Journal Entry - August 9, 2011

     The monkey mind chatters endlessly away, and increasingly so. I forget what it's like on a full dose of medicine. Was it always like this or were the symptoms merely covered up and numb? Am I getting worse or were the chemicals actually helping?
     Ever since I started teaching meditation, I can't concentrate in my own practice because I constantly slip into imagining how I would guide others into whatever technique I'm working on; especially when I'm doing it "well." But that's not doing it well. The blessing and curse of one's profession being one's passion, and the shadow fear of failing at either. I have a paralyzing picture that plays in my mind: I am in front of a group of people, trying to teach but the words won't come. I look at their blank stares of disapproval that say, "This guy doesn't know what he's talking about," and, "Why am I wasting my time listening to him?" None of this is based on actual fact (that I am aware of), but actual projection.
    When I am physically in front of my students, if ever I'm not verbally expressing in the desired flow state that I presume makes them happy, the inner commentary immediately begins and all I feel is terror at the possibility of their not liking me. Who are they anyway?-—smoke-and-mirror reflections of my own self-esteem issues, inverted thoughts I clearly have about myself, glorified monstrosities of unresolved childhood trauma, caricatures of criticism from my never-satisfied, overbearing father, and every disowned fragment of what is already and always perfect, complete, and whole.
     All I want to do is run and hide, preoccupied with a hypothetical situation happening only in my mind. There is no one to hide from but me! There is literally nobody out there! Hiding never helps anyway even if I could. I can't escape or retreat from what I can't escape or retreat from. In my constant attempts at avoiding this most awful, worst case scenario, I inevitably create more anxiety, which increases and magnetizes the likelihood of something like this actually happening. But it is actually happening--now, as ever, in my awareness, by my own hand, to my own self—-an autoimmune of the mind. It just may or may not be confirmed by an exterior correlation from "other people" outside of me-—for those do not exist.
     Since I've been off the pills and meditating more frequently, the scared little boy that I used to be creeps up from beneath more often it seems. Scared of everything, nervous about nothing, worried over the wind, uncertain that life itself can be trusted, and obsessed with a wild and dangerous world that can hurt me and cause me harm. I'm lying in bed trying to sleep and a jolt runs through my body for absolutely no reason: Is there somebody under the kitchen sink?! Of course not! How silly. Well what if there is?! Maybe I should check. So I get out of bed to see. Nothing, duh. Walking back to my room, it comes again: Is there someone under there now? Turn around, walk back down the hall, open the cabinet. Nothing. I want to run away. I know it's ridiculous. It's a standard symptom of OCD, so I've heard. But how can a troubled and disordered brain fresh off of fifteen years of pharma even begin to comprehend the sublime truths that I now know full well?--Nothing is arising outside of my awareness; even this, even this, even This. Are there special compartments exempt from the work? That get special consideration? I don't want to use my diagnosis as a handicap excuse, but sometimes I feel disabled, like the basic functions just don't work right. Overwhelm and stagnation. Racing and pacing. Dizzyingly swirling, maddeningly magnified, daytime nightmares. I can't make it stop. Can I?
     I had a reminiscent homesickness today that bubbled up from the distant past. Mommy used to fix what frightened the little boy; but I don't know if anything was ever really fixed--combed over and coddled. Mommy is geographically farther away than she's ever been, and it's how I planned it. How I wanted it. I want to do this alone. I need to do this alone. Mommy is not coming to my rescue to make this one go away. I won't let her—-she tried and I said no—-because I have to feel this one fully in order to heal this one fully.  It must surface and be seen under the light of unflinching, unwavering, unconditional presence. Or at least I have to try, with no contrary, conflicting influences. 
     I will sit in my terror until I have pierced through its lies. Of not being loved, accepted, affirmed, and given expected affection, of not feeling safe. The trick is I've never known a time when this wasn't so, which breeds attachment and addiction to something seemingly positive. But I assure you it's nothing but poison to eat this forbidden fruit. The one tree God said not to touch is the only one I want to, and the single source of an entire human race's suffering, all the way down to me, in this moment, afraid to make a move or breathe.
     But I have seen and know a Love beyond temporary satiation; the Pure Affection and Grounded Assurance of an infinitely benevolent and trustworthy God beyond momentary "it'll-be-alrights." All comes back to this. To This. Deconstructing, reconstructing, and retraining all that was innocently. . . or maliciously. . . programmed from the start. The little boy is still here, and oh how I love him so. How I want to be the friend, the father, the mother he never had. I no longer need him to go away unless going away means growing up, the re-owned pieces being integrated one at a time and all at once into my very being now. I look him in the eyes, the mirrors to my own soul, and pray. . .
     Peace. Peace now and forever be yours. Peace. All is well as all ways well. Find the Center where Peace pervades, and until that day, it's okay to be a frightened and trembling little boy in big-boy skin. I love you more than I can say.