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anita

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Viewing 15 posts - 511 through 525 (of 3,933 total)
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  • in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447160
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Alessa:

    Thank you so much for all your support and encouragement with computer technology!

    As for your question—“Are there any public transport options?”—I do have access to a car, and I used to drive quite long distances… though that was quite some time ago.

    In the last year or so (though not often), the longest I’ve walked is a little over 11 km (about 7 miles) to downtown. My usual walk is just under 5 km (around 3 miles). I just checked, and the nearest large shopping center is more than 15 km (12 miles) from where I live. Unfortunately, there’s no public transportation in the 7-mile stretch to downtown.

    Still, it was a good thought, Alessa—if there were public transport nearby, I very likely would have used it.

    Thank you also for the tips on online shopping and for offering to help. At the moment, a very special person is shopping on Amazon for me—just not for clothes!

    And truly, thank you for your kind words regarding my mother. It’s funny (well, not really)—I can’t remember anyone ever taking my side in relation to her. What I experienced, over and over, were people protecting her, taking her side in one way or another, or excusing her behavior. Your response feels so different. So refreshing. ❤️❤️❤️

    With gratitude, Anita

    in reply to: Times….Part 1 #447158
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Laven:

    I read every word of your post above. It’s deeply disheartening to see how the adults in positions of authority—your foster mom, the temporary foster parents while she traveled, and the teacher you described—so profoundly failed you. The lack of support you received growing up, along with the neglect and mistreatment by churchgoers as well, is heartbreaking.

    And yet, despite her abusiveness, your foster mom seems to have remained a central figure in your life. Somehow, in your experience, she still represented a kind of “better”, better than the alternatives—a place you connected with the feeling of home. I can see why she still matters to you at this time.

    I just wish you’d been able to associate that sense of home with something—or someone— who treated you right. You deserve that.

    I’m looking forward to hearing more of your story, Laven.

    With care, Anita

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447157
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Peter:

    I’m amazed by your message above. Truly—this piece feels like it should travel far and wide. It deserves to go viral, to land in millions of minds and hearts. There should be a song built from your words (.. I think I just might try writing it).

    You wrote: “The world, for all its technological brilliance, seems determined to cling to an outdated consciousness, one rooted in competition, fear, and the illusion of separation. Just this week, countries have pledged to re-arm and increase military spending… It feels as though we are repeating the errors of the past, only now with more powerful tools and higher stakes.”-

    You said it perfectly, Peter. You used the word we—“we are repeating…”—but the tragedy is that there’s so little of we in today’s fractured world. There’s too much of they… those people. And ironically, they (whoever they are) might say you’re the one caught in an illusion—the illusion that there is such a thing as “we”.

    “This is not cynicism. It is grief. Grief for the potential we are squandering. Grief for the wisdom we ignore. Grief for the generations who may inherit a world more fractured than the one we were given.”- Again—so perfectly said.

    “And yet, even in this grief, there is responsibility. If the world is not ready to change, then perhaps the work is not to wait for change, but to live, speak, and act from the consciousness we hope will one day take root. Even if we never see the harvest, we can still plant the seeds.”-

    This made me think about something so simple, yet meaningful, that happened recently on the farm where I work. I was clearing overgrown blackberry bushes—thick, thorny, unruly—so that in a few months, apple-picking would be possible again. And there it was: a scrappy little plant growing nearby. Not beautiful. Not useful. I was about to rip it out simply because I didn’t like it. But I paused. Something shifted. I stopped thinking of it as an it—an intruder—and saw it as part of me, a quiet we. And I let it live.

    “If we are to navigate this age bravely, we must do more than innovate. We must awaken. We must learn to slow down in the midst of speed, to listen in the midst of noise, and to remember that the most powerful technology we possess is not artificial, it is the human capacity for awareness, compassion, and transformation.”-

    Peter, I’m honestly in awe—not only of your intellect, but of how clearly and concretely you communicate what matters most. You took something vast and made it feel personal. This post reads not like philosophy, but testimony. Not detached analysis, but a person standing in the thick of it, still choosing to see and care and hope.

    Thank you for this.

    Eight days ago, you invited me to write a song (“I hear the beginnings of a song?”), so here is one- with the assistance of AI😉:

    Grief Is Not the End (for Peter)

    We live in bright times with dim hearts.
    Everything shines, but fewer things feel alive.
    We have more, but we trust less.
    We speak faster, but rarely listen.

    You didn’t write with anger.
    You wrote with grief— for what could be, for what still might.
    You said: Plant something anyway. Even if we never see it grow.

    That stayed with me.

