Ecology of Consciousness: Psychology. I'm 40 years old. I almost died without living, Mom. But I don't want to die with you anymore. I can no longer ignore my life impulses. I can no longer accompany your dying, mother. I am no longer yours. I am a grown man with my own destiny. I'm not your boy anymore, mom....
I'm almost 40, mom, and I'm not yours anymore.
I'm not your boy anymore, mom.
I really appreciate our relationship with you, butI have nothing else to pay for them.
Until the age of 10, I was sick to the point of exhaustion with asthma, if only you would feel needed and significant. I really couldn't live without you and suffocated every time I was anxious or scared, and you weren't around. But also when you were around, something like that I felt that I couldn't breathe either.
At 10, when my father left, I suddenly realized that I was the only man in the family and I needed to be strong. You can't cry anymore. You can't be afraid. You can't be disturbed, you can't be angry. Need to take care of you. Something about it was wrong, disgusting, disgusting. But then I did not know how to do it differently. My seizures became more frequent at first, each time it seemed to me that I would die, and perhaps I really wanted to die. But I lived. I lived strangely. In the small ten-year-old boy's body lived some kind of aged, gloomy, anxious man, who daily tried to get out of the wild, unbearable tension.
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I did not understand then that
I unconsciously set myself a difficult and insane task
I then decided that since there is no father, I need to make you happy. It seemed to me that this is a very masculine thing - I don't know where I got it - to make a woman happy. It wasn't until 30 years later, while in therapy, that I learned that it wasn't just not a man's task. It's not a task at all. Happiness is a choice, it is a process, it is a journey. The choice, the process, the path of the person himself and no one should organize this for another.
But I was 10. There was no one around except you, mom, and I was very scared and I was very confused. I even, you know, really did not allow myself to feel that my father was gone. Habitual, mine, native. Big, bearded, in an old shabby flannelette home shirt with rolled up sleeves. I did not even allow myself to get angry, angry, offended at him. Although the question hung like a stone inside me - “Why are you doing this to me, dad?” Many questions stopped inside me and petrified. Someone had to ask them. You, I was sure, would be angry with me if I started talking about my father.
And then I agreed with myself that there was no father. I need to learn to live without it. It must have been very painful. But I didn't let myself feel it.
I cut off the part of me that was howling, screaming, tearing my little baby soul apart in pain.
Then the asthma subsided. I suddenly became so big, and for some reason you were so small and helpless that I suddenly began to feel that you would not save me, but for myself it became ill ... somehow pointless ... You needed to be saved. I did not really understand why, but I began to save.
I peered into your every look, I listened to your every breath, I tried to guess your desires, your thoughts. I was so tired then and could not understand why. Only now, when analyzing that piece of my life, I saw and felt where my energy was sinking.
Then there were my 15s and 16s and 17s. I knew you wanted me to be a doctor. How is your father. I didn't know then that you were trying to bring him back into your life through me. You bind me with invisible chains to your grandfather. So that I become for you what grandfather never really was for you - a reliable, not dangerous man who will never leave you or betray you. Who will deal with the other men in your life, protect you from them, including my father.
Oh, mother, if I could then understand and know what you need and that it’s not all for me ... that all this is for other people, other men from your life, I would not be so afraid of your anger, your rage, I would not tear myself apart, seeing your displeasure, your dissatisfaction, seeing you unhappy.
I would not have been so attached to you by a thousand invisible threads, not so shackled, not so lost in my own then young, and soon adult life.
I became a doctor. Surgeon. I tried to work in my specialty. He began to do the first complex operations. Internships with many famous doctors and they told me that I was promising, but in the depths of my soul I felt that this was not mine ... I loved ... but you don’t know, mother, that I loved. I loved stones... Multicolored, big and small, semi-precious and very expensive. And as a child, I dreamed of becoming a jeweler... I clearly remember when I was once again brought to the hospital, a very beautiful female doctor was sitting in the emergency room, and the first thing I saw was a ring with a large stone on her hand. This stone (it was an amethyst) captivated me so much that I even stopped suffocating. And then I decided that I would work with stones - I would make jewelry with stones. This dream was shattered every time by your words that I need to be a doctor. From year to year, almost daily, you said that I needed - exactly, I NEED to be a doctor.
And I betrayed for you, mother, for the sake of your happiness (I so wanted to believe in it) that dream of mine.
Then there were women. It wasn't easy for them. I did not understand then that I was so embarrassed with each of them, but not in front of them, in front of you. I felt such a nasty feeling inside me, and for some reason it was addressed to you. It seemed to me that something in my relations with women was wrong ... For a long time I could not understand what ... At some point, I clearly felt that ... I was ashamed. I'm terribly ashamed of you. Cook like I betray you every time. But why this? ... I'm not your man, mom. Or…? I feel disgusted and disgusted by such thoughts, but they come by themselves. I can't help it.
