Entitled

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be entitled, to be a raging bitch that throws temper tantrums whenever things don’t go my way. “Not enough, send it back” kind of energy. Jung is great because he has a way of looking at energies, mindsets, and identifying their strengths and weaknesses. Nothing is good or bad, but an amalgamation of different characteristics.

One of the things he talks about, that I really like, are complexes. He sort of charts the evolution of a complex. This is interesting because he can take a psychological problem (like daddy issues) and stretch it across a period of time. He observes the person interact with the crisis, take on different shapes, and then ultimately evolve their consciousness. I remember reading about the mother-daughter complex. In some instances daughters can acquire more masculine traits, but once they’re tamed they become adept at guiding men into their own unconcious minds. A ferryman between known and unknown worlds.

But yeah, the whole entitled thing. When I was dating my ex he trained me to stand taller. He saw that I could be a pushover and pruned a more assertive headspace. It’s complicated though. He had more power at his fingertips so things easily aligned in his direction. I would like to argue the nature of my reality constantly puts me in a corner, my back against the wall. There is no river of power to call, only a series of defenses employed to extract myself from situations. I guess that’s power though.

I’m trying to be more analytical about my relationship with work, how much I work, how much I get paid. I feel like I work harder, not smarter. It’s interesting talking to my friends about money and career because they’re so much more secure in themselves and as a result their lives run like well oiled machines. Mine seems to be sputtering at times, and this frustrates me. I keep putting my gloves on though and running my hands through the gears, trying to repair what drives my dismal outcomes.

I think so much of it has to do with my Muslim upbringing. At home I was very much the boy living in the staircase. My parents had money and took care of my brothers, but denied me. When I was 17 I got my first job and they stopped supporting me. I was making $7.50 an hour and in their eyes that was enough to survive. It’s always been “Amber doesn’t get a seat at the table,” an obsession with devaluing me. As I get older I realize it was probably because I won the family genetic lottery. I got the 3 Bs, the balls, the brains, and the beauty. I don’t think that’s relevant though. Their character has them comfortably ensconced in a spineless shell, amorally stumbling through darkness.