Recently a young man (well not that young really, late thirties) came to see me for some coaching. He was fairly distressed; he felt a certain lack of direction, an absence of meaning in his life perhaps. Looking back on his life he saw a litany of failures, missed opportunities, could-have-been’s, should-have-been’s, mistakes, wrong turns, unfortunate turn of events and a few regrets thrown in for good measure.
The young man was familiar with some pop-psychology and understood the importance of taking responsibility for his own life.
He certainly didn’t wish to blame his problems on others. He didn’t, for example, wish to blame his castrating mother or his overbearing father. He definitely didn’t wish to blame his older sister who had taken so little interest in him as a child. He knew better than to blame his wife who reminded him so much of his mother (frigid bitch that she was).
He believed that his own shortcomings had played their role in bringing him to his present miserable condition. He had been born intellectually gifted, tall and good looking, but socially inept, physically clumsy and challenged on many subtle levels.
Such are the vicissitudes of fate.
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