by Restin Wells
Chapter 12
I began to realize how someone can become obsessed, malignantly, with another person their unconscious has selected to be the great Answer. And I could relate to the ensuing desire to hurt them back in order to make them listen, and stop hurting. There is a long period of time where needing to hurt the loved person is really a hope to get their attention, and rescue the relationship. The kind of fear involved could drive someone to become a stalker, and do the seemingly irrational acts we hear about. That is so even when there actually has been no relationship, but only the patient's fantasy. So very much is needed! I could see also how the loss of hope can be replaced with unmitigated hatred.
To the sick self, the Chosen One takes the place of someone who was loved and lost long ago. Through the mental phenomenon of Transference, all the old attachments are placed upon someone in the current life that appears somehow to evoke it. Then, the more unconscious it remains, the more bizarre is the course of its coercion.
What made me different was that I had a conscience, which drove the need for understanding and some resolution acceptable to society. Also, as a child, I assumed I had caused such suffering to my parents, and parent substitutes that I had made them leave. So, I treated people as if they were as fragile as pastry. My fear of burdening the therapist kept me from talking about my childish needs.
Eventually my problem was solved, but I do believe that for every case of obsession that comes to public notice, there are thousands that remain a secret hell in persons who have an appropriate respect for God and other people. I also believe now that this subject of transference and early amnesia is very important in understanding obsession. Not to condone it, but to realize that actions which seem outrageous have their logic in a primal way. By understanding these dynamics, there can be a direction for working out a change on the level of basic desire. That will be only remedy that can be permanent and reliable.
Somewhere along the way, I got up the nerve to suggest, diplomatically, that maybe I could give some of the things so badly needed from Dr. T. After all, I was always around, since I was stuck in the same body. I wasn't so implacable. I could be forced to comply. If attention, or food, or protection was what it wanted, maybe I could help... even faster, since I got the message first. I knew all that was the truth. I decided that when I ate, or did something fun, or argued with somebody, I would point out to the child, "This is for you too. See what I can do for you where no one else can even know what you want?"
The child inside must have been betrayed many times before the repression era set in. It was obvious that I was completely ignored, and regarded as totally useless. The child hardly seemed to know me. To suggest that I take the place of the Someone Special was like suggesting vitamins as a substitute for cocaine to a drug addict. I had to be careful how I promoted that idea. But later, I would find it was a very important move. That very issue of who can be a helper in life was one of the pivotal features of my illness.
The reason I sought a therapist, or anyone else, was because I didn't feel a core of strength inside my own self. Children who grow up having strong and competent parents carry their influence deep inside as an unconscious foundation from which they build their own individuality. But when that is missing, it's like trying to build something out of nothing. It's that empty feeling, that lost feeling, which drives us to search for someone to fill the void. It's also why the chosen person becomes so life-and-death important. Having no core of my own, I tried to cling to someone else's core. I was supposed to have faith in God, and I did in my adult self, but not where it really counted. The alienated, child part seemed completely ignorant about God, having been banished before I even went to my first Bible class.
If anyone suggested I should just lean on God; or worse, just depend on my own self, I would bristle with indignation. It seemed to hurt worse than almost anything, and seemed that nobody could possibly understand.
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Restin Wells