For an extremely long period of time after my wife’s disclosure, I found myself clinging to every old and new negative self-thought that I unknowingly gave harbor. I was becoming a hoarder. Not of old things nor collectables, I was compulsively amassing injurious self-thoughts.
I’m embarrassed to admit, I found safety encaged by my own defensive mistrust. For years, seemingly inconsequential words spoken or events happening around me that I typically would have long forgotten or seen as throw away moments were now food for gathering. I freely confess that I clung to this cache of self-doubt.
One would think I would have been eager to rid myself of the filth I was surrounded with. These days, I often ponder with full puzzlement, why did I refuse to break free from the emotional narrowing, for there was no value in its ownership. But I refused to loosen my grasp on that valuelessness I cleaved, because it seemed to be all I was left to own.
Due to the pain, I just couldn’t see I was being betrayed by my own accumulations. For far, far too long I was adhering to a discouraged life, reinforced daily by my own, hoarded collections.
