In discussion with my therapist we came to the conclusion that I believed I am a complete and abject failure. Through the chronology of the last 40 years I thought it was ridiculously self evident. It doesn’t require you be a brain surgeon to see it clearly.
So my therapist asked me to dig into the failure concept and let him know what I discovered. Honestly I didn’t spend the time on it I should have, but on my way to my appointment I had an epiphany.
Anyone subjected to the trauma I experienced had the potential to do what I did, and worse.
There was a temporary relief that I felt knowing this in my heart, but today I know that it doesn’t matter if I am failure or not. What matters is that it has all happened as a result of the abuse. The fact is that all these years, frustrations and failures actually happened. I didn’t experience the joy of living in the way I could have otherwise. I am speaking in past tense because this is the majority of my life, what is behind, and it cripples me going forward,
It’s easy to say don’t look back and don’t worry about tomorrow, live in the present. Yes, but my present is poisoned by decades of the past. What little tattered pieces that remain are a post-log of life. At my age there isn’t enough energy, stamina or will to try again. I’d rather be relegated to the pasture for well used up horses and live out my life that way.
So no, I am not a failure but more the product of abuse. Little consolation at this point.
The Place to be Real 