Today, I've grown in many areas of my life. But even now, I cannot hold a job because that is success. I cannot write a book or find a partner or buy a car or a house or start a family because they are all flavors of success, and to that ten year old they would be set ups for a worse fall, so even without consciously doing it, even while consciously realizing it makes no sense, I opt out.
Ten years ago, I was still working, but I was restless. My job was vaguely prestigious, and paid very well. I had enough money to get the house, the car, support a family. It scared the Hell out of me and I stumbled. I found myself sinking into fugue states again.
Even before I melted down, I knew I needed a change. I tried, ten years ago, to reach through the walls I'd built up within myself, thrown up to keep not merely my father from me, but me from Me.
“How's it going, Erik?”
“I want to go home.”
“Where's home? What does that mean? Is there anything I can do to get what I want right now?”
“I want to go home.”
“I hear that, but what does that mean? What do I need, to make that happen?”
“I WANT TO GO HOME.”
“I know. I want to get me home. Please, tell me how that works?”
“IWANTTOGOHOMEIWANTTOGOHOMEIWANTTOGOHOMEIWANTTOGOHOMEIWANTTOGOHOMEIWANTTOGOHOME....!”
And for perhaps eight years, that was all I heard rattling inside me, when I turned inward to ask what I needed for me to be happier being me.
About two years ago, I started getting a few other short answers, when times were calm. But if I asked about what something meant, or if things got tense in life, everything would again retract into the endlessly run-on litany of I-Want-To-Go-Home.
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