There are many great and wonderful inventions in the world, but this isn’t one of them, it really isn’t.
And the invention in question is me, for yes, much of me is invented.
Much was dreamed up and cobbled together when I was young and thought mainly about my survival.
My panic, anxiety and fear – indeed, all the emotions that bring suffering to my day, like guilt, shame, control and negativity – these are the most unfortunate of inventions, not worthy of any drawing board and certainly nothing to do with who I am.
The real me does not suffer daily but enjoys the adventurous unfolding of life around me, like a fountain in a dry place.
It is my invented self who suffers, comprised of dodgy parts, held together by inexpert welding, hopelessly compromised by cranky perceptions and the need for particular outcomes.
‘Did you have a good day?’ someone asks me.
I think back to my defensive reactions and jerky changes of mood and reply: ‘Oh, so-so. Up and down, you know.’
But this isn’t true. I had a great day, a really excellent one.
It was just my invented self who struggled.