    So I’ll sit with the noise, and choose to listen.
    I’ll move a little slower, and make room for hope.
    Because maybe change starts like that.

    Not in speeches, but in small, human choices that say:
    I’m still here. I still care.

    Anita and Copilot.

    in reply to: Strong desire to fall in love again #447156
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Tea:

    Your words hold so much depth, strength, softness, and truth. You’ve clearly done deep, courageous work—unraveling the knots of purity culture, reclaiming your body, and choosing to heal. It shows not only that you’re capable of love, but that you already carry within you the depth and emotional generosity that real love requires.

    And yes, it makes sense that losing the connection with your last boyfriend would feel like losing a sacred part of your self-expression. Because that relationship wasn’t just about sex or romance—it was about becoming more yourself.

    Your longing doesn’t mean you’re broken or codependent or “too much.” It means you’re alive. Still growing. Still hungry for a love that meets you where you are now—not where you were forced to be in the past.

    So when you ask, “Maybe I’m asking for permission?”—Tea, consider this a wholehearted yes:

    Yes, you’re allowed to crave touch and closeness.

    Yes, it’s okay to feel sad, frustrated, or lonely—even when your life is full in other ways.

    Yes, your desire for soulful companionship is not a weakness—it’s a compass.

    Your kind of depth, Tea, doesn’t always show up in the usual fast-paced dating apps. But it can be found. Sometimes it’s about placing yourself where people are already showing up with the kind of energy you value.

    You might find meaningful connection in settings like workshops or gatherings such as writing circles, expressive art workshops, improv classes, dance classes, yoga workshops, Tai Chi- these help reconnect people with their physical body as a source of emotion, intuition, and grounding—not just fitness. You might want to try mindfulness or meditation retreats, or volunteering with causes that mean something to you—shared purpose can lead to shared insight.

    The goal may not be to “look” for someone—but to show up in places where the kind of people you’d want to know are showing up too.

    With care, Anita

    anita
    Participant

    Dear Emma:

    In the following, I will quote parts of what you shared and gently offer my thoughts about each one.

    “He can be (like Philip) very clear in the things he likes… and the people he does not like.”- This tells me that his four children probably tried very hard—at least for a time—to land on the “right” side of his approval before perhaps giving up on the pursuit altogether.

    “He used to hug us kind of awkwardly.”- That kind of hug can leave a child anxious, unsure. It doesn’t soothe or ground; instead, it prompts questions like: Is there something wrong with me? Is it difficult to love me?

    “Never sent me a heart emoji or kiss emoji even while I always do that. Somehow that hurt me a bit.”- That “bit” of hurt might actually hold many years’ worth of pain that’s been pushed down. It can seem like a small thing, but repeated emotional disappointment has a way of accumulating quietly.

    “He told us he loved my mum the most, then his mother, then us.”- To be in third place like that—even if said in jest—can lodge itself in a child’s self-worth, as in: being worthy only of the leftovers of love, after the more “deserving” people are loved first.

    “My mum always was very open in showing her love, but this often came down to helping us with everything, making sure we would not fail.”- That kind of love can carry the message that failure is dangerous or shameful—something to avoid at any cost.

    “And listening to us if we were sad or worried. Same for my father btw!”- That’s a positive and important piece to acknowledge.

    “But I feel like they always pushed us, not acknowledging our feelings deeply, or taking them seriously.”- This is emotional neglect. It’s not always loud, but it’s deeply felt. It’s the ache of not being known in your feelings, even when love is technically “present.”

    “We always had to push ourselves.”- And to push oneself without enough emotional support is very, very difficult.

    “What strikes me is that both my sister and I have a strange relationship with men—as soon as we feel some of them likes us, we tend to neglect ourselves.”- Here is that word—neglect. When love is paired with emotional neglect early in life, we can internalize the idea that neglect is a normal part of love. That to love someone means to disappear.

    “Right now, a few of my friends, and my uncle, have said they suspect perhaps they might have narcissistic traits: my father in his very strict judgments of people and things… dismissing them or thinking less of them if they are not to his liking.”- It sounds like he may operate with what’s called black-and-white thinking, or all-or-nothing thinking—where people are either perfect or deeply flawed, with no room for in-between.

    “My mum can handle criticism very badly. The other day I told her she hurt me by constantly commenting on my weight… She said her father once told her he could see she gained weight, and that almost got her into an eating disorder. Then she told me that that was her own responsibility.”- You told her how you felt, and she made it about herself. She wasn’t able to hold space for your feelings. Her own old wound—criticism from her father—rose to the surface and she was not able to be present with your hurt.

