Fear Redux

I talked about stop-in-your-tracks terror, but that's not the only kind of fear that's running around my life. There's a low-grade anxiety that keeps me on edge, keeps me from joy. Terror, I've found, leaves if I make it clear I'm not playing (see March 10). But this other kind is sneaky, and the only way I spotted it was in my reluctance to be in the kitchen. I didn't want to prepare meals, kept putting off eating until I'd grab anything that didn't have to be cooked.

And then I remembered. It felt a lot like anorexia. It felt like growing up afraid of an alcoholic, violent parent. You have to stay on guard all the time, because you never know what's coming at you. Stay out of the common areas; you're safest in your room. And you can't eat anyway; your stomach's in permanent knots.

It felt like my past wiggling into my present.

I went downstairs and prepared a meal.

My Zen Buddhism class calls it conditioning, these old survival patterns learned young and co-opted by the ego to keep punishing you. Sometimes I smile; they talk about conditioning like some folk talk about Satan, always sneaking up on you, ready to grab you, dangling you over the fiery pits of hell, my brothers...Maybe not that last one. But I certainly feel slow roasted.

The cure? Same old, same old. Breathe. Stay present. Love the rampaging subpersonality, because that's what she's asking for in her own warped way. Those monster subpersonalities of conditioning are really only about five years old. It shifted my viewpoint considerably to realize that I was dealing with a child throwing a tantrum, not an ancient demon from the blackest depths.
4:09:09 PM    

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