Source http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/tinybuddha/~3/eHGt4IwRp9U/
“No valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now.” ~Alan Watts
When I started kicking chairs at work, I knew things had gone too far.
I didn’t kick things when other people were around, and I thought it was the perfect way to release my anger. I could lash out with as much fury as I wanted, but I didn’t hurt anyone.
Why did I start kicking chairs? I’ll explain in a minute. But the truth was, I was hiding a bigger problem: I’ve spent much of my life hating myself.
When I was eight or nine years old, my mom asked if I was okay. She had heard me sobbing in the shower.
I told her I was furious at myself because I hadn’t been writing in my journal. I had skipped a few days, and a few days had turned into a few weeks, and now I was too far behind to catch up.
I was miserable. At nine years old, my life held no purpose because I hadn’t written in my journal for a month.
My mom comforted me, but I repeated the mistake countless times.
In my teens, I crafted a set of rules to lead me to perfection.
My plan was a sixteen-page document with eighty-four rules for th…
Source http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/tinybuddha/~3/eHGt4IwRp9U/
“No valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now.” ~Alan Watts
When I started kicking chairs at work, I knew things had gone too far.
I didn’t kick things when other people were around, and I thought it was the perfect way to release my anger. I could lash out with as much fury as I wanted, but I didn’t hurt anyone.
Why did I start kicking chairs? I’ll explain in a minute. But the truth was, I was hiding a bigger problem: I’ve spent much of my life hating myself.
When I was eight or nine years old, my mom asked if I was okay. She had heard me sobbing in the shower.
I told her I was furious at myself because I hadn’t been writing in my journal. I had skipped a few days, and a few days had turned into a few weeks, and now I was too far behind to catch up.
I was miserable. At nine years old, my life held no purpose because I hadn’t written in my journal for a month.
My mom comforted me, but I repeated the mistake countless times.
In my teens, I crafted a set of rules to lead me to perfection.
My plan was a sixteen-page document with eighty-four rules for th…
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