What Does the Repetition Compulsion Feel Like? Among Other Thoughts

It feels like a massive understatement to say that our lives are anything but complex. I notice that there is such a profound sensitivity and automaticity in my day to day experience that I often find it so difficult to experience the sense of wonder, beauty, joy, and connection that I so dearly thirst for–and I imagine that others feel similarly. It is only in those brief moments of reflection–and courage–that I am able to notice the subtlest feeling of fear that often lurks behind my wishes, wants, and words, which pulls me toward, away, and into certain experiences that, while painful, feel familiar. It is within the confines of this fear that I not only convince myself that such fears will happen but that I pre-emptively guard myself in ways so as to make sure that my fear won’t happen, as if my defense will necessarily not make it so, like the performance of a magic spell. And within these confines, I feel a painful sense of safety, all the while confirming and continuing to live as if my fear has happened and is even my doing; that, in my attempt to make otherwise, I have continued to make so. 

I notice that I have often responded to that oh so subtle feeling of fear in habitual ways, listening to it obediently–even eagerly–like a cadet his commander. But lately, I have begun to try to understand this feeling–to the best of my ability despite my desire to amputate it by means of running away from it–with curiosity, even challenge it. And at those moments at which I muster the courage to be curious it transforms from the subtle, innocent, and harmless form it takes when I tend to either ignore it or unknowingly obey it in my usual fashion, into a powerful, intimidating, and ardent cautioner, sometimes punisher. What could ever evoke such a powerful response in something that any outward observer would describe as totally harmless, even normal? But not only that, why is it that when I–in my moments of sometimes precaution and weakness–obey the silently ardent commands of such a feeling that the very thing that I seem to be afraid of happens? And what’s more, why is it that this oh so subtle feeling–which we all share–of a silently powerful fear is there in the first place? And what does that mean for it to be there in the first place?

I have noticed that–of all the things that I often feel so pulled to draw from–I can only draw from my experiences to help me understand, expect, and prepare for what has happened in my life and what may yet happen–and I am willing to believe that this is the case for others. I am trapped, you could say, within the confines of not only my physical boundedness, but my experiential boundedness. I can only speak to–in a deeply real and honest way–what I myself have experienced, and all the rest, which interestingly takes up most of my internal experience, is the working of my projective capabilities that have not only been fine tuned to the idiosyncrasies of my experience, but also, I suspect, to certain potential nightmares and triumphs which my ancestors–in their perhaps tragically unknown wisdom–have faced, accrued, and passed down since the emergence of life, since I notice within myself a tendency to very quickly and fervently fixate on certain things more so, generally speaking, than others, which doesn’t make sense for me given the amount of threats that I feel like I should be more afraid of but which I am not. 

Because of this fact, I on some level, you could say, live within a pseudo-virtual reality of sorts, in the sense that I have certain beliefs that I have acquired throughout my lifetime that are specific to me and only me, yet I also tend to assume–and subsequently know in a way that feels unquestionable–that if I do or say certain things, then others will react in certain ways, according to some–subtle yet immensely profound–internalized rule of law that I have and follow within myself, as if there are 2 different kinds that aren’t mutually exclusive: one that compromises how I feel others feel toward me and why, based on my experiences and how I have made sense of such experiences, and another that specifies what I believe will likely, if not certainly happen if–assuming that I am able to continue to successfully project how I would feel if I was the recipient of such future action–I express those urges, feelings, and impulses that I have, but which I tend to not act on out of the recognition of the retribution they would evoke and potential degree of destruction and damage that such an enactment would not only bring to myself, but also to the people that I love the most dearly–not even considering the impact that it would have on the person who initially and unintentionally evoked such feelings within me! That is, I feel that I continue to act–across all of the different relationships and roles in my life–in ways that I, unknowingly, expect others to continue to treat me, as though out of familiarity, and I continue to make on going expectations that if I don’t act in such ways, people upon whom I depend will cease to treat me as such, regardless of how frustrating or painful their behavior is–and I expect that others feel similarly. It is difficult, and perhaps impossible, to tell the difference between the two, as each would require that I know something that I can’t know beforehand.