Do you remember how then I started to get fat. I was under 30. I was terribly worried about it, even more than about the fact that more than a year I didn't have any relationships with women, and after a series of unsuccessful surgeries, I started thinking about teaching and about leaving the surgical practice. Only now I understand that all these events are connected, that it was a crisis. And that I then tried to rebuild from you through all this - flunked work, tried to live alone.
But at the same time, I was so scared, so terrible, scared to death that I couldn’t cope, that I was doing something wrong, that I was moving away from something .... I tried to survive. I was eating. I ate endlessly, mindlessly. Increased. Ashamed. He was disgusting to himself. But he couldn't control himself. I actually lost it a long time ago or never had the keys to myself and my life, but there was some kind of illusion that I was going somewhere and doing something, hoping that this was the right thing, but in that moment the dam was finally demolished. I've lost all direction. Plus, my asthma is back.
And I came back to you...
It seemed to me that I exhaled, fell under your wing, became a little calmer. In the meantime, my already disordered personal life became not just lonely and sad, it also ceased to be my personal one. You were everywhere. And I was almost gone.
I finally quit my job, I had some savings and I tried to live by playing in online casinos. I rode on a swing of excitement and complete frostbite in relation to my own life. Now I understand that I was drowning in this dependence, trying not to come into contact with a mass of painful, painful feelings, in which one could also drown.
Then…then the father died.
He died… and something started to happen to me.
Now I understand that he gave me a priceless gift with his death.
I seemed to wake up. I felt like a small stone trembled inside me at first.
I looked around, and again something trembled inside.
Some large stone began to move so violently that I could no longer help feeling it.
By his death, my father said something important, vitally important to me.
Something very masculine, tenacious, flying like an arrow into the very heart, into the very soul.
He seems to have told me
"Live, son. You can still die"
I suddenly began to see how old you are, mother. I suddenly began to feel that I, too, had grown old, and I became disgustingly frightened.
It became so obvious that I couldn't do it anymore. I lost everything I could. Yourself, your strengths, your dreams, your desires, your way, your love. I gave you everything I could, even more. All debts, not your own.
I almost died without living, Mom.
But I don't want to die with you anymore, mom.
I can no longer ignore my life impulses. I can no longer accompany your dying, mother.
I am almost 40 years old and I am no longer yours.
I am a grown man with my own destiny.
Until the age of 10, I was sick to the point of exhaustion with asthma, as long as you feel needed and important. I really couldn't live without you and suffocated every time I was anxious or scared, and you weren't around. But even when you were around, I felt something that I couldn’t breathe either.
At 10, when my father left, I suddenly realized that I was the only man in the family and I needed to be strong. You can't cry anymore. You can't be afraid. You can't be disturbed, you can't be angry. Need to take care of you. Something about it was wrong, disgusting, disgusting. But then I did not know how to do it differently. My seizures became more frequent at first, each time it seemed to me that I would die, and perhaps I really wanted to die. But I lived. I lived strangely. In the small ten-year-old body of a boy lived some kind of gloomy, anxious man who had grown old dramatically, who daily tried to get out of the wild, unbearable tension.
I did not realize then that I unconsciously set myself a difficult and insane task. I then decided that since there is no father, I need to make you happy. It seemed to me that it was a very masculine thing - I don’t know where I got it from - to make a woman happy.
It wasn't until 30 years later, while in therapy, that I learned that it wasn't just not a man's task. It's not a task at all. Happiness is a choice, it is a process, it is a journey. The choice, the process, the path of the person himself and no one should organize this for another.
But I was 10. There was no one around except you, mom, and I was very scared and I was very confused. I even, you know, really did not allow myself to feel that my father was gone. Habitual, mine, native. Big, bearded, in an old shabby flannelette home shirt with rolled up sleeves. I did not even allow myself to get angry, angry, offended at him. Although the question hung like a stone inside me - “Why are you doing this to me, dad?” Many questions stopped inside me and petrified. Someone had to ask them. You, I was sure, would be angry with me if I started talking about my father.
And then I agreed with myself that there was no father. I need to learn to live without it. It must have been very painful. But I didn't let myself feel it. I cut off the part of me that was howling, screaming, tearing my little baby soul apart in pain.
Then the asthma subsided. I suddenly became so big, and for some reason you are so small and helpless that I suddenly began to feel that you would not save me, but for myself it began to hurt ... somehow pointless ... It was necessary to save you. I did not really understand why, but I began to save.
