Books About Finding Yourself: My Authentic Story To Share

books about finding yourself
“Crippled” fueled my journey to defy my brittle bone disease and become a bodybuilder.

Books About Finding Yourself: Why Brittle To Unbreakable: My Journey To Redefine Suffering is that read for you.

The journey of finding yourself comes with the power of learning to forgive yourself. That is what the first sentence to the last sentence of my book details – the raw journey it really is deep within us to find ourselves, but also learn to forgive ourselves.
It’s dark. The words that come next are raw and unforgiving, but so is my headspace at times to which writing is the only asset I can utilize to help the madness within the confines of my mind escape. They barely make some sense all these years later as I still struggle with the nightmares, the sudden panic attacks, and the addiction to pain.
I sit here in solitude in honest reflection with myself. I can take in the scars both inflicted by a surgeon’s scalpel and my own hands. I have been in and out of counseling piecing together a childhood I can make sense of now, partly because of the lie you learn to tell yourself over time and the other part of me genuinely not giving a fuck anymore because of living in trauma is exhausting. We pack it up as luggage, dragging it along with us. The baggage primarily for me is body bags from me possessing a rather unrelenting attitude and disposition toward those who ended up there with me. I make no amends for who I used to be, rather only sadness for a lot of what could have been in there.

Books About Finding Yourself: My Take After Writing About My Personal Journey

Over time, the weight you carry from dragging this dark, heavy, and broken side of you around because without it, you cannot hurt, and when you are in pain is when you feel alive. It’s a fucked up thing to even type out for me, but I have had a few counselors tell me that my ability to thrive in a “suffering” state is because I linked the pain I was going through as a kid as always a marker of progress. If I were not broken, leaving physical therapy, I would be angry with myself. The pain was the only way I could feel, and sadly, that infected my life at a very young age. Still, to this day, I enjoy taking a match to my life and burning it to the ground. Going through the experience of building it all again excites me.
There is no pain, no suffering, only rumination to exploit when I want to feel. They say time heals all. I don’t see it this way. All time offers is the ability to step back and look honestly at things with more wisdom and understanding to recognize when things serve you only to engulf you. Ashes are lighter than bags, so take a match to everything in your graveyard to light your way out.
Books About Finding Yourself: A Quote Earned And The Best Summary To Ask For You To Read My Book
“Who would have thought that a skinny kid whose bones were so brittle they could break just walking down the street would grow into a major bad-ass bodybuilder? Jeff “Unbreakable” Black’s story is of guts and grit and overcoming adversity beyond what 99.99% of us can even imagine. If you think your challenges are tough, dig into any three pages of Jeff’s tale. It will inspire you and kick your butt. And Jeff, it turns out, is a helluva writer too!  -Steven Pressfield New York Times Best Selling Author”
“An autobiography that can’t resist being a self-help book.”
That is what you hopefully will also say by the end of the book.
Books About Finding Yourself: Here is an excerpt from my book as I wanted to share the intimate thoughts and feelings I had during parts of my life when I was struggling with depression.
Hit a mirror as you watch the glass break apart and fall to the ground, hoping to put it back together the right way. Good luck! But that is what so many people always do, relieving their pain, always cutting themselves again and again. Rumination is the devil’s true whisper I came to realize during my twenties. After taking my job with the government, I found myself traveling for the first two years before settling in Nashville, TN, about two and a half hours from where I grew up. During those two years of traveling, I had a lot of time to myself, leading to me avoiding what was underneath even more. On the weekends, I would find myself at a bar or in a room I shouldn’t have been in. Once you grow up, the illusion is gone, and reality sets in; I have to work some job for the rest of my life pretty much. Before this point in my life I was very busy. I never had a moment of slowdown anywhere, which allowed me to keep floating along as dead as the ghost I wished to remain. But, with my newfound free time, I was left with more time to think about the flashbacks I had quietly suffered with since I was a child and the surgeries first began.
The nightmares found their way to visit me during my recovery from my first surgery. I dreamt of being shoved down the top of the hill as I begged whatever was behind me to stop pushing. Each dream ended the same way. Once I splatted onto the pavement, I would wake up with acid in my throat, an obvious sign of how the dream nauseated my body as I slept. My dreams were always so vivid. From the explosion of pain through my body to the crunching of my bones, the aches dominated me for some to come upon waking from them. A book called “The Body Keeps Score” was written about how your body will remember the trauma even if you mentally had made peace with it as a takeaway point. My life was becoming the embodiment of this truth.
Almost nightly, some terror would visit me, and sleep would evade me. For years and years, I was walking around, sleep-deprived and irritable. It led to me being very sharp with my tongue and carrying the best resting bitch face a man can give as an outward appearance. My detachment was evident to people, which is why I rubbed my superiors wrong because I looked like I didn’t care, and they were right; I didn’t. Still, rather than clue anyone in or ask for help, I kept my head down and my inside voice quiet. At a doctor’s appointment, I disclosed my listlessness and tiredness. My home life was not doing so well, and I had my oldest son coming into the world sooner or later. I knew I had to try something, which led me to ask him what he thought I could do to help with my sleep. A pen hit the paper without ever looking up, and the return was a prescription for Paxil and Ambien. I was no stranger to either anti-depressants or sleeping pills. Over the years, I would mumble about my lack of sleep to my mom and the doctors. I would not disclose the reason behind the lack of sleep. It was very awkward when I played it out in my head. What even would I say? “Oh hey, remember some of that shit you all did to me, and I did to myself too? Well, that’s the ghouls and goblins that visit me, not the sandman when I go to bed. At night, the rumination was real, and I found myself trapped in those six years of hell again.
It wasn’t until my late twenties that I tried counseling. I was embarrassed even to consider it. No one openly talked about mental health in the 90s or 2000s. It wasn’t until the early 2010s that the topic began to creep into the media headlines more and more. My only encounter with a therapist was when I woke up to the creepy guy sitting in a rocking chair in my room who asked me if I understood I was different. No one ever asked me how things were in between my ears. What kind of voice talked to me? What thoughts swept through my mind? These things were never spoken, and growing up with an Irish-Catholic background didn’t help. If my mom had known what I was doing to myself, she would have sought help. I also understand how her childhood had to have been growing up with Peter, my grandfather, as that one encounter showed me.
Her childhood was fight or flight moments because of her home environment with him and Nana having to carry the entire household. From the alcoholism to the fights, she had managed to lock herself away tightly in her own ways, allowing her to survive. Because of this environment, she sought to create the opposite environment in her home. It was, for the most part, usually peaceful and predictable. Ultimately, this security led to not checking in with each other. Mom viewed this environment as safe compared to what she grew up in. It took a lot of counseling to flesh that out to understand how so many things were missed, allowing me to become “the terminator,” as an ex once referred to me as “cold as a machine.” Mom couldn’t hold me much, if any, during the first six weeks because of my legs being broken and my screaming non-stop until I was laid down. She and I couldn’t bond together as most moms and children do.”
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-books about finding yourself: I hope this was helpful :)