What is this first “Rule of Law”? I notice that within each and every one of my relationships, I inhabit in its totality certain identities, and at once when I enter into each relationship, as if by magic, certain feelings, thoughts, wants and memories become inaccessible. But if I again tap into and attempt to trace, like a german pointer locking in on and pursuing a scent trail, this profoundly subtle feeling of fear to its origins, I notice that I land upon multiple sources if the road to this journey is enabled unobstructed by those winds, gusts, and storms that seek to rid–or warn–me from continuing such journey forward, the first being an earlier experience that I have had with someone who inhabited the same role as the person who currently elicits this subtle feeling. That is, I notice that what I feel towards someone I am interacting with now are feelings that I have previously felt toward another person whom I interacted with in the past and who occupied a similar position, as if those feelings never went away, but stayed with me, fixated on the role, not the person who currently inhabits this role, coloring not only how I currently view myself, but also how I expect this person to feel, think, and act in response to my thinking, feeling, and acting. In my unbeknownst certainty, I tend to pre-emptively manoeuvre myself in ways so as to prevent the occurrence of the dreaded happening that I experienced from occurring in the person whom I currently find myself interacting with. I am afraid of doing something that may lead someone to retract their love from me, because it has happened, feels impossible to imagine that this person could imagine otherwise, and also because–and I can’t tell the difference between the two–that if someone did something similar to me, I might feel inclined, as hard it is for me to admit to myself, respond to them in the same way that I fear being responded to now. And might it be that I feel the latter feeling because of the dreaded happening or because I myself interpreted the happening–which I could not have done any other way by virtue of its occurrence–as being such? That I am afraid of expressing feelings to another because I myself would be taken aback if those same feelings were expressed to me? How is it that I could be afraid of myself–and if others feel similarly–that we are afraid of ourselves?

That is, I tend to unknowingly and ongoingly assume that others will feel how I would feel if someone did unto me what I want to say or do unto an Other. How can I tell the difference between those feelings and actions which would elicit retribution or adoration from strangers and lovers respectively and mutually? If I were to walk outside right now and shout Ereeka! from the bottom of my lungs to the furthest reaches of heaven, and there was a crowd of people outside doing what typical outsiders do, I would be afraid to do so, and if I follow the tracks of such feeling, I notice within me two further sources: a not so incomplete sentiment to do actually such a thing right now at the realization that–and this being the second source–if I was that very outsider and I experienced an Other walking outside from their front porch, shouting Ereeka! from the bottom of their lungs to the furthest reaches of heaven, I would believe that that person is crazy, subsequently retract my love, and not give them the time or day in actually considering the fact that what they might be shouting Ereeka! about is something that would be worth considering, as if I don’t believe–or don’t want to believe–that such profound insights–whose origins I only find in books–came from, in fact, an Other—incomplete and uncertain like me—shouting Ereeka! from the bottom of their lungs to the furthest reaches of heaven. And given this fact, I could only assume that the only difference between me and someone that I tend to view as “crazy” isn’t in the fact because it is not so, but only because they have either faced a fear that I haven’t or come to a realization that I so desperately want to experience! 

For instance, when I think of people I view as crazy, I think of the eccentrics, poets, and artists: Bowie, Grimes, Bjork, or Hemingway. And when I think of them, I also notice a feeling of admiration and adoration that I feel I can only explain because they have done something that I would like to do, but am currently too afraid to! I also think of the homeless man or woman walking down the street mumbling to themselves or asking for spare change. I wonder, what truly constitutes the difference between me and them, outside of the fact that I am not them? It makes me uncomfortable to admit that if for some reason I would somehow become captivated by a flight of ideas or lose my capacity–or care–to imagine that others would retract their love if I were to walk outside and shout Ereeka! from the bottom of my lungs to the furthest reaches of heaven–or that they might even in fact, say, find it so pleasurable, enthralling, or captivating–I would act on such a desire whole heartedly and become, as if I am not in my non-doing, one of the “crazy” ones. But is it the absence of feeling that makes me in my false confidence different from the person whom I hold in deference, Otherness, or contempt, or rather, the presence of an inhibition over which I don’t have as much control as I would like to admit? I am inclined–as difficult as it is for me to admit–to feel the latter!