I peered into your every look, I listened to your every breath, I tried to guess your desires, your thoughts. I was so tired then and could not understand why. Only now, when analyzing that piece of my life, I saw and felt where my energy was sinking.
Then there were my 15s and 16s and 17s. I knew you wanted me to be a doctor. How is your father. I didn't know then that you were trying to bring him back into your life through me. You bind me with invisible chains to your grandfather. So that I become for you what grandfather never really was for you - a reliable, not dangerous man who will never leave you or betray you. Who will deal with the other men in your life, protect you from them, including my father.
Oh, mother, if I could then understand and know what you need and that it’s not all for me ... that all this is for other people, other men from your life, I would not be so afraid of your anger, your rage, I would not tear myself apart, seeing your discontent, your dissatisfaction, seeing you unhappy.
I would not have been so attached to you by a thousand invisible threads, not so shackled, not so lost in my own then young, and soon adult life.
I became a doctor. Surgeon. I tried to work in my specialty. He began to do the first complex operations. I did internships with many well-known doctors and they told me that I was promising, but deep down I felt that this was not mine ... I loved ... but you don’t know, mom, that I loved. I loved stones... Multicolored, big and small, semi-precious and very expensive. And as a child, I dreamed of becoming a jeweler... I clearly remember when I was once again brought to the hospital, a very beautiful female doctor was sitting in the emergency room, and the first thing I saw was a ring with a large stone on her hand. This stone (it was an amethyst) captivated me so much that I even stopped suffocating. And then I decided that I would work with stones - I would make jewelry with stones. This dream was shattered every time by your words that I need to be a doctor. From year to year, almost daily, you said that I needed - exactly, I NEED to be a doctor.
And I betrayed for you, mother, for the sake of your happiness (I so wanted to believe in it) that dream of mine.
Then there were women. It wasn't easy for them. I did not understand then that I was so embarrassed with each of them, but not in front of them, in front of you. I felt such a nasty feeling inside me, and for some reason it was addressed to you. It seemed to me that something in my relations with women was wrong ... For a long time I could not understand what ... At some point, I clearly felt that ... I was ashamed. I'm terribly ashamed of you. Cook like I betray you every time. But why this? ... I'm not your man, mom. Or…? I feel disgusted and disgusted by such thoughts, but they come by themselves. I can't help it.
Do you remember how then I started to get fat. I was in my late 30s. I was terribly worried about this, even more than about the fact that for more than a year I had no relationships with women, and after a series of unsuccessful operations, I began to think about teaching and leaving the surgical practice. Only now I understand that all these events are connected, that it was a crisis. And that I then tried to rebuild from you through all this - flunked work, tried to live alone.
But at the same time, I was so scared, so terribly, scared to death that I could not cope, that I was doing something wrong, that I was moving away from something .... I tried to survive. I was eating. I ate endlessly, mindlessly. Increased. Ashamed. He was disgusting to himself. But he couldn't control himself. I, in fact, have long lost or never had the keys to myself and my life., but there was some kind of illusion that I was going somewhere and doing something, hoping that this was the right thing, and at that moment the dam was completely demolished. I've lost all direction. Plus, my asthma is back.
And I came back to you...
It seemed to me that I exhaled, fell under your wing, became a little calmer. In the meantime, my already disordered personal life became not just lonely and sad, it also ceased to be my personal one. You were everywhere. And I was almost gone.
I finally quit my job, I had some savings and I tried to live on what I played in online casinos. I rode on a swing of excitement and complete frostbite in relation to my own life. Now I understand that I was drowning in this dependence, trying not to come into contact with a mass of painful, painful feelings, in which one could also drown.
Then…then my father died.
He died… and something started to happen to me.
Now I understand that he gave me a priceless gift with his death.
I seemed to wake up. I felt like a small stone trembled inside me at first.
I looked around, and again something trembled inside.
Some large stone began to move so violently that I could no longer help feeling it.
By his death, my father said something important, vitally important to me.
Something very masculine, tenacious, flying like an arrow into the very heart, into the very soul.
He seems to have told me "Live, son. You can still die."
I suddenly began to see how old you are, mother. I suddenly began to feel that I, too, had grown old, and I became disgustingly frightened.
It became so obvious that I couldn't do it anymore. I lost everything I could. Yourself, your strengths, your dreams, your desires, your way, your love. I gave you everything I could, even more. All debts, not your own.
I almost died without living, Mom.
But I don't want to die with you anymore, mom.
I can no longer ignore my life impulses. I can no longer accompany your dying, mother.
I am almost 40 years old and I am no longer yours.
I am a grown man with my own destiny.
I'm not your boy anymore, mom....
