In terms of the personal struggle nothing will ever resolve itself. Their content may change but the same neurotic patterns will keep cycling through and flaring up. I will experience the same frustrations over and over again, the familiar push-pull texture in my interactions, the fixation on (the latest) Her, the paranoid attachment to unadulterated freedom, etc. The more clarity comes to shine on these patterns—with each consciously appropriated iteration—the less intensity will be involved in them, perhaps. This prospect feels quite daunting and intimidating still because it basically means that the struggle will never cease, I (as a person, as ’me’) will never make it, except in this moment. I will never make it. Except for this very moment I am doomed: to living a regular human life, painfully involved and blissfully detached at once.
My own fear is what I hate in you.
It may ease but it won’t cease. It’s not a tick to be fixed. It’s a given: a peculiar pattern that auto-curbs itself to the extent you move consciously [lovingly] with it.
/Meeting with friends is typically a big deal for me. Intimacy triggers a massive neurotic flare up in my psychology. There is a rush of adrenaline and a spike of cortisol, my body temp drops, my hands go cold, glycogen plummets, and I sweat profusely. I look calm but inside I fidget and feel compelled to show off, to impress, to please. Attention turns me on big time. It’s something chronic (and probably trauma-induced). When my perception is that I capture the imagination of someone and I feel felt and seen, I lose poise and I get overexcited. I proceed to indulge in showing off. It feels like getting a fix. Especially when someone is a partner in all this, i.e. their neurotic pattern is to be impressed upon, then the insane dance of the ’dumper’ and the ’dumpee’ ensues.
Given that social interactions in general are either fear- or love based when you experience a kind of nervous buzz taking over you can be certain that you are in a mode of fear-based behavior. Love based engagements are free of agitation and full of easeful joy.
What hurts me is not that I’ve lost her but that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about her.
It’s painful to see this because it means that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about myself too.
Without the hope (the projected image) of getting her back there is noone to suffer for and there is noone to suffer.
When people tell me that they don’t understand the things I write/talk about I know that the only reason they don’t get me is that they don’t understand themselves in the first place. When dealing with me some feel confused about me, some feel frustrated by me, some dislike me, some quite like me—but if they cared enough most of them, I think, would be somewhat fascinated by (their idea of) me. Paradoxically, the less separate I feel from them (us) the more separate they seem to feel from me. The less there is of me and the more I loosen & relax into (us as) life they tend to project more and more of their issues onto me. In other words, people relate to people like me exactly the way they relate to life. It’s not personal at all. It’s just weird.
You say that you’re heartbroken over ’’moving on’’ because you’ve grown truly fond of the forms—the places, the faces—you’ve encountered. But let’s be honest: do you get as attached to plants too? Do you feel dejected when you see a blooming flower in April and think about the fleeting nature of your encounter?—Now, is this a silly comparison? Why? What is the extent of the difference? Isn’t it but all about forms? forms that you can appreciate for their unique flair or fail to do so. One thing’s for sure, we go easy on the plants because they cannot engage in our drama, but when it comes to people we turn into weird, needy little desperate Gollums clinging, grasping, claiming and demanding—no matter how passively—we proceed, in effect, to project the love that we are onto their form—their peculiar face and their bodily rhythms, gestures, postures and style of engaging—because we expect them to be someone for us so we can get to be someone for them.
Someone but One.
All my life I’ve been trying to soften the blow of the truth. I’ve been putting tremendous emotional pressure on myself to spare others [and myself] from the pressure of dealing with the truth of my preferences and haphazard impulses. I was in a chronically contracted state almost all the time, in a desperate attempt to apply tourniquets on the leaky fabric of the truth of the moment. I’ve been both emotionally and metabolically constipated—conditioned to be agreeable and to seek compulsively to please and to act as a cushion and act as a buffer and pamper and therefore resent others. I’ve been routinely putting myself down and letting myself be bullied into being a resentful victim or occasionally the unwitting perpetrator of passive aggression. In short, I choose to be weak to reassure the weakness in one another. /Until the day I got truly tired of it.