    “I never stood up for myself enough, my mum did tell me this.”- But a child needs emotional support from a parent or someone else while growing up in order to stand up for themselves. You didn’t get enough of that support to build that foundation.

    “He has been through a lot as a kid: his brother was very difficult and I believe it was him who had to protect his siblings and counsel his parents.”- That explains so much. A child who has to counsel their own parents learns to lead with control, not vulnerability. To be the protector and advisor at such a young age, he would have had to put his own feelings aside. And when trying to make sense of complex situations too early, the only available lens is often rigid, black-and-white thinking—the kind he may still carry.

    Emma, I don’t see your parents as narcissists. I see them as wounded people. But what matters even more than labels is this: they weren’t able to meet your emotional needs adequately, even if they were trying in the ways they knew how.

    And now, those needs—the ones that didn’t get met—deserve attention. They deserve air and light and space. Not to be pushed down like your mother’s were. Not to be overlooked like your father’s. Your feelings deserve to be held with gentleness and respect—especially by you.

    You’re already doing this. By writing. By noticing. By daring to ask, “Do you recognize any of these things.. maybe?” You’re giving your inner world the attention it’s long been craving. That’s the work of healing—not pretending everything is okay, but staying present with what was missed and making room for it now.

    Yesterday, I told you I would share about my own childhood. But I’ve decided not to do that on your thread right now (I’ve shared plenty on my own threads) because I wouldn’t want to confuse the space that’s so clearly becoming your own.

    With care and deep respect, Anita

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447144
    anita
    Participant

    After 10 pm, fifteen minutes after, and finally it’s DARK. Finally.

    Why is the world such a Crazy Place?

    It’s not just my doing, just me being crazy..

    How can I, with your help- if you are reading- if you get me, how can WE make a positive difference?

    Anita (Thurs 10:20 pm)

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447143
    anita
    Participant

    Journaling at almost 10 pm and still light in-between the leaves of the trees outside the windows, definitely light.

    Thinking of Alessa, simply because she may be the only one reading my words.

    Alessa, the Empathy Expert, no one like you!

    Other people who may be reading this, maybe Emma?

    Of the hundreds, maybe thousands of people I’ve been communicating with, to one extent or another, since May 2015, who is reading my words?

    Maybe one. Maybe two. Maybe a few.

    How fragile is human connection, how temporary.

    I wish there was much more of an ongoing, dependable, ongoing CONNECTION to hold on to.

    Don’t you wish there were a bunch of people, a society you could depend on, a Village you were part of?

    Wishing you don’t have to try so hard to belong, not anymore- because you fully BELONG?

    Anita (10 pm)

    in reply to: Times….Part 1 #447142
    anita
    Participant

    Sorry (typing on my phone), I meant: You are welcome,L a v e n 😉

    in reply to: Times….Part 1 #447141
    anita
    Participant

    You are welcome, Haven’t. I will read and reply tomorrow.

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447140
    anita
    Participant

    Thank you, Alessa. I will read and reply tomorrow.

    anita
    Participant

    Tell me more tomorrow, and I will tell you more as well.🩵

    anita
    Participant

    Dear Emma:

    My hand is all better now—good as new. The stinging lasted a few hours and then disappeared completely. But it made me think about how some wounds don’t heal that easily.

    When a nettle touches the skin, it leaves behind tiny hollow needles that pierce the surface and release a chemical mix. It causes a sharp, itchy, burning sensation, almost like a temporary neural injury.

    Emotional wounds—especially the ones we carry from childhood—aren’t like that. When someone is deeply hurt early in life by judgment, neglect, or criticism, the pain doesn’t just disappear. It lives in the nervous system, in the expectations we place on others, and in how we love. And we can’t become “good as new.” Not quite.

    But we can find healing. For me, expressing those childhood wounds through journaling made a real difference. Writing—slowly, over time—helped release decades of hurt I had pushed down. The pain isn’t gone completely, but the intensity is no longer what it was. The old hurt doesn’t leap into the present anymore, doesn’t hijack my interactions or confuse my relationships. Everything feels simpler now. Clearer. Easier to meet life as it is.

    That kind of expression can be overwhelming, though. Sometimes it’s too much to hold alone, which is why therapy—or the right person to listen—can help. And even then, it’s not about pouring it all out at once. It’s about letting just a little of it come to the surface at a time, and honoring what comes.

    If you ever feel like sharing more of your story on your thread, I’ll be there to read with care. Only if you feel safe doing so, of course. And only in the rhythm that feels right to you.

