years after the hospital, at age fourteen, the feelings sat like a rapidly growing body of stagnant water. With the increasing
pressure, there was greater and greater reason to justify why they existed. I became infatuated with a girl, but was rejected
by her. I confused the feelings, and thought the hospital emotions belonged to her. Layer upon layer of feelings accumulated
like a huge metal weight. Because of the hospital trauma, my mind gathered the feelings for the girl, didn’t express
them, and stored them in my mind. The weight of the feelings felt physical, as if they were rolling from side to side on my
forehead. When I thought of the girl, I felt the lizard; when I thought of the girl, I felt the smoke; when I thought of the
girl, I felt the lava. I was unable to express the heartbreak.
sixteen, fourteen years after the hospital, I was lost in a maze of feelings. I realized that all the emotions didn’t
belong to the girl, but logic didn’t make the feelings leave. Knowing the truth didn’t change the fact that the
senses and feelings from the trauma interfered with my thoughts. The depression was like a thick, isolating wall, making a
sunny day dark, and a happy moment sad. I reasoned that it was futile to counter depression with thought—that was like
moving faster in quicksand. I realized I couldn’t negotiate with depression, nor think myself happy—depression
wasn’t reasonable. Depression didn’t care who my parents were, or who loved me, or if I was kind, or gentle, or
generous, or intelligent. Depression didn’t give, it took; it didn’t add, it subtracted. There was the sense that
trying to feel better was useless—it meant lying, and setting aside my true self—it meant denying who I was.
I wrote the following poem during this time period:
To be or not
what you are
and believe in it.
At the age of eighteen,
sixteen years after the trauma, I noticed that memory was linked to the torment. Distant memories were scattered throughout
my mind, like clear, well-lit areas inside a thick fog. These memories were images of times long forgotten. They felt detached
and distant, like they belonged to someone else. Thinking about the memories was frustrating because they seemed to be in
the way—like useless, obsolete clutter in an old closet—they occupied precious space and time in place of newer,
simpler, and more worthwhile thoughts. To think about the memories was to become more depressed. I concluded that to make
memory valuable, I needed to know what to do with it; otherwise, it was harming me. I reasoned that to dislodge the feelings,
I needed more than memory—I needed intelligent actions. I needed confrontation.
On December 27, 1976, I wrote in my journal: “It is hoped that I will turn my repressions [repressed feelings and thought]
of Christine into clear pictures, and then into fantastic hate and anger…” I realized the expression of anger
was needed to break through the metal weight. I created controlled anger, like firemen setting backfires in a forest
fire. I believed the reason for the anger had to be visualized, using memories—if not, the energy would tail off into
the galaxies, unguided and lost. Showing anger without visualization and memories would be like a boxer losing composure,
and wildly punching. Without visualization and memories, the tears would fall for nothing. In the context of emotional scars,
the inverse of trauma is controlled anger. I
kept my composure, and didn’t show anger without concentrating upon why I was angry. I turned to the feelings and memories and
shouted inside my mind, “You want me in the room? DAMN YOU!” I looked again and screamed within myself, “You
want me depressed? DAMN YOU!” I remembered the girl, and hated her until I could hate no more. I rested in exhaustion,
got up, and hated again. I drained my mind of the feelings for her. I looked at the depression and hated everything about
it, and told it so. I cried as long as I could; I cried until I could cry no more. I cried the tears I never cried, let out
the feelings I never expressed. I punched a pillow. In time, the controlled crying left patches of clear thinking in my mind.
Depression couldn’t grow there, and the lava, smoke, and lizard couldn’t either. Thought seemed clean in this
part of my mind.
The weight of the feelings was reduced. The lava,
smoke, and lizard no longer followed the feelings for the girl. The mind recognized the difference between my feelings and
me. It is very important to respect the ability of the mind to reprogram itself. The one of The Equation of Thought can react
to the two, and in doing so alter the four.