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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2yX4PjO:
star-anise:
I wonder how much of that classic sense of, “I can have high expectations for how other people are treated, but view myself as trash,” comes from getting a lot of one’s basic lessons in love and empathy from books instead of peers
Like, I had almost no friends as a child, so I sat alone at recess, not playing with other children or being treated as worthwhile or interesting. The part of my brain that was supposed to encode my own personal experiences of being loved and treated well grew cobwebs while I was around other kids. So I brought library books out onto the playground with me.
Books saved me—books taught me that there were worthwhile friendships out there, and what they were like. I could tell when the characters deserved better. Books were like an author bottling up love and attention for me so I could open it up when I needed it. So I was kept entertained and learned what they looked like for other people.
But that didn’t change my own circumstances. Reading about someone being comforted when they were sad was very different than feeling someone else’s arms around me when I was crying. No matter how fiercely I wanted my life to be like the books I read, it wasn’t.
So I learned: There is a reality of love and care for other people, and there is a reality of loneliness and sorrow for me.
So no wonder I had a double standard for a lot of things in my life. My education in love was strictly bifurcated, and the important dividing line was whether a scenario included me, personally.
If true, this has all kinds of implications when it comes to treating the lonely love-starved bookworm, so I wonder.
(Your picture was not posted)
star-anise:
I wonder how much of that classic sense of, “I can have high expectations for how other people are treated, but view myself as trash,” comes from getting a lot of one’s basic lessons in love and empathy from books instead of peers
Like, I had almost no friends as a child, so I sat alone at recess, not playing with other children or being treated as worthwhile or interesting. The part of my brain that was supposed to encode my own personal experiences of being loved and treated well grew cobwebs while I was around other kids. So I brought library books out onto the playground with me.
Books saved me—books taught me that there were worthwhile friendships out there, and what they were like. I could tell when the characters deserved better. Books were like an author bottling up love and attention for me so I could open it up when I needed it. So I was kept entertained and learned what they looked like for other people.
But that didn’t change my own circumstances. Reading about someone being comforted when they were sad was very different than feeling someone else’s arms around me when I was crying. No matter how fiercely I wanted my life to be like the books I read, it wasn’t.
So I learned: There is a reality of love and care for other people, and there is a reality of loneliness and sorrow for me.
So no wonder I had a double standard for a lot of things in my life. My education in love was strictly bifurcated, and the important dividing line was whether a scenario included me, personally.
If true, this has all kinds of implications when it comes to treating the lonely love-starved bookworm, so I wonder.
(Your picture was not posted)
