Getting Ill About Our Illness

     Sometimes, one looks back, and no matter how bad, or not bad, one can dwell on some specific nuance, but if you take a step back, and talk to someone also present or involved, or even talk to an objective person, even subjective, but who does not share your same personage, as no one can, you may find that the horrors you linger memories upon, are not as horrible to the people you feel have been harmed.  Perhaps, they see it as a shorter time, or a lesser horror, now that time has passed, and perhaps, in your neurotic guilt, you have blown it into a huge, looming, giant, shadowy, mushroom cloud of doom.  Perhaps, here you are filled with remorse and guilt.  I guess that is how I felt, but sometimes, you may not have true perspective, and need to step back.
     Many times, we build up our negativity, far greater than it is, because we feel unworthy.  Perhaps, one is more - not to go in another direction - strong, than one thinks, and far less bad.  Some of us, who are sensitive, beat ourselves to smithereens, drown ourselves in sorrow, perhaps alcoholically, because we cannot deal with being anything less than perfect.
     Alcohol is a good anesthetic, in a sense.  I am not saying it is good, but many people who turn to alcohol, as a drug of choice, do so, because it helps to lesson the all that haunts our pasts.  The thing is that, the past will not disappear, but maybe one can come to see it differently.
     Here is where A Course in Miracles comes in.  "God, help me see this differently," a course principle.  
     I got no response to my article, which was meant to be, although a few people liked it on facebook.  I think that was just what was meant to be.  I was supposed to work through my own stuff, without anyone else's point of view, comments.  Perhaps, my story is too personal, and I am no longer meant to air it.
     We get upset about illusion, "depressed about our depression," as Meher Baba said, in Lord Meher Volumes 14 and 15.  We get so obsessed with what eats away at us, because we are obsessed.  Thus, it can become a viscous cycle, a circle, and one becomes a mouse on a circular stair, going round and round.  I wrote a poem about that once, I am a lab rat on a circular stair, myself the offering, does anyone care?...
     So, this winds up my thoughts on this, but identifying with illness, mental or physical, has never been healthy for anyone.  And, subsequently some of us are so critical of ourselves, that we do not forgive ourselves for times when we are ill, while others use illness for a pass.  I do not.  I feel, and I suppose this is where I do not have enough compassion for myself, past, present...  I always look for ways to blame myself, and feel I should have done better, known better, and all the while I am not the totally horrible person I think.  I know to many people, I probably make no sense, but to myself, I understand what I am saying.  Of course, or I suppose I would not write this.