If it is not a previous experience that gives word to this oh so subtle feeling of fear, then I also notice that I tend to locate its source in a deeply buried feeling within myself, which I hold with a shame that I tend to not even recognize that I feel. To my terror and amazement, this feeling could either take the form of a hostile animosity or a gentle love, and when I continue to follow each of these winding roots, I tend to find at the end of my search a fear of retribution, animosity, and rebuke if I were to express the former and a fear of grief if I were to express the latter. I worry that if I stamp into mutual reality–that is, give expression to–a feeling of animosity toward someone that I not only don’t like, but love, then I worry that the person to unfortunately receive the wrath of such animosity would not only retaliate, but rally to their aid accusations of my interior baseness, sinfulness, and disdainfulness for not only doing as such, but for even feeling as such, as if expressing such feelings both confirms and would confirm my unknown known capacity to harm others in ways that I fear others would harm me. 

If I give expression to a feeling of tenderness, care, or love toward another, I worry that I would be rendering myself vulnerable to a loss that I want to do everything in my power to prevent, and when I am able to notice those moments in which I avoid doing as such–be it for anyone of those reasons that this grief yearns to snatch and hide under, sometimes for good reason and others times for fear of inhabiting the rawness of such vulnerability–I notice an equally painful impulse that feels as if such fear is swallowing up–even devouring–such a loving feeling, as if I am not so much feeling the love or the fear anymore, but the pain of this love remaining unsaid. 

Sometimes I notice this oh so subtle feeling arises with its powerful intimidation in areas that I myself feel as though don’t warrant such a large reaction. In these moments, I both tend to oblige this feeling, but do so begrudgingly, as if I am trying to rid such feeling by denying to myself the very real reaction I know to have experienced. When I sit for a brief moment to ponder why it is that I feel such a reaction, I notice that there lies a deeper concern if I don’t oblige, the knowledge of which only surfaces to my attention if, again, I allow myself to face the acknowledgement of this fear. And when I do, this doesn’t make this fear any less real or terrifying, but in fact, the opposite: more real in ways I previously didn’t experience. Saying this, it confronts to my awareness that my fears don’t protect me, but in fact shelter realities that I would prefer not to see, as if obeying the commands of this oh so subtle feeling don’t protect me in the sense that they make them either untrue or prevent the very thing I fear from happening, but rather shelter me from seeing something that is real; that it is because of this fact that it is so scary to confront, a protection against a terrifying grief. 

In some sense, however, because when I muster the courage to turn toward and face such fear–by either putting words to an experience that I would rather leave wordless, expressing a feeling that I would prefer to leave unexpressed, or leaving something unsaid which I would prefer to proclaim–the dreaded happening doesn’t happen most of the time, and if it does happen, it is often not, though not guaranteed, as overwhelming as I thought it to be so. But there is no way for me to know this beforehand! I am trapped, again, within the confines of my experience. Thus I feel that–despite my internal protest for otherwise–a desire to practise facing, inhabiting, or seeing such fear, out of the building recognition that continuing to inhibit how I feel repeats the very patterns from which I unwant to escape from. It is difficult, even after writing this, to acknowledge and sit with the truth that the objects of my fear, in their origins, keep hidden a truth that I would prefer to not see, as if obliging such fear protects me from not only not seeing such a truth, but also from incurring the cost of facing such a truth. 

If I look deeply again, and find that if the origination of this subtle yet magically powerful feeling does not root itself in an earlier experience in which someone I care about either failed to act in accordance to my wishes–through silence or punishing action–or in a feeling of animosity or love, I find that it resides in a reality of my experience that I wish wasn’t so: that I wish a friend, co-worker, lover, or boss could be different–that is, act in a way that I want them to act; that I myself am flawed and let others down in ways that I am not totally aware; that I feel feelings that I wish I did not feel–either for fear of grief or retribution; that the language with which I use to communicate myself will always and inevitably fall short of being able to capture what I wish it could capture, and that thus, the people that I love will never truly understand me, but that I also will never truly understand them; that I cannot change a boss–whom I know is a yearning child, just like me–into an ally without having to express myself in a way that risks that they, in their good-bad natured imperfection–which I have such a hard time not seeing–could, if I don’t express myself in a way that I feel will prevent the dreaded happening, withdrawal their love if I don’t meet the wishes that they have for me; that I depend, and will never not continue to depend, on people who are forever lacking in how I want them to be, and who impose conditions–knowingly and more painfully, unknowingly–on how I should or shouldn’t act, think, or feel, such that if I do so in a way that does not abide by such rules–by feeling what I feel to be normal feelings–then they will retract the love that I need and feel toward them in their not feeling loved–through the myriad of ways that a parent feels toward a child, a child toward their parent, a friend toward a friend, a lover toward a lover, an employee toward a boss, and a boss toward an employee.

