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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 678334" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>Cedar, your son shows unrequited love. He is like Sydney Carton from <u>A Tale of Two Cities</u>, who wildly and bitterly rushes around Paris, until he finds focus by his love for Lucy Manet. "Oh Miss Manet, I would give my life to save a life you love." </p><p></p><p>I have remembered that like for 50 years for this moment. </p><p></p><p>Your son is a wild romantic. I believe him, that he felt bereft when your attention to him was mildly deserted. But that would have happened, one way or another. </p><p></p><p>He had to grow up. Now I am thinking of Peter Pan. Who refused to grow up. A natural leader. </p><p></p><p>There is no fault here. It is his life. It is your own. I want to recommend here the book I am reading. <u>A woman in White</u> by Wilkie Collins. If you have a kindle you can buy it free on Amazon.</p><p></p><p>It is considered to be one of the first, and possibly the best of all mysteries ever written. The organization is that several participants write accounts looking back. There is no omniscient narrator. Only various perspectives. </p><p></p><p>In that it is like <em>life</em>. </p><p></p><p>Cedar, son must write his account of his own life. His role in his own life, how he sees it, must change. When he is able to do that, write his own narrative of his life, his own account, tell of his role as the dominant character, from a place of acceptance, he will change.</p><p></p><p>That is the necessary and unavoidable error we make as parents. For years and years we have narrated the development of our children. It is our voice who has decided much of the story and narrated it, both to them and to ourselves. At some point that changes. It must change.</p><p></p><p>We do not know any of us when that transition comes, when we lose our right and obligation as a principle narrator with respect to our child's life. They fight us for it. Sometimes they only want to narrate part of their story.</p><p></p><p>Sometimes they want to narrate our own, too.</p><p></p><p>Nothing changes their need, and the responsibility of all of us to own our own stories.</p><p></p><p>That is what CD is about at the end of the day. For me. Learning and accepting that. For myself and for my son.</p><p>And how would this have helped, if the whole thing was not about the content of the story, but about who tells it. </p><p></p><p>If you had done the opposite, he would have opposed that. Your son is resisting owning his story. It is not the story that is important, it is owning it. </p><p></p><p>Is he Peter Pan or is he Sydney Carton waiting for Lucy Manet. I am not sure. Maybe he needs to write a book. In any event, you are out of it. You know that. </p><p></p><p>But we are still all of us, each of us, still struggling with the pain of this. Or is it the doubt? Or is it the not knowing? The lack of control. The struggling with doing or not doing something? Even though we feel better. </p><p>Angela Lansbury when her kids fell into drugs moved to Ireland. I wonder how that worked out?</p><p>Less, internet scholars than knowingly bitter and rejecting. Sure that our kids are wrong, bad, difficult. At fault.</p><p></p><p>And we have turned into unrequited lovers. Bitter. Sure and certain in our knowing that nothing ever will turn out good. Afraid. Rejecting. Locked in our secure castles guns at the turrets, protecting ourselves from our beloveds. While we wait for them, like golden princes, to return to us. </p><p></p><p>COPA</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 678334, member: 18958"] Cedar, your son shows unrequited love. He is like Sydney Carton from [U]A Tale of Two Cities[/U], who wildly and bitterly rushes around Paris, until he finds focus by his love for Lucy Manet. "Oh Miss Manet, I would give my life to save a life you love." I have remembered that like for 50 years for this moment. Your son is a wild romantic. I believe him, that he felt bereft when your attention to him was mildly deserted. But that would have happened, one way or another. He had to grow up. Now I am thinking of Peter Pan. Who refused to grow up. A natural leader. There is no fault here. It is his life. It is your own. I want to recommend here the book I am reading. [U]A woman in White[/U] by Wilkie Collins. If you have a kindle you can buy it free on Amazon. It is considered to be one of the first, and possibly the best of all mysteries ever written. The organization is that several participants write accounts looking back. There is no omniscient narrator. Only various perspectives. In that it is like [I]life[/I]. Cedar, son must write his account of his own life. His role in his own life, how he sees it, must change. When he is able to do that, write his own narrative of his life, his own account, tell of his role as the dominant character, from a place of acceptance, he will change. That is the necessary and unavoidable error we make as parents. For years and years we have narrated the development of our children. It is our voice who has decided much of the story and narrated it, both to them and to ourselves. At some point that changes. It must change. We do not know any of us when that transition comes, when we lose our right and obligation as a principle narrator with respect to our child's life. They fight us for it. Sometimes they only want to narrate part of their story. Sometimes they want to narrate our own, too. Nothing changes their need, and the responsibility of all of us to own our own stories. That is what CD is about at the end of the day. For me. Learning and accepting that. For myself and for my son. And how would this have helped, if the whole thing was not about the content of the story, but about who tells it. If you had done the opposite, he would have opposed that. Your son is resisting owning his story. It is not the story that is important, it is owning it. Is he Peter Pan or is he Sydney Carton waiting for Lucy Manet. I am not sure. Maybe he needs to write a book. In any event, you are out of it. You know that. But we are still all of us, each of us, still struggling with the pain of this. Or is it the doubt? Or is it the not knowing? The lack of control. The struggling with doing or not doing something? Even though we feel better. Angela Lansbury when her kids fell into drugs moved to Ireland. I wonder how that worked out? Less, internet scholars than knowingly bitter and rejecting. Sure that our kids are wrong, bad, difficult. At fault. And we have turned into unrequited lovers. Bitter. Sure and certain in our knowing that nothing ever will turn out good. Afraid. Rejecting. Locked in our secure castles guns at the turrets, protecting ourselves from our beloveds. While we wait for them, like golden princes, to return to us. COPA [/QUOTE]
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