I am real, only some people in my life didn’t think so.
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to beautiful chordy,
i love your abstract mind i always have to read your posts twice if not more so i understand them, that could be though because i am thick and dyslexic ,but they are always interesting.
take care
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You’re not the only one who finds me difficult to understand. Others have said the same. I’m trying !
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it is not you, it’s me , i love reading your posts.
take care
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I also like reading your post. I have something to ponder. You have had a very interesting life.
I identify + understand I think some of your posts, such as this one. Some in my own way. Sometimes it seems like you are keeping people away with your choice of wording and thought. Maybe not.
pob, I am afraid of love and because of that I keep people away. It’s like I might react like a wild animal.
I have always wanted to prove myself, and I still do. As a kid I was bullied like hell until I beat the ringleader up in front of everyone. That started my career as a “badass”, then I got into working out, Krav Maga, bodybuilding and now powerlifting. I think that I always want to be recognized for my inner strength by proving myself physically. But all of my friends and acquaintances know about my recovery from paranoid schizophrenia and they all respect me for being an honors student, going to college for free and all that crap too.
I’m like that I think …too needy, so I act like I don’t need anyone? Sort of.
I find it hard to tell if I’m in a dream or ‘reality’
I meant that my mother thought I was all in her imagination. That I wasn’t real to her. She cold not tell if I was someone she imagined or if I was real.
Oh no! I didn’t mean to scratch on that and open it if you worded the original post in a way to make me think harder and not talk about it. That must have been extremely difficult to deal with, my heart goes out to you, and thank you for sharing
I had a similar relationship with my mother. She saw me as she had dreamed I would be - as I was in her mind’s eye. Not who stood in front of her (me). I don’t know of a time she acted real toward me. I wasn’t deprived of love but smothered with un-nourishing love.
Yeah, pob. My mother dreamed I was a boy and I was a girl. Big headache.
Yeah. That’s a tough one. I picture you as a calf - bellowing. Or keeping it inside like most children do and assimilating it. But inside is where our source of life is.
The skweaky wheel gets the grease.