Do you like it when somebody is trying to impress you in order to please you—either in order to avoid you or in order to hook you so they then get to cling on to you? I don’t think so. You’d prefer them to be totally present and open with you, to feel felt, to feel seen and truly touched by them, to vibe with no strings attached—to engage for real. Unconditionally. Right? What’s with the social anxiety then? Vibe on my friend. As if there was no tomorrow. As if you were nobody (special to psychologically reckon with).


Paradox of Care

The people you (choose to) value the most for whatever (personal) reason you tend to abuse the most. Preferential treatment implies an ego at work. You naturally feel compelled to manipulate in some manner the ones you value so that you can ground your sense of (special) self in and through them. You need them to act a certain way for you to feel then a certain way. It’s a natural consequence of fixation—and a nasty habit to have.


Are you the type of person who has the knack of intuiting what sort of empowering thoughts people may need to hear, entertain and spell out [for themselves] at the moment but is way too anxious to patiently take the time and help them find their own way to (verbally and emotionally) reassure themselves, and proceeds instead to steal their thunder and blurt out a piece of wisdom and validating confirmation before their own attempts at formulating and accessing an insight [that your mere unswerving presence, in effect, would grant them time & space for]—all in order that they then associate and attribute their sense of elation with you? I know I am. I want to feel indispensable. Yet another abusive, ego-serving tactic at work.


Certain female facial features function as massive triggers for me. It’s typically the soft round ones framed in shorter hair. I get crushed (on), I crash. A good example is Dana Delany in Light Sleeper (1992) and the voluptuous Nastassja Kinski in Cat People (1982). Faced with these particular shapes, I seem doomed to lose all poise and fall for choosing to be smitten and tormented by fixation and grasping and gasping. I want to have, to possess, to grab, latch onto and disappear in Her. Even if I know better I am willingly tripping—painfully dripping emotionally. In effect, I do to Her what I want from Her: I adore and obsess about Her because I want Her to dote and fixate (on) me. And I ask myself why? And I know that my ex had a face like this and my mother looked similar when she was younger. But I ask myself why? Where is this madness coming from? What is the source of it? Femme fatale. There is a deadly darkness to it. A fascination. A kamikaze move. She lures with the hope of bridging the gap [of separateness] perhaps. She is my last strand against the darkness, leading precisely into the darkness itself. The darkness of absolute abandonment. She pits me against utter solitude. For She is destined to leave me. For She is there to kill an illusion of me.




Constantly chasing—by patiently waiting for—insights to pop up—insights into psychology, into patterns of inter-, intra- and transpersonal dynamics—is as much a symptom of a mental sickness as falling in love is. Am guilty of indulging in recurring bouts of both. Every form of obsession and fixation is borne of a state of dis-ease. But then, I guess, dis-ease is a natural state of the human condition. Am as good a specimen as it gets.