That is, I worry that if I don’t abide by the laws–that take the form of mutual expectations, fears, and wishes–that exist within and compromise the many relationships of which I am a part–this First Rule of Law–then the people that I love and want to love me will punish me by unknowingly retracting their love, charged with receiving a dose of guilt corresponding to the severity of the crime. Thus, I feel within me an urge and tendency to temper my internal feelings in such a way so as to prevent an Other whom I depend on from retracting the love through which I depend: a principle of preservation. When I abide by such a law by proving my innocence to myself in subtle ways that I don’t realize to an Other, I feel that I have prevented the dreaded happening from happening–from evoking the punisher within the lover. But at the same time, I simultaneously feel guilty at the unknown recognition that I have transgressed the real Rule of Law that exists between I and an Other presently, but which I fail to learn in my continued feelings of incomplete guilt absolution brought about by abiding by the rules that currently originated from some earlier experience, remained fixated, and have colored my perceptions of how I feel this person with whom I find myself interacting thinks and feels. I, at one and the same time, have prevented and created the dreaded happening, since I, in my tragic ignorance, find–or better yet, see–in the Other the dreaded reaction that I desire to prevent, confusing guilt, anxiety, openness, or even love for contempt! I, in my attempt to make otherwise, repeat what once was, continuing to live within the confines of an inner silent torment in which the Other is persecutory and I am responsible–or deserving–for such disdain. 

More on this particular aspect of reality that I notice strikes at the center of my experience–and I suspect for others: responsibility. I notice that I want and wish for things that cannot be so, and see things within myself and others which not only evokes a warm sense of comradery, but also a sad feeling of powerlessness, absolved, often beyond my awareness, by a feeling of responsibility, as if an Other’s thinking, feeling, and acting is my doing, the assumption of which provides me with an anchored sense of footing while also evoking within me painful feelings of unknown shame and frustration when my attempts inevitably fall short, which I attribute to my eternal insufficiency and from which I subsequently seek escape by washing such feelings away in distraction by various means, all because it is painful to acknowledge and sit with the fact that not only am I limited and lack the control that I desperately want, and the people that I love and upon whom I depend are limited; that I would rather blame myself and experience the accompanying anguish than inhabit such a raw vulnerability. I feel afraid to not assume responsibility—to not assume not only a position of control and knowing but also blame—for fear of, if I follow its roots, leading an Other to a disappointment that would lead them to retract their love, almost as if I don’t blame myself and assume responsibility, then they will become angry and disappointed in ways that they don’t know. 

That is, I feel within me a desire to fix, do, and save from three ends, one that absolves a fear of helplessness-powerlessness, one that absolves a fear of certain kind of responsibility–interestingly, of revealing the truth of mutual imperfection and construction by not playing into the role of Savior–and another that absolves a fear of persecution–of getting in trouble–tried and accused for not helping–or rather, self-blaming–that unknowingly undermines an autonomy that I unwant, as if refraining from assuming a certain kind of responsibility would render me vulnerable to punishment. Might it be that self-persecution could protect against Other-persecution? At this thought, I feel relievingly terrified that the answer to the escape from the feelings of frustrating anguish doesn’t lie in augmenting–through self-flagellation–my insufficiencies, but in grieving that fact that I am not responsible–or in control–the most terrifying of griefs–while simultaneously facing the fear of possibly being persecuted–of getting in trouble and being labeled a bad friend, lover, son, or therapist–for the crime of acknowledging a mutual uncertainty. Who could’ve thought that fear and grief could absolve shame!

