What are the boundaries of your prison?greenspun.com : LUSENET : Novenotes : One Thread
What imprisons you? What are the boundaries of your prison? What keeps you in the same old rut, and keeps you from doing everything you dream of doing?--Al
-- Al Schroeder (email@example.com), December 22, 1999
my mind in many ways. i have never been in a cell other than the mental one but that one sure is a spinner finances, in our younger time we had more kids than money. i have been retired going on ten years now and prices of everything are going up faster than my income. time, i'm a prisoner of the clock - one way or another. when i worked a job, i was locked in by the time clock. now that i am retired i am imprisoned by it again, gotta watch it and take the required medication at the proper time. body, i cope with the usal ailments, bad back, arthitis, and minor heart problems. gee whiz, if i could get out of this one and into a younger model and drive away - - - - wow, would i have fun.
-- ici jongleur (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 22, 1999.
The need to provide for others and keep them happy and secure, the fear of failure and bankruptcy. Probably the same things as everyone else.
-- Tom Dean (email@example.com), December 23, 1999.
I think the thing that imprisons me most -- more than the fact that I don't drive and thus don't get out during the work week days -- is the difficulty I have interacting with people I don't know. I've lived here in Virginia for about seven months now, and besides my fiance, our Saturn sales associate, and the proprietress of the local cross stitch shop, I feel like I hardly know anybody.
-- Lisana (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 23, 1999.
You know, my fear is what most imprisons me. I don't take risks, because I'm afraid of change. Right now, Ihave a chance at a great house for me and my boyfriend, and my fear is almost paralyzing me. But that's not what I wanted to write about. I relate to your sadness that you're free do to certain things only by virture of you son's death. My dad's death freed my mom and me in many little ways, and we still feel bad for enjoying those little freedoms, even after seven years. It's ok to feel sad about your freedom, and it's also ok to feel grateful to have that freedom. Hang in there, Al, you're doing fine.
-- Sunshyn (email@example.com), December 23, 1999.
My self-consciousness is my prison. I'm an outgoing person by nature, but because of some not-so-happy events in the past, I become very self-conscious around certain types of people, usually people who impress me for one reason or another, or who I feel are "better" than I am. These usually turn out to be the nicest people, people who want to be my friends. But it takes so much time for me to feel comfortable about myself, for me to realize that they like me for me. Otherwise they wouldn't be my friend. Of course, I never judge a person as better than another, but when I compare someone to myself, I can always find someone better than me.
-- Piper (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 23, 1999.
Being a diabetic. Knowing that I'll be taking shots every day for the rest of my life. Having to plan every single meal, both when and what it will be, at least a meal ahead. Knowing that if I'm every laid up long enough that I can't exercise, I'll get worse in a steadily decreasing spiral. Yippee.
-- Colin (email@example.com), December 24, 1999.
it is sorta like the bit i heard from my grandma when i was little and grousing about some minor thing. she backed me up against the wall and said, "pay attention to what i say, now - - - there is a saying that is very true and i will say it - - - and you think about it." "it is, i had no shoes and was unhappy - - - until i saw a man who had no feet."
i get sort'a grouchy and feeling left out, until i remember what grandma said.
being old, ill, crippled (euphemistic dorks call it handicapped - - - - that's what you do with horses) and having a strict regimen to follow is not all that bad when you consider the alternative.
-- ici jongleur (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 24, 1999.