Something was supposed to happen: it wasn’t fiction. I guess if I had been then my expectation for entertainment could have been fulfilled, maybe I was entertained. Gosh, maybe my book is standing like Maximus shouting “are you not entertained!” Somehow, that isn’t happening.
I expected to learn something, I was excited to read this book to read not some secret, not really a secret, more an application, something that the writer wasn’t saying already. I’ve listened to your Podcasts, I, expected the book to go deeper. I hate podcasts, videos, that take up more time than reading but I endure them because that seems to be the only way that information is being released. This was the chance, for me to find another level, for expansion on what you already said, and instead, you reiterated it. So it was a best seller on Amazon.
Friday was awful, life hit me so hard, nothing worked, just the weight of existing was more than I wanted to bear. I hit alcohol, I hit benzos, nothing numbed the pain; it just stood me down: worthless and making it worthless every second you draw breath. I read the book, I did the self-care, I ate the meals, I did the steps, and it stared me down. Right down, down into the dark abyss where breathing is the unbearable burden of a consciousness that won’t leave you alone. It kicked me, it kicked me as hard as the beating I took that leaves me in pain 15 years later; turned the knife deeper and harder, but like every cruelty that has come before it would never let death take my pain away.
Low self-esteem has led me to read self-improvement literature, to focus on the practices that can take me from here to somewhere better. I firmly believe I can get 1% better and if I can add up those 1%’s for long enough it will get me out the hole. The problem comes when you are still in the hole after years of striving, not giving up, adding up the little 1% improvements, commitment to the process as the only way to success.
Instead I am feeling bitter and robbed; I got out of the estate, I worked and racked up the letters, I racked up the things people call success,, and on my 40th birthday it was taken away from me, by 42 I was back where I started at 17, no money, driving a car I didn’t own, a roof over my head because of the generosity of others, hustling to make money in a different place because someone of what someone said, nothing I actually did all over again. Lying low again, past rewritten again.
I don’t know how those things work now; neurological injury stole my mind, physical injury stole my body, my ex-wife stole my reputation by destruction; where do you go? So I read a book, to see more, but it’s just words, you haven’t walked the walk, you are a fraud. Sure, you watch the gladiators, but you never stood in the arena, you never won or lost it all on the pitch and toss of things over which you have no say let alone control, you, my friend know nothing of the battle that is won and lost; you tell me what a gladiator feels when you never once laid helpless, broken and spent on the battlefield, your body broken, your dreams destroyed, lucky to leave alive wishing you didn’t, life defeated.