Having spent the time to articulate this for myself, I now feel more able to use this grief to facilitate deeper, unwanted understanding of the tragedy of, for want of a better word, a kind of self-creation, or rather, self-inflicted adaptation. That to help an Other in a way that I yearn to help is to not partake in the assumption of responsibility–repress my wishes and act as if they are not there so as to play into the alluring role of Savior–but to acknowledge what is so–that I am limited, vulnerable, and uncertain–and simultaneously grieve a fact that I wish was not so: that I am not responsible and thus, partially powerless in being able to make an Other bend to the will of my wishes, facing the fear that expressing such grief–by way of acknowledging a mutual uncertainty through an intentional, compassionate, and deliberate silence–would lead to the very rebuke that I dread: to impart a “tough” love. Not a tough love, though, but a mature and compassionate love. 

The answer that I wanted is not the answer that I wanted: I am not responsible for an Other’s feeling, thinking, and acting–as I often tell myself so–while I am responsible for my feeling, thinking, and acting. If this is the same for an Other, then assuming responsibility for an Other’s feeling, thinking, and acting would simultaneously undermine their responsibility for their feeling, thinking, and acting, unknowingly absolving an "unwanted" desire, the feared persecution being, likely, the first stage to an unknown mourning process. Thus, I feel that assuming responsibility protects me from inhabiting a vulnerable grief, as though the people whom I love and depend on are forever beyond the reach of my grasp, a deeply vulnerable truth to inhabit. What does it mean to help in the truth of powerlessness? Can I help in ways that are not “direct” but in ways that are indirect? That don’t simultaneously unrelieve mutual fears of powerlessness and freedom? That is revealing instead of commanding? Saying this evokes within me an answer I didn’t want again: to face such truths and wear the persecutory, feared attributes, while not defending so as to reveal the tragic truth of defensive persecution.

At such a recognition, I feel what truly may be one of the most painful forms of love-grief I can imagine: In seeing the person who I love and desire to help blame themselves for actions and causes that were never their doing, despite my incessant urge to continue to tell them otherwise–as if such words could undo the self-inflicted wound–I now realize that no words or actions that come from without can amend a damage prompted from without but enacted from within, since I myself am rarely able to truly take in those words that I so desperately want to feel, but which would feel phony, pitiful, even scary if I did so, as if such words carry an omnipotence that always fails to return. It is only when the people who I go to for unknown reassurance–that I am not the scum of the earth–don’t tell me what I unwant to hear, that I am able to see for myself the way that I am not only punishing myself, but also continuing to inflict the damage from which I seek relief, which brings tears to my eyes at recognizing the nobility of imparting a compassionate love through a silence that, on the surface, unknowingly comes across confusing, even punishing. How tragic is it, if this is true, that the pains that I–and I suspect others–endure attract company, as if I feel compelled to repeat the very thing from which I seek escape? For instance, I notice that I blame myself to avoid disappointing people, taking in losses and shortcomings that feel as though if I don’t, I will see an aspect of the people that I love that I don’t want to see, but which will always be there regardless. I am learning to face the fear of disappointing people, seeing who they really are, and grieving this fact. But if I instead continue to blame myself, I will continue wallowing in self-insufficiency and other-infallability, guarding myself in ways that compel such Others to see my guardedness, inspiring within them the very reactions that I dread: defensiveness. It does not so much feel like a compulsion to repeat as a form of unintentional confirmation, of seeing what is familiar, because even though I look away from such imperfection, it is still there. 

It brings me shudders to now put words to a sentiment that I have unwanted to leave wordless: that to impart the help that I so desire I need to not do it in the way that I have tended to–by means of fixing, suggesting, or self-sacrificing, as if I have the power to save an Other from themselves by means of self-sacrifice; that to help in the way that I have wanted to help is to grieve, understand, and support. It is, to state insufficiently, harder than I would care for it to be. But I feel that it would be counterproductive–dishonest and betraying even–to abolish my need to self-sacrifice, for there is such a large–and rewarding–pull to. I feel truly rewarded–augmented, you could say–when I masochistically give up some things that I don't want to give up, or when I subjugate myself to a painful confinement that involves placing before and in front of me something that is higher. But I feel a sense of bitterness when I masochistically try to shield against something that can’t be shielded–that is. It almost feels as though my pursuit to transcend myself is a form of spiritual masochism, and if Others feel similarly, then we have a spiritual masochistic need. While I don’t repent, I go for runs. Is this not one in the same flavor? How else could I feel such a pull to rid myself of myself in my elusive pursuit to attain an “Ego Death”? Is not the assumption of responsibility a form of omnipotent masochism to shield those afflictive terrors that I cannot escape? That I derive joy from masochistic manoeuvres to subvert those terrors over which I lack control, as if such terrors, in my protective introjection, change the flavor of such terrors from pain to unpleasure? It is playfully torturous to steal fire from heaven! 

