The pain was swirling around my mind. It was dark and uncomfortable, and I squeezed my body tight to escape, to hide. It didn’t work. I could not hide from myself.
Reclining, comfortable on comfy cushions in a quiet, sunny room, guided by a gentle voice of the wizard I pressed through the thick mist of trauma, trauma, trauma.
“Open,” the wizard suggested. “Yeah, right!” I thought. It was all I could do to stay alive.
Slowly, as the ages and eons passed within seconds the formless gloom begun to coalesce into shapes. Male shapes. My father. Sharp fear stabbed me, then resentment, then anger and, in the mind shaken out of the torpor, a bright thought appeared: “how interesting how I organized all this for myself! How interesting that I chose this man as my father, that I chose this situation to be born into, to grow here, to develop here, to open here.”
Interesting, how I organized my life for myself.
