How it all began

If I were to write my new story of shamanic initiation, I would say it all began when I threw popcorn into the fans and it shattered into millions of pieces but remained hanging in the air, alongside the TV cameras.   That’s when I internalized hopelessness, whereas before that I had had hope.

I was constrained, of course, by right-wing Christianity, which was already a part of my nature.   It made me live too much on the surface of things and not see the possibilities in things.  All I wanted to do was to morally perfect myself.  So that I could escape punishment.   But I began to see that my parents saw me not as a person.  They were hitching their expectations on my younger brothers.  And resources were few, including showing what was left for showing an interest.

I would say that this doesn’t bother me so much, as I am prone to looking at things forensically or what I term, “as engineering structures”.  That was the manner of attitude that came most easily.  Looking back, it seemed I had an exaggerated sense of self-reliance.  I didn’t think I needed very much in life from others, but looking back I was wrong about that.  Being wrong is just one of the costs one happily pays to keep a corner of one’s pride.

Then I would talk about how I utterly failed to become an adapted migrant.  I knew this is what had happened when I was attacked in the workplace to the extent that I lost my health.  I realized at this point that I had been making all these sacrifices, unconsciously.  I’d even sacrificed my identity so that I had all but forgotten where I’d come from.  Instead, I felt like I had sprung into life at the age of 15 or 16, when I had migrated.

That’s what began the path toward initiation, which involved nothing more important than trying to get back in touch with myself at an emotional level.   That was very hard to manage because of the internalised rigid Christian morality and reflexive fear of punishment, that had made me shut down my mind.

The attack made me realize that I had nothing to lose by opening my mind and gaining back feeling sensations.  After all, as I reasoned, I had already suffered the consequences for any sin I could possibly commit.

I began to initiate attacks on the enemy within, which was the instinct to repress emotion.

That instinct had been deeply ingrained during a time of war.

My writing was a means to access deeply buried feeling sensations and to convince myself that I had objective existence — because sometimes I didn’t feel as if I did.

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