The shame may exist regardless, since I feel bad if I introject that which I did not want to–or could not see–and also a certain kind of bad–giref–when I don’t do as such. I feel relievingly terrified–a certain kind of courage–that to lay to rest my feelings of frustration, guilt, and insufficiency, I need not augment–through self-flagellation–my supposed insufficiencies, but grieve the fact that I am, in fact, not responsible and face the fear of being persecuted for the crime of honesty, for acknowledging the terrifying reality that I–in a position of authority–am uncertain. Not to wallow in this uncertainty, however, but to give word to those deep terrors that lie wordless and which tell me that such terrors will come true if they are given words: to face–gently and tentatively–a profound fear, to break an injunction of this Second Rule of Law: to dare not acknowledge mutual uncertainty, for revealing the child within the adult. 

This is added by the fact that if I truly had the ability to save an Other from the anguish of living, and do it in the way that I want to–by magically and instantly injecting the insight, love, or compassion needed so as to save them from a misery and confusion that I assume–an assumption that I find myself quick to make–afflicts them, and myself inhabit the unwanted role of Savior–then I while doing so, I would at an instant feel as though I stole something from them, grieving the fact that I saved them from themselves, robbing not only one of the rewarding joys of discovery that I have experienced within myself, but also snatching a freedom that I–and I suspect others–contain but which I yearn to be released from. That is, I want something that I don’t want, and I feel the urge to deny to an Other what I wish were not true in myself.

If I were to further trace this sentiment–of grief-fearing–I recognize that the most powerful experiences I have had with an Other whom I have gone to for help and guidance hasn’t been what they have done, but what they haven’t done. In the position of authority that I find myself in now, I am afraid to reveal that despite the years and knowledge that I have accrued, I am also a scared, wondering, little child who is just as confused, who has and continues to look up to people for a sense of guidance and certainty that they themselves have accrued in their quest to absolve their own confusions. And interestingly, I fear doing as such because I know for myself that if the person whom I go to for help, safety, and guidance revealed the latter terror and confusion, I would persecute them! I would feel betrayed, disappointed, and dismayed if they were to reveal such tender, honest feelings. And I would feel pulled to comfort them and align with such feelings, all the while feeling resentful and guilty for doing as such, as though I had been robbed of the very consolation that I in fact desired, but which I had to impart unto someone from which I desired it. I partake in the very persecution that I fear, now learning that the to help an Other in a way that I have so wanted to help is to grieve an inescapable uncertainty, sit with the fact that the love upon which I depend is not within my control, and that I may need to disappoint–though a compassionate silence–in trying to understand rather than trying to fix. It is so much harder to give and support than fix, an oh so subtle grief that seeks to remain in abeyance. What a complex feeling is this desire to disappoint, which as I write this, feels like one of the most powerful love-griefs to express: to reveal by not playing the role that an Other unwants me to play, especially if such wanting undermines the unwanting. And what an interesting and tragic irony of my experience: that I–and I suspect others–want to inhabit the very role from which I seek to escape! 

I feel that I have belabored the complicated reality of–if an Other feels similarly–shared responsibility, limitation, dependence, and uncertainty. It feels as though assuming responsibility in the form of blaming myself absolves a fear from three ends–helplessness, mutual uncertainty, and persecution–while unknowingly providing a relieving form of its opposite–control, certainty, and protection against punishment. Yet, when I inhabit such responsibility, I want to escape, to be released from the feelings of shame and insufficiency that shelter against inhabiting such vulnerability. I unknowingly want to feel ashamed and insufficient, as if such feelings provide an unknown sense of control, certainty, and protection against retribution. Yet, despite how much I so desperately want otherwise, I want what is true to guide me instead of what is illusory. What a pickle to be in! 

