Wish I could write poetry, but I can’t do that, just like I can’t do so many other things. I am a complete failure at life; by every measure, I have failed at each aspect of being a human being:
- I have not given birth to a child, so I am a failure as a woman
- My libido is practically non-existent these days, so I am a failure as a wife
- I cannot work, and what’s more I am broke, so I am an economic liability
- I have put on HEAPS of weight, and have become quite unfit, so I am a failure in terms of my body
- The few friends I have seem to contact me less and less
- Contact with my siblings is all one-way – me to them; clearly they are just sick and tired of me
- I put my heart and soul into a business venture which failed, so I am a failure in that, too
- A part of me ‘knows’ this is just a story my mind is telling me, but I can’t break loose of its grasp
- Every moment I feel as though I am suffering, without relief.
So how much longer can I tolerate being such a complete failure? I don’t know.
My mind has just reminded me of this picture:
The rug is in the livingroom of a house where I feel safe and cared for. Perhaps my mind is telling me I might feel safe and cared for at some stage today.