    You wrote: “I need to let go of hope. I wonder if I should start meeting new men, or maybe take the time to grieve this loss.”-

    Meeting new men before grieving may lead to recreating the same pain in a new form. The story recycles itself—not because we want it to, but because the original wound hasn’t been given enough breath, enough space, to find peace. Grieving doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. It can just be letting a little bit out at a time. Even that can be a kind of healing.

    You wrote: “It really felt like I was hiding part of myself like with my family… I really liked his intense nature, I always liked those types.”- That made me wonder—maybe it’s your own intensity that’s been hidden or pushed down for so long, and that’s part of why his intensity felt so magnetic. It’s not just that you admired it in him—it might be that his boldness reminded you of a part of yourself that’s still waiting for permission to be seen, heard, and expressed.

    Maybe what you were drawn to most was the reflection of something powerful and alive in you.

    I want to close this post with saying how much I admire your ability to look inward with such honesty. The way you reflect, question, and stay open to understanding yourself more deeply—it’s a rare and beautiful quality. You’re not just moving through this experience… you’re learning from it, shaping it into meaning, even through the pain. That kind of self-awareness is what makes healing possible.

    I hope you keep being gentle with yourself through it all. And I hope you know—you don’t have to rush the process. You’re already doing the work, step by step, in exactly your own way.

    With warmth and care, Anita

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447132
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Alessa:

    Thank you so much for your kind and generous reply. I could feel your warmth in every word—and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate it.

    Your detailed explanation about how the card readers and self-checkouts work was so patient and thoughtful. You took the time to walk me through something that might seem small to others, but to me, feels like a stressful blur of technology. I live with ADHD and learning disabilities, and those make it extremely difficult—and at times feel nearly impossible—for me to learn and use new technology.

    I do need new clothes but going shopping feels like too much and buying online.. that’s too much technology for me! And by the way, I do drive from time to time, but not far (not far enough for clothes shopping, which would be maybe 20 km from here (I live outside the city limits and the nearest downtown area is small)

    Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for your attention and kindness ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

    Anita

    in reply to: Heartache husband left me #447131
    anita
    Participant

    Dear Sue:

    You’re so welcome—and thank you for your kind words. I’m really glad my message helped in some way.

    You said something that stayed with me: “I still love him, and acceptance means I’m not fighting for him.” That’s such a powerful truth. When we love someone deeply, acceptance can feel like surrender. But sometimes, what keeps the pain alive is the fight itself—the part of us still holding onto who he used to be.

    When someone we love changes so drastically—like Victor becoming almost a different person—it’s not just the relationship we lose. It’s the whole story we’ve been living: the memories, the roles we played, the “we” that once felt safe. And when that happens, it’s natural to hold tightly to the version of him we once knew: the familiar partner, the father of your children, the man who once said “us.”

    So the fight—reaching out, hoping, replaying the past—isn’t just about wanting him back. It’s about not wanting to let go of that old version of him. And accepting that he’s no longer that person feels heartbreaking—like letting go of someone you still love.

    But that same fight, even though it’s human, keeps reopening the hurt. Every time he doesn’t respond, every cold silence, every reminder of how he’s changed—it hurts all over again. In a way, the hope itself becomes a new kind of pain.

    Your mention of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind really landed. That movie is about two people who try to erase their memories of a painful relationship. But even as the memories fade, the longing remains. The movie isn’t really about forgetting—it’s about how deeply love shapes us. It reminds me of what you’re feeling: the desire to stop hurting, and also the fear of what you’d lose if the feelings truly went away.

    When you said, “I want to ask my psychiatrist for a pill that won’t get me high but make me feel nothing,” I heard that so clearly. The longing to just pause the pain, even for a moment. Some medications like SSRIs can help ease the sharpest edges—but sometimes, they also dull the joy and connection, not just the sadness. That can be a hard trade-off.

    There are options worth exploring—like bupropion—which tend to cause less of that emotional numbness. It’s something your psychiatrist might talk through with you. But even just being able to say what you said here—“I’m in pain. I need relief”—is strong and brave. That honesty matters.

    And those letters you’ve been writing to Victor but not sending? That, too, is radical acceptance. It’s you honoring your truth without depending on his response. That’s healing work, even if it’s quiet and hard.

    You are not alone—not in your pain, not in your love, not in your anger or grief. You’re doing the invisible work of surviving something that was never supposed to happen. And it matters.

    With care and respect, Anita

    in reply to: Life Worth Living- what is it like? #447127
    anita
    Participant

    My goodness, Alessa, I posted the above not even noticing that you sent me a message less than an hour before. I will respond in the morning, thank you, Alessa!

    Anita

Viewing 15 posts - 511 through 525 (of 3,933 total)