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| In your head you dwell. So many unspoken conversations play out. So many acts of violence, unfulfilled. In your dreams you are helpless, unable to fight back against any foe, real or imagined. In your dreams, your limbs are inadequately muscled to physically fight back, and in your dreams, your car’s brakes are unresponsive, unable to prevent the stomach lurching creep forward into unrelenting, unforgiving, and uncaring traffic. Not being one for indulgent Freudian self-analysis, it’s easy to just dismiss the dreams you’ve had for years, for all your life. But when the symbolism is this obvious, it’s hard to deny: rooted in your subconscious is a pervasive and disruptive fear of being out of control of your own life. The physical training and financial independence for which you have worked and earned is ultimately meaningless to your subconscious. At your core is a child helpless and afraid, cowering in the shadow of a parent. | In your head you dwell. So many unspoken conversations play out. So many acts of violence, unfulfilled. In your dreams you are helpless, unable to fight back against any foe, real or imagined. In your dreams, your limbs are inadequately muscled to physically fight back, and in your dreams, your car’s brakes are unresponsive, unable to prevent the stomach lurching creep forward into unrelenting, unforgiving, and uncaring traffic. Not being one for indulgent Freudian self-analysis, it’s easy to just dismiss the dreams you’ve had for years, for all your life. But when the symbolism is this obvious, it’s hard to deny: rooted in your subconscious is a pervasive and disruptive fear of being out of control of your own life. The physical training and financial independence for which you have worked and earned is ultimately meaningless to your subconscious. At your core is a child helpless and afraid, cowering in the shadow of a parent. | ||
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| - | You wish you could be stronger. You wish an umbrella of shame, guilt, and embarrassment did not envelope you, paralyzing you from action. You find your progenitors’ irrational fear of victimization laughable, but continue to be sapped by your own fears. You are a third of the way through your life and are realizing somethings are unlikely to change. The person who you dreamed of growing into is looking more and more like a stranger. You’re still the same five-year-old kid struggling to confront his emotions. You have picked up a few coping mechanisms since then, but you’ll never be the strong, heroic extravert you fantasized about growing into. | + | You wish you could be stronger. You wish an umbrella of shame, guilt, and embarrassment did not envelope you, paralyzing you from action. You find your progenitors’ irrational fear of victimization laughable, but continue to be sapped by your own fears. You are a third of the way through your life and are realizing some things are unlikely to change. The person who you dreamed of growing into is looking more and more like a stranger. You’re still the same five-year-old kid struggling to confront his emotions. You have picked up a few coping mechanisms since then, but you’ll never be the strong, heroic extrovert you fantasized about growing into. |
| <p> | <p> | ||
| - | You faced an unbalanced anger. Uncontrolled rage that stemmed from a previous generation’s abuse and neglect that your progenitor lacked the strength, self-awareness, and external help to overcome then wittingly or not faithfully passed it on to you. You resent them for this weakness and even more so for fortifying you with this weakness, for making you through and through utterly vulnerable. Despite the best facades, despite years of reflection you are imbued with garbage that denies its own stink. | + | You faced an unbalanced anger. Uncontrolled rage that stemmed from a previous generation’s abuse and neglect that your progenitor lacked the strength, self-awareness, and external help to overcome then wittingly or not faithfully passed it on to you. You resent them for this weakness and even more so for fortifying you with the same, for making you through and through utterly vulnerable. Despite the best facades, despite years of reflection you are imbued with garbage that denies its own stink. |
| <p> | <p> | ||
| You bullied others as a child. You tortured them; their suffering brought you glee. You were a sadist and still are to this day. It is not the healthy-to-express bedroom sadism. It’s the evil kind of sadism. The kind that, left unchecked, leads to moral thresholds where once crossed can never be uncrossed. You remain aware and on edge--you contain the monster within you for fear of it ruining everything you’ve worked for. It thinks you deserve to be ruined. You know better, but you also know just how good it feels to let it run free. | You bullied others as a child. You tortured them; their suffering brought you glee. You were a sadist and still are to this day. It is not the healthy-to-express bedroom sadism. It’s the evil kind of sadism. The kind that, left unchecked, leads to moral thresholds where once crossed can never be uncrossed. You remain aware and on edge--you contain the monster within you for fear of it ruining everything you’ve worked for. It thinks you deserve to be ruined. You know better, but you also know just how good it feels to let it run free. | ||
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| There was physical abuse and threats of physical abuse. Never anything so dramatic as to leave evidence. It was only enough to make a point. A yanking of the ear, a pinch of the arm or leg--never as a punishment to enforce behavior, but as an expression of intense anger. It was always just enough pain to sate the sadist dishing it out. Worst of all, you had to take it in stride. You were disallowed from any response other than cowering and acquiescence. Otherwise, again, more anger and more pain. You had to acknowledge you deserved what was happening to you. | There was physical abuse and threats of physical abuse. Never anything so dramatic as to leave evidence. It was only enough to make a point. A yanking of the ear, a pinch of the arm or leg--never as a punishment to enforce behavior, but as an expression of intense anger. It was always just enough pain to sate the sadist dishing it out. Worst of all, you had to take it in stride. You were disallowed from any response other than cowering and acquiescence. Otherwise, again, more anger and more pain. You had to acknowledge you deserved what was happening to you. | ||
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| - | Does it get better? You are not an optimist; you are a realist. It has gotten better. What they did not give you in strength you have learned on your own. You owe them nothing. You want nothing from them but enough space to forget them. But that means casting out any vestiges of them. It means cutting out healthy flesh to ensure all tumors are removed. It hurts. It’s scary and uncomfortable because it is new and different. You may not have been happy before, but you managed to be comfortable most of them time, somehow. | + | Does it get better? You are not an optimist; you are a realist. It has gotten better. What they did not give you in strength you have learned on your own. You owe them nothing. You want nothing from them but enough space to forget them. But that means casting out any vestiges of them. It means cutting out healthy flesh to ensure all tumors are removed. It hurts. It’s scary and uncomfortable because it is new and different. You may not have been happy before, but you managed to be comfortable most of the time, somehow. |
| <p> | <p> | ||
| And after that first cut, after something other than the sting of the scalpel can enter your mind, you start to feel better. So you cut more. More and more. You don’t have to face them or anyone who supported them. You are your own person. You fear you’ve cut too much. But no. You’re allowed to be broken inside and now, full of self-made holes. People will love you and cherish you anyway. No one is perfect and no one expects perfection. When you’ve finally stopped cutting, and set aside your seven pounds of flesh, you’re no longer sure of who you are. | And after that first cut, after something other than the sting of the scalpel can enter your mind, you start to feel better. So you cut more. More and more. You don’t have to face them or anyone who supported them. You are your own person. You fear you’ve cut too much. But no. You’re allowed to be broken inside and now, full of self-made holes. People will love you and cherish you anyway. No one is perfect and no one expects perfection. When you’ve finally stopped cutting, and set aside your seven pounds of flesh, you’re no longer sure of who you are. | ||
