So it's day four, and the caffeine is finally kicked. I just had my last dose of my lifetime a mere five minutes ago, at 9:50 PM, which means in all likelihood that I'll be spending the night how I did last night: sleepless. I didn't get to my sleep for last night until 7:00 AM this morning. Once I fell asleep I stayed asleep until 1:11 PM, at which point my relatives called asking me when I was coming up to visit. I went up to visit them shortly thereafter, which was one of the few tasks I actually got to today. In total my score was four out of sixteen, or 25%, a significant drop from the previous two days. I'll be honest, I'm not as disappointed as I thought I'd be. I'm still chuffed over the fact that I've made my decision to be free of caffeine addiction for good. It's about the same amount of excitement I had when I let go of nicotine addiction for good when I had my last few drags of my last cigarette. But as far as tasks to accomplish in the day, I underscored relative to my progress in previous days. But one can expect a dip in progress after the initial days of boyish optimism and motivation wane and next comes the true test, the replacement of motivation to get the job done with the discipline to get the job done. Because if you want to have long term success, motivation is almost entirely useless, it's discipline that you truly need. I got that little tidbit from David Goggins, whose bestselling book "Can't Hurt Me" I've been reading for a total of one out of the past twelve hours of my life. I must say, the man has a way with storytelling. His prose is simple and to the point, and at the same time gripping and compelling in its descriptiveness and raw emotion. I recommend that book to anyone following the warrior's path in life. I know as I go through it it's going to kick my ass. Each chapter ends with a challenge to be accomplished by the reader. The first exercise is to summarize the bad hand you've been dealt in life. In other words, all of the negative programming that has been holding you back. All of the situations in your life that give you a genuine excuse to not make something of yourself. Here is my entry from my journal when I first completed that exercise: Sunday, June 28th, 2020 When I look back on it, in all honesty, my bad hand was over protection. The main players in this compulsive conspiracy were my mother and myself. As a young boy I was bullied quite a lot. I was small for my age, and many of the insults that were thrown my way were to do with my size. I was born premature, which meant I needed a lot of physical growth to catch up with the other kids, and I never quite did. Short stuff, short stop, midget, stumpy, small fry, these were many of the unwanted nicknames that I was saddled with. Not to mention some of the word play on my last name that some of these characters would hurl my way which proved to be just as annoying. I would come home from school in a rage, and would throw my backpack on the floor in a gesture of anger and pain, tears streaming down my face. My mother, eager to comfort me would sit me down beside her on the living room couch. She would ask me what happened, getting me to confess all he shit I went through through tears in great detail. She asked me the names of the kids who were bullying me. I gave them to her. She told me she was going to call their parents and get them to stop bullying me. Part of me knew that not only would this make the bullying worse, but it would also relieve me of the personal responsibility to confront these bullies and settle things the old fashioned way, with fisticuffs. My mother was always there to comfort me and console me and reassure me that I was fine just the way I was. As if a little development of bravery or courage to offset my crippling insecurities wouldn't help the matter. My father was largely absent from these conversations. Though I kind of did want his two cents on the matter, my father intimidated me. I was afraid he would judge me for my weakness. I subconsciously knew my mother would place all the blame of these uncomfortable boyhood experiences on the bullies and not in how I carried myself. Though later stories of how my father dealt with bullying as a child reassured my idea of facing the bastards head on. It wasn't until those formative, character building years were long gone when that revelation was seen. When I look back on it. It's no wonder I wound up a neurotic, impulsive mess of a young man. Even if my father had lived to my sixteenth birthday, I doubt my mother's stranglehold on the relationship would lose any of its force or strength. But things might have been different had he lived. For one, my mother wouldn't have lost her connection with intimate love, which would give her little reason to develop such a smothering attachment to her first born son. And I would not have lost that male role model in my young life that led me not only to go along with the unhealthy attachment to my mother, but also the agonizing search for a new father figure in the forms of teachers at school, thinkers and philosophers in the books I read or videos I watched, and eventually comedians on youtube. I know a lot of people grow up without a male role model in their life. And that is especially damaging for young men. But the fact that I had that role model in my life and had him forcibly ripped away by the Universe from pancreatic cancer was doubly painful. What is it like to grow up without that void and suddenly have a bottomless pit of your childhood hero when you're at the formative age of fifteen. Those are the years when you start to get to know your father and are able to contend with him on an intellectual level, which I know was the stage that my father was looking forward to the most as a dad. He wasn't the type that got too emotionally involved in us as kids. Mom was the one that would tend to our more bonding and emotional needs, though dad would read us novels before bed, which stimulated our imaginations, and for which I am eternally grateful. At this stage in my life I am realizing how crippling and destructive my relationship to my mother is. I call her once a week, because I feel she needs that sort of connection, but also because I feel I need it too. There comes a time in a man's life where he has to cut the ties that bind him to his family and his past, so that he can branch out on his own. In ancient cultures this was known as the rites of passage or initiation. Where boys, as soon as they reached puberty, were taken from their mothers and their families and mentored by the elder males of the tribe, taught in the ways of what it meant to be a man. And one of the hallmarks of a man is the separation from the mother. It is the Oedipal bond that must be broken for a boy to become a man, otherwise he is forever trapped in an adolescent psyche. And that has essentially remained my problem. I have not been able to grow, develop, and move on in my life in the area of relationship and professional life, due to an overly stifling and neurotic bond with my mother. I love her dearly, don't get me wrong, but it's a job. Its a job I don't want to clock in for anymore. My problem is that I get in my own way with this shit. I start the conversations many times, reaching out to curb my feelings of loneliness with a reversion to the old familial bind. The line from the opening series of questions: "Maybe your limiting factor is you grew up so supported and comfortable that you never pushed yourself" applies to me in every aspect. I was given every opportunity under the sun to move on and get over these psychological hurdles and I still reverted to childish impulse and unconscious patterns. The more I tried to get out the deeper into the pit I was falling. I can state with a certain amount of confidence that I never really tried in life. I've never had to overcome any real hurdles on my own. I always had my mom to bail me out. I remember when I was travelling in New Zealand, I was transforming more each day and learning who I was, in the end I gave into the temptation to go home early and return to the bliss of unconscious attachment to the home environment, and my mother provided the money for me to buy the plane ticket. And I high tailed my way out of that situation. This overwhelming attachment to the mother has saddled me with numerous addiction problems. Pornography to curb the lack of intimacy in my life and lack of sexual independence. Smoking to return to the comfort of Mommy's titty, which is the same circuit in the brain related to breast feeding. Cancerous breast milk essentially, a metaphor for the cancerous real life relationship. All of these are damned good excuses to explain away all of the failures I have accrued over the years. They provide a rational explanation for all of my shortcomings, just blame it on mommy's titty. But I know that I am complicit in this conspiracy, and have to take responsibility of the fact that I largely brought this on myself. Fin. * * * That was my journal entry, tata for now mofos, yours in confidence, B.