love for my family that is measured by my state of mind, and in that statement I am revealing my greatest struggle. I feel like a loathing person because I cannot achieve a satisfaction in my world that eases the tension I feel at home. In other words, I cannot figure out ways to continue to fix my own depression, my own despair toward my life and remaining years, which could easily run into four more decades. I have been unhappy for as long in my life, and now I am faced with a crisis. I do not know if I have the energy to continue to try, I feel effortless without optimism.

Throughout my life I have been a self-described writer. I say that because officially I have been rarely published and until that time occurs, I cannot honestly feel like I am worthy of the title. That is my own self-confidence, I know, I understand, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. In truth though, my writing is the only thing that keeps me sane, outside of another major impact in my life, the history of which I will protect. Lately, I feel even my writing suffering because of my own awareness of a negativity that surrounds my actions, my well-being.

I care about people, I deeply care about and practice a compassion for people that is effortless. I genuinely understand certain pains, and wish to be there for a person in need. I also care about myself, and I understand the importance of loving ourselves in order to love others. I think it is imperative to realize that loving someone can contribute immensely to our own self-worth so there be the struggle. I find I am helpless to proving my meaning to people, or perhaps it is my own refusal to give myself the benefit of the doubt and recognize my own responsibility to move forward.

I appreciate having an avenue to vent. I’m going to go smoke a joint now. “Just kidding,” I suggest to those that understand the detriment of our own self-destructive addictions. Ah, sounds like another chapter.

© Scott F Savage 2019