Now, I feel compelled to visit another destination of this oh so subtle fear which I have noticed within myself and which I suspect exists in another, not so much a destination, but a resting stop, per se: I notice that I tend to avoid using the word “I” and instead use “they”, “we”, or “us” when describing something that I am feeling. It feels vulnerable, exposing, like I am admitting to a crime that I would prefer to commit in secret. Doing so brings forth an engagement that I have in the world that feels uncomfortable, as if I have been released–by myself–of the shackles that I wanted to escape from, tasting for the first time the freedom I desired, to realize that there is a bitterness–in the form of a kind of groundlessness–that I both didn’t expect and don’t want to taste, revealing, in so doing, a sense of passivity that I didn’t know that I in fact wanted, because it excuses me from having to face the burden of taking responsibility for things that I did not choose–of which I am a victim–yet I nonetheless have to face, since the alternative is wallowing away in the confines of the very prison from which I yearn to escape, a uniquely insufferable kind of anguish, like attempting to escape the drowning waters while finding comfort in the anchor that binds me; to accept the loss of the injustice of this world! Is this not the definition of torture: to be submitted to an anguish from which one cannot escape? And is this not–if others feel similarly–one of the tragedies of the human condition? That I–and we, if I dare so say–ceaselessly yearn to escape–through transcendence, repression, advancement, and retribution–inescapable confines of living? How those tech giants so desire to be saved, crying out into the digital Ether, yearning–begging–to have imposed upon them the very limits from which they seek to escape; to be punished for such unruly attempts, and subsequently relieved from the burden of a free choice! And from whom, if not the embodiment of the Father and Mother, whose comfortable confines we so desperately seek to escape, yet yearn to return to upon our release!

When I use avoid using the word I, I distance myself from a personal engagement and sense of uncertainty that I feel within myself, as if in exclaiming the universality of my feeling through a “we” or “us”, I can excuse myself from understanding and naming why it is that I am feeling or believing as such, not only for my own pacification, but to avoid potential accusations for revealing why “I” feel or think what I feel and think. I feel that to use the word I is to open myself up to the very fears that I do not want to see–to see the enemy in the friend, the child in the adult, and the punisher in the lover–and I am afraid to speak with total and sincere honesty of feeling because I would render myself open to such truths and a persecution that I would enact if those whom I look to for guidance through their hands up in confusion and said, “I too!”. It is almost as if I can’t do so, like it would betray an aspect of this Second Rule of Law. Thus, I feel that there is a level of honesty that needs to be kept a mystery, that I even so crave for there to continue to exist a mystery, even despite my attempts to reveal the exploitative secrets and practices that lie behind its curtains. That I, again, unwant mystery!

That is, I fear that if I were to speak with sincere and total honesty, I would be shamed and isolated, as if I broke a rule–and perhaps I would–and those who do the shaming and isolating don’t similarly feel such a way. Ha! If an Other feels similarly, it would mean that there exists a secret that we all share and unknowingly hold ourselves accountable for concealing–an unknown rule that exists between and among us. What may this secret be? Is this not captured in the fact that I wear clothes? If I were to walk outside naked, I would not only fear revealing myself and inhabiting such exposing vulnerability, but I would also fear being punished for doing as such, as if I should not do as such, because again, if I saw an Other strolling down the street naked, I would do so to them, retract my love, and likely call the authorities to nab them off the streets. Yet, I also feel the desire to be able to take my clothes off totally in the presence of an Other, for is this not one of the most desired and profound attractions? It is almost as if I have imposed upon myself the very challenges that I seek to solve.

