At the bottom of the well of all the fear is a deep sense of worthlessness. A worthlessness clothed in loneliness. In that loneliness, seperateness. And in that seperateness, fear.
It’s a wounding. An open wound. A wound that aches a distrust in Life. A wound that feels too vulnerable, too raw, too hurried, too scared, misunderstood. A wound that doesn’t know how to explain itself even though it longs to be known.
This wound can sense the slightest of energies of non-attunement. It can sense impatience. It can sense when it’s met with confoundedness or over-simplified rhetoric. The other to it can often feel far-reaching. Like trying to communicate underwater or in space. Entirely focused on getting enough oxygen – no energy for much else.
This wound wonders whether there are others who know it. It feels let down when it can see in their eyes that they don’t. Which amplifies it’s sense of loneliness.
This wound is not up for ‘breakout rooms’, dyads, or relational healing. When it’s dropped in on, all it can muster is infinitesimal. Nothing grand. Not the time for experimentation, not the time to put yourself ‘out there’, or ‘be a good sport’.
But often, in this wounded place, it’s easy to get caught-off-guard. Easily overwhelmed. Desperate. Overridden. Rushed. Because it’s so tender. So tender. So confused by whether others can sense it or not. Wondering, trying to see… Do they see me? Do they know what I am? Can they tell me?
And in this desperation, losing itself to the other. Letting the other set the tone. Letting the other speak for it. All the while knowing it’s not totally actually true. Because it doesn’t touch the ground of this wound. The real- you can’t just transcend this -struggle. The pain of it. The pain of it that won’t let up.
This wound was there from the beginning. It let itself known unannounced from the depths. It wailed and shot up in fear in the middle of the night. Feeling itself to be an un-understandable burden for others. Which it was. And then shame burst the wound even wider. Shame became the wound’s authority. Seething at it to be buried and pushed down – deep deep deep down. The shame of having this agonizing fucking mystery of a pain that no one could understand or relate to.
What are you? Why have you been with me so long? Where did you come from? Why do you visit me and elude others? Are you here to teach me defeat? That’s what happens when the mind gets involved. It can’t help it, it can’t stand the openness of this wound. The nakedness of it. It’s unbearable to it.
The shame bit is a big one. On this wound. The shame of the wound is the top layer. The desperation of trying to find someone who knows this pain is tied up in that shame. The grooves and carving of this wound is shame. Deep shame. Deep hurt. Deep pain.