There are truths about life I don’t particularly like.
I don’t like disease and decay are a part of living – if you live long enough – and death if you don’t. It’s not fun or fair or even defensible. But it is true nonetheless.
One truth I particularly hate is this: People value you only in what you provide for them. If you provide them a positive, joyful experience, they will value you because of that experience. They may not value you once that experience, or your ability to provide it, wains.
Duty or obligation may keep a child visiting the nursing home. Fear of loss of even the little bit a failing spouse can provide, believing the alternative is no one, can cause even the abused to stay. Your job is only secure as long as you provide something more valuable to your employer.
Friends are there for us until the price of friendship is higher than its return. Until we become an emotional “money pit” where walking away yields the higher reward.
Honor used to keep people committed. Paying the toll. It was an artificial social constraint that is less seen today. In my opinion, it is good we no longer see obligation as the reason to stay in a relationship, to give to others, to spend our woefully limited emotional and chronological capital on others.
In the midst of this truth, we must ask: What can we depend on to have a personal sense of worth?
The only way to thrive, to live or even survive in the face of this truth is to value yourself. What you give yourself is more important by far than anything you can give to others.
A sense of self that says “I am a person who values me, who values the me I am” overcomes the sense of self-doubt and valuelessness others might project.
I give to others of my time, my emotions, my love not simply because of what they might give to me in return, but because it is my morality to love. I value myself enough to spend my capital on others, as well as on myself, because that is the kind of person I choose to be.
They may not “deserve” it. They may not have “earned” it. I give to them even when it is unrequited because I am that person. The person I am dictates how I live, how I love.
Are there situations, relationships, where I hope for a return? Certainly. There is a level of love I reserve for reciprocation. If it is not, then I may count the cost too high and choose to end the relationship rather than continue the pain of unrequited love.
But those relationships are rare, reserved only for the most intimate.
Loving freely is the mark of Abundance in your life. You are secure in yourself and who you are, knowing someone else’s response to you is not an indication of your value.
Fear robs us of Abundance. Fear someone will “see” us. Fear someone will “reject” us. Fear someone will not “value” us. Fear of not looking “cool” to others.
When we value ourselves, there is no place for fear to assail. We are content and proud of who we are. We love the person we have chosen to be.
The key to valuing yourself is to identify and then live according to your deepest held values. It causes us to respect ourselves.
Saw this a couple places recently and wanted to post it here. It’s deep. I don’t know who created it, so if you know put it in the comments so I can credit the author. – Kevin
An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn’t sure of which direction to go, and he’d forgotten both where he was traveling to…and who he was. He remembered absolutely nothing. He suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him. She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: “Now your third wish. What will it be?”
“Third wish?” The man was baffled. “How can it be a third wish if I haven’t had a first and second wish?”
“You’ve had two wishes already,” the hag said, “but your second wish was for you to forget everything you know.” She cackled at the poor man. “So it is that you have one wish left.”
“All right,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t believe this, but there’s no harm in trying. I wish to know who I truly am.”
“Funny,” said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. “That was your first wish…”
It is rational to love first, everyone you meet.
It is rational to listen and actually hear someone’s heart and words.
It is rational to accept people exactly where they are.
Most would generally agree.
It is rational to love yourself, no matter what.
It is rational to listen and actually hear your own heart and words.
It is rational to accept yourself exactly where you are.
I wonder how many agree?
Thoughts are things with weight and dimension.
Running on a loop like an 8-track tape.
Songs glued in our heads.
Echoing since childhood.
One reminder then stuck again.
Our lives whistling their tune.
This is a poem I wrote in 2007 – I was reminded of it when I read this post by the same name. .
Hiding deep inside my mind, lives my tiny me
Tiny lives in tiny house inside my brain you see
Tiny’s house has tiny door, window but no view
All he sees is curly brain, spongy grey in hue
But Tiny has a vital task, does it every day
He keeps me from the scary facts, he locks them all away
He has a box of mom, he has a box of dad
Not every thought about them, just ones that are bad
He has a box of lost fist fights, and stickings of the pins
He has a box of old dog bites, and banging of the shins
Another box holds Grandpa’s death, brought on by heart attack
Another holds stood up dates named Beth, and failure in the sack
But his biggest blackest box of all, sits high upon the shelf
Even Tiny won’t say what’s inside—can’t deal with it himself
When I get too close to what’s boxed, Tiny let’s out piercing squeal
And tells me now don’t be shocked, what’s in the box ain’t real
Tiny whispers really close—there’s really nothing inside
And tells me stories grandiose, building up my shattered pride
As Tiny lulls my mind to sleep, with stories even greater
I don’t have to think about the keep, not now maybe later
So I go through life pretending to be, greater than I am
Disabled to the truth you see, I’m a deeply wounded man
Today I went to a tattoo artist, and for $60 I let a man with a giant Jesus-tattoo on his head ink a semi-colon onto my wrist where it will stay until the day I die. By now, enough people have started asking questions that it made sense for me to start talking, and talking about things that aren’t particularly easy.
We’ll start here: a semi-colon is a place in a sentence where the author has the decision to stop with a period, but chooses not to. A semi-colon is a reminder to pause and then keep going.
In April I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. By the beginning of May I was popping anti-depressents every morning with a breakfast I could barely stomach. In June, I had to leave a job I’d wanted since I first set foot on this campus as an incoming freshmen because of my mental…
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