Holding a grudge is heavy.
Old grudges easily hide among the myriad other newer perceptions and sensations in our body. Not that they try - they've just become part of the decor. Like that table in the corner of the room, unused for years, with layers of dust over it blended in against our experience. Its use of space not even noticed, so accustomed are we.
Like the weight of an old grudge.
A patch over a wound that allows us to redirect our pain into blame. Remains as a channel through which to move that pain. Weaker and distant as time passes, yet the channel remains by existential inertia. An emotional leak that only attention of the self can treat.
Hmm. Old grudges. Who are you?
Blame against my high school classmates for excluding me from their social circles, for singling me out as a target for jokes, as fodder for their attacks, for not letting me be as I was. For fostering a feeling of mistrust in me.
Blame against my siblings for excluding me from their games, from their secrets. I was not their friend, as much as I wanted to be. As much as I tried, as much as I asked them to play with me. I felt either a social burden to them or a novelty. Not a friend.
Blame against my parents for the social fears that they passed on to me, as unintentional as it might have been. Against their shunning of topics like gender, attraction, sex, drugs, and violence. Against the silence of discomfort that covered their marriage, whose truth I wanted to know about but was excluded from. With their shunning, I built fears towards these topics too, and deal with these still.
Blame against the psychic I saw in 2014 whose "promise" of finding a female companion did not come true.
Blame... against the driver whose car broke my bones? It sounds like it *could* be one, but I don't feel it.
Hmmm.
And among these feelings, I find lakes and waterfalls of gratitude towards other experiences.
Some may be somewhat stuck too.
A topic for another time.
Old grudges easily hide among the myriad other newer perceptions and sensations in our body. Not that they try - they've just become part of the decor. Like that table in the corner of the room, unused for years, with layers of dust over it blended in against our experience. Its use of space not even noticed, so accustomed are we.
Like the weight of an old grudge.
A patch over a wound that allows us to redirect our pain into blame. Remains as a channel through which to move that pain. Weaker and distant as time passes, yet the channel remains by existential inertia. An emotional leak that only attention of the self can treat.
Hmm. Old grudges. Who are you?
Blame against my high school classmates for excluding me from their social circles, for singling me out as a target for jokes, as fodder for their attacks, for not letting me be as I was. For fostering a feeling of mistrust in me.
Blame against my siblings for excluding me from their games, from their secrets. I was not their friend, as much as I wanted to be. As much as I tried, as much as I asked them to play with me. I felt either a social burden to them or a novelty. Not a friend.
Blame against my parents for the social fears that they passed on to me, as unintentional as it might have been. Against their shunning of topics like gender, attraction, sex, drugs, and violence. Against the silence of discomfort that covered their marriage, whose truth I wanted to know about but was excluded from. With their shunning, I built fears towards these topics too, and deal with these still.
Blame against the psychic I saw in 2014 whose "promise" of finding a female companion did not come true.
Blame... against the driver whose car broke my bones? It sounds like it *could* be one, but I don't feel it.
Hmmm.
And among these feelings, I find lakes and waterfalls of gratitude towards other experiences.
Some may be somewhat stuck too.
A topic for another time.
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