When I was eight years old, I began to make claims about my future.
I was planning my adult life.
I made all kinds of assertions. I had dreams.
Then I began to get ill. It got worse.
At fifteen, I crashed. I was out of school, had Depression.
Along the way, I have become suspicious of ambition.
I met Psychiatrists, and I understood that they knew little, and would not admit to that.
No-one would listen to my views as I was ‘mentally ill’.
The Emperor had no clothes.
I met people in Hospital who had been abused, had hearts of gold, and real courage.
It did not matter to me that they had left school.
I would gaze at them with quiet eyes as they told me how they ‘did not know things’.
Again, I was forced to think about Education in a new way.
Was it only a collection of repeated facts?
Would I ever equal the courage of these people?
When I did read books, the second book would challenge the first.
Socialists seemed to blindly follow Marx. I later discovered Marx had lacked confidence, and had doubts about his own beliefs. (It was a Biography, will look for the title. That is why he took so long to write his book.)
I had to take a step back from ambition.
I needed to become a good person, someone who could be useful to those I loved, and who could survive adversity, as those brave souls I had met in Hospital.
Sometimes ambition does wash over me.
I make Alexander the Great look relaxed.
At these times, I wish illness had not taken away my opportunities.
I wish I had explored my talents, and I can feel sad.
I suppose it is an area of conflict in my life, an inner tug of war.