Why would stating what I feel be something to be afraid of, be it a feeling of animosity, love, or uncertainty–the second well-spring of this oh so subtle feeling of fear? Upon brief reflection, the word impact comes to mind. I feel afraid to give word to the way that I am impacting an Other right now so as to not confirm the very damage that I punish myself over for my insufficiencies, rather than for my dependence and limitation, not knowing that it is not, in fact, my insufficiency that is destructive and thus cause for self-punishment but my non-acknowledgment of such impact, the wordlessness of such impact. How comically sad is that so? That I both keep myself from acknowledging such impact, while unknowingly punishing myself in my lingering feelings of inadequacy, as if it is not the impact that I am so distraught over, but the fact that I have turned a blind eye–out of an unknown fear–to such impact. Since I am now realizing that I cannot avoid impact, I would rather choose to be aware of the impact that I am having than not, as difficult as it is going to continuously be. I am stuck between two ends again: that in my attempt to prevent inevitable disappointment, I have simultaneously added damage to the unavoidable injury. 

How is that my wanting and wishing could absolve me of a fear that I do not know I have, outside of those rare moments in which I am afforded the opportunity to sit back and reflect on my experience? And not even wishes and wants that I know, those that I even don’t know? That I fear things that I don’t know that I am afraid of and want things unknowingly that pacify the pains of such feeling? Such a reality of my experience astounds and terrifies me. It would make sense given the degree to which I try to suppress my feeling, wanting and wishing; that what I am afraid of is not in fact not real or illogical–as I have been told–but is in fact something that is real, inescapable and unavoidable: that when I have successfully faced a fear, it is not because it went away or became extinguished, but that I took in–that is, saw–an aspect of reality that I did not want to see, and sat with it continually to look the dreaded happening in the eye, the most difficult of which being that the people whom I love and depend are themselves flawed and uncertain; that I am impacted–and impact others–not only more than I realize, but also more so in silence than in action; and that I misunderstand and persecute others in ways that I fear myself being misunderstood. 

…

I feel that I need to bring this train to a stop. While it feels that the journey of this exploration is cut short, I feel that I want to attempt to review those check-points and cross roads that were passed along the way. I notice that this subtle feeling of fear traces its roots to three sources: a previous experience, a feeling, and a reality. I notice that the feelings that I feel toward an Other are feelings that I felt toward someone who inhabited a similar role in my life previously, almost as if such feelings never went away, but remained fixated and attached themselves to the person whom I currently am with. It is almost as if such feelings latch on to, not the person, but the role, which makes me wonder if the feelings that I have abide by–or consist of–a psycho-spiritual structure, dating back not so much to the beginning of life, but to the emergence of Father, Mother, and Child. But I hold to this with a skeptical curiosity. 

I notice that I have wants, urges, and reactions that I tend to keep to myself, out of concern that should I express such feelings, those whom I love will retract their love that I yearn for and through which I depend, a tendency I have termed the preservation principle. This preservation principle abides by a Rule of Law, one tailored to the idiosyncrasies of my experience and another that is embedded within , perhaps, the aforementioned psycho-spiritual relational structure. 

There are aspects of my reality that I wish were not so and I tend to alleviate an unknown anxiety about such facts in ways that undermine the sense of joy, connection, and love that I desire to inhabit, but which is, tragically, not free of consequence. I am inescapably pickled, as a result, by virtue of the fact that I depend on dependent and uncertain people and tend to persecute others in the ways that I fear being persecuted. Since I am trapped within the confines of my experience–and I assume that others are as well–I tend to unknowingly and ongoingly make assumptions that prompt me to act in ways–obliging the commands of this subtle feeling of fear–that elicit the very fear that I dread, not so much because it does happen, but more so because I can’t not see it happen. I, in my attempt to make otherwise, continue to make so, driven by an unknown fear of grief. It is this fear of grief that ensnares me in ways that illude me, shielding realities about myself and others that I wish were not so: those whom I love and depend on are also uncertain and dependent, I impact–and am impacted–by others more so than I care to realise, and that I misunderstand others in the ways that I fear being misunderstood, and that in that frustration, launch persecutory accusations under the guise of injustice but from disappointment. Understanding this now, however, doesn’t and will never change these facts. There is so much more to explore! Though, I hope that giving name to such feelings will afford me the slightest token of freedom that before, in abeyance, was in accessible, so that when I am onslaught by the torrent of such confusing and powerful emotions, I may be able to understand why they are there, and in that understanding, be better able to tolerate them instead of oblige them. This oh so subtle feeling of fear is not oh so subtle after all!