A Secret Beast

Fifteen years or so ago, I started getting well. And then finding out how sick I'd really been, and getting a little more well. . . yeah. People who have spent any time in the abyss of depression or other forms of mental dis-ease will know what I mean, and what a long, arduous process it is.
Eleven years ago, I married a man who loves me. Who loves me! Who loves me! And who is nothing if not stable and steady. I tell him I embroider his life with color and excitement, and he gives me sturdy, even cloth on which to embroider.

Often we can see this as the good thing it really is.

So here I am. I get a criticism. A normal part of a normal life, if you're not spending all your energy hiding out in the cave so nobody can see you, let alone shoot at you. And what happens? Well, just at first, any normal person is hurt, a little or a lot, depending on the nature of the criticism. We all want to be perfect, please all of the people all of the time. But a healthy, mature person not only knows that's impossible, but that criticism can actually make you grow. So a healthy, mature person (and I've spent a lot of years working to become a healthy, mature person) can set aside the pangs, dig through the criticism for seeds of truth, plant those, thank the person, and go on.
Last week, in the throes, this was happening. But it was not all that was happening. I was in turmoil! In way too much pain to suit the circumstances! What, I demanded of myself, was going on? Why do I overreact so, at least sometimes?
That's when I realized there was a whole different beast involved, quite aside from the normal (momentary) human desire not to ever fail or be perceived as failing. I dug it out and looked at it, and decided there might be others who could benefit from the digging, so here we are.
To be continued. . .
Still digging, trying to find bedrock so we can restore the breach and not have it fall down again.
Debbonnaire