Accepting Stories

It no longer surprises me when I meet someone and instantly think “Yep, I want to get to know you better.” It’s also no longer surprising to me how often this happens.

There’s a common saying about luck: luck has to find you before it can bless you. The more chances you give it to find you, the more times it does. The more I actively look for and take chances, the luckier I am.
It doesn’t stop me thinking I’m useless with people and will never get with the sort of people I’m worth.
I’m reading another self-help book, and this one seems decent. It was recommended to me by my counselor. It’s called “The Happiness Trap” and it makes a shit ton of sense.
I won’t go into too much detail – that’s what the book is for – but something that’s resonating with me is the view that our thoughts are just reactions. Our thoughts are just stories and words reacting to the stimulation around us. They are not the truth. They do not predict the future. And they aren’t always helpful.
Because I have the thought that I’m useless with people, I try hard when it comes to people I like. I obsess over their reactions and play with infinite ideas for dates and jokes and sex. It’s all a waste of time and energy.
Because – in all my arrogant humility – I know I’m good. I know I’m worth it. And that’s a helpful thought.
I received a letter from my father the other day. It made me so angry. It took me a while to realise that, actually, it only made me feel so angry. Realising that stole all the energy from my anger and allowed me to look at what was causing it.
This letter is the second time he’s ever told me he’s proud of me.
The first time was at my school’s final ball. At that stage in my life, I didn’t like wearing nice clothes, believed sex was for marriage and thought dancing was stupid. I’d been feeling my then girlfriend’s pussy and arguing with myself whether marriage required a church or not. I was also dressed in the most ludicrously-fitted suit to ever drape a body. I didn’t want to go to the stupid ball and listen to stupid speeches by stupid jocks about the stupid friends they’d made at the stupid school, and I definitely didn’t want to do any stupid dancing: I wanted to stay at the hotel and make out.
My girlfriend decided that sex was only for marriage and vanished herself to the bathroom. My father’s impeccable timing led to him knocking at the door to help me with my tie – school taught me nothing other than how to climb trees.
I was quite distracted. My mind was in a large amount of “what the [non-offensive swear-word]?”. I felt queasy and guilty and lost and horny and my father pulled me into a bear hug and with a tear-filled voice whispered “I’m so proud of you.”
It was about then that I started to realise I didn’t give a fuck.
I didn’t tell him this. I awkwardly hugged him back and said thanks. I noticed he was crying. It was the second time I’d ever seen him cry. The first was when his father died. We’d loaded the wood-shrouded body into the car together. We turned and my gran was stumbling out of the church, her face wrenched into a grimace of grief as the boot door hid her soulmate’s body. I looked at her face through my soaking tears and all I could think was “she looks hilarious.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to burst out laughing at the sheer stupidity of it all. Behind me, I heard what sounded like my dad laughing. I turned in horrid wonder, a grin spinning onto my face, but he was crying.
I realise something about my father: to him, family is everything.
It’s not to me.
I hate this seven-page letter. I can’t write anymore.
And that’s not a helpful thought. I wrote everything above five days ago. This post has been sitting on my screen since then, reminding me I need to write. It just hurts so much. So I kept reading the book.
It offered some new ideas.
Driving analogies work best for me.
Taking a corner at speed requires a subliminal balance of traction and angle. The better the angle, the less correction, the less traction needed. The less traction, the less resistance, the higher the speed.
It’s all pointless if you enter the corner backwards.
The state of your car before the corner is vital. It must be steady, balanced, perfectly paced and perfectly lined. The better the entry, the less fiddling in the corner, the faster the exit.
To better myself, I need to accept who I am now. I cannot move through the next corner successfully without being at peace with all the things inside me.
It feels like I came out of the last corner correcting crazily, feet blurring in a panic on unresponsive pedals as I saw at the wheel. I’m still not back in control, I’m still gripless and lost but I have time. The next few corners look simple and unmentionable. I don’t know what comes next, but I have the time to accept me before it comes.

Worthy of me

Today,I walked into a room. It was rather scary.

My legs turned to jelly, my heart raced and my face flushed. Fear split me. I spotted a corner. One of my legs headed for the corner, the other remained frozen in place. I performed an odd pirouette, smiled at the one person I knew and said “Hi, how are you?”

And so began my training as a contracted salesperson.

One of the very first things I learnt was the value of self worth. It is a crucial concept of a closed sale: I have to be more than just the stereotype of a salesperson.

Self worth is self confidence. And I don’t have much – which is more than none.

I hate writing “abouts”. Even with my books: I can write a 10 000 word story in a week, but I can’t write a good synopsis. Like the rest of my life, it seems my books have all the good stuff in them whilst I modestly say ” I have no experiences.” and expect people to listen.

That is stupid.

I realised I needed to gain confidence. So I asked people how.

Someone answered “change your perspective”. Apparently, I told Her the same thing earlier this year.

A friend commented previously saying “Your self esteem is yours, don’t let other people’s actions devalue the way you see your self. Be the person you admire, not who somebody else admires.”

It’s odd how confidence and sales have been on my mind lately. It’s odder that James Altucher’s recent blog post was about sales. How from being a “Sales Snob”, he now sees everything as sales. We don’t like it because we give it a shit connotation.

My lack of self-confidence comes from believing I have nothing to offer. This is not true.

I’ve written a book or two. There’s enough of you reading this to tell me my blogging is good. I blogged about hitting on girls and dealing with shitty circumstances and people loved it. I’ve lived through – and forgiven – huge family issues. I’ve moved countries. I’ve driven over 20 different cars. I’ve studied more maths courses than your average graduate. I’ve been a developer. I’ve been a team leader. I’ve been a driver. I’ve read – and commented on – the entire bible. I’ve slept with seven wonderful women, many prostitutes and been in a three-way relationship. I’ve been an analyst. I’ve been a mechanic. I’ve researched so much theology I can’t ever be a christian. I love christmas myths.

And I’m only 25.

Whilst none of these uniquely or collaboratively give me the skills to be a salesperson, they do give me something: worth. It may not be a lot in some peoples’ eyes, but I don’t think that’s the point.

I think the point is simply that by saying I have nothing to give, I give everything I’ve done the sum total of nothing. By realising, instead, that I have something to give, I give myself something worthwhile.