Escape The Hidden Barrier Threatening To Ruin Your Life
Grand plans swirl around my head — gracefully pirouetting for a rapt audience. It’s all so easy. My body flows through the air effortlessly, intuitively knowing what to do.
Eight years in this theater. Practicing for a room full of one.
I’ve scrapped the routine countless times. Redefined the message, changed the goal. Tried and failed to execute a show worthy of your time.
Hours of ideation. Half-hearted attempts to launch. More ruminating to get it right. It’s never done. Never good enough for you.
Every seat is empty, except one.
The Director sits impatiently in the front row. Beaming with pride one moment, the next scornfully shouting, “CUT!”
He never leaves. He refuses to take breaks. He analyzes every move. Dictates. Critiques. Cancels.
Eight years at the helm and counting.
People stay in abusive relationships for many reasons — fear being the most prominent. What will happen when they decide to leave? Is keeping the peace the safest option, even when it means physical harm, degradation, and annihilation of self-esteem?
I can’t answer these questions.
Yes, I am in an abusive relationship with the Director. Yes, this abuse paralyzes me. Yes, I should tell him to exit stage right — stat. Still, there’s no escape.
We are one and the same.
Julia Cameron, author of the acclaimed book “The Artist’s Way” calls this ruthless inner critic the Censor.
We are victims of our own internalized perfectionist, a nasty internal and eternal critic, the Censor, who resides in our (left) brain and keeps up a constant stream of subversive remarks that are often disguised as truth. — Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
Cameron’s weapon against the Censor is what she calls the “morning pages.” This is a non-negotiable aspect of her program for breaking through creative blocks and pushing past the Censor’s debilitating taunts. In essence, you wake up, sit down and write. Scribble out anything that comes to mind. The only objective is to put pen to paper, every single day.
A sly shapeshifter, the Director morphs into a variety of characters depending on the occasion.
He licks his chops, sprinkles salt on old wounds, slams the tequila back, and smiles wickedly.
“They’re all going to laugh at you. — Margaret White, Carrie
Today he’s reprising an old role.
After years of writing, I finally got a piece published in a prominent online outlet. The Director hugged me tightly, whispering “I’m so proud of you.” Determined to capitalize on the momentum, I grabbed my laptop and headed upstairs to the quietest corner of the house. I outlined my next pitch feverishly, slamming the keys on the laptop.
The stairs tried to warn me, creaking loudly though imperceptibly over the aggressive keystrokes.
The door swung open, ricocheting off the wall. “You think this writing shit pays the bills?” he sneered. Snatching the laptop out of my hands, he slung it violently across the room like an old rag. It cracked to the ground. “Stop fooling yourself. Go back to corporate and get a real job like the rest of us.”
I was stunned. Betrayed. Incensed. I could have easily used that anger to summon my inner psycho. I’ve done it before, for lesser slights.
“Now, we’re going to make a new rule. When you come in here and you hear me typing (click, clack, click) or whether you DON’T hear me typing, or whatever the F**K you hear me doing; when I’m in here, it means that I am working, THAT means don’t come in. Now, do you think you can handle that?” — Jack Torrance, The Shining
Instead, I sat there, mouth gaping open. Frozen in his damning headlights. Dumbfounded, unable to speak.
For whatever reason, this moment swallowed me up.
The aneurysm burst, hemorrhaging fear, and self-doubt throughout my brain. No external signs showed what lurked below the surface. It was impossible to predict the spontaneous rupture.
In eight years, much has changed and tragically, everything has stayed the same.
Fear is not an aneurysm of course, though there are similarities. Half of those who suffer aneurysms die. Of those who survive, more than half are left with debilitating effects.
Some people survive fear. Others retreat into the shadows, forever crippled with insecurity.
Left untreated, chronic fear and anxiety paralyze. It changes the way you operate in your daily life. Alters your interactions with people. Disrupts your perception of the outside world.
Fear is an addiction.
Fear will keep you small, under the guise of protection. It acts as an ally while slowly stealing your soul. Fear offers an antidote to anxiety, yet fails to disclose the devastating side effects. It’s impossible to know if you’ll get addicted to fear. Many do, I am one of them.
“If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose.” — Charles Bukowski
As the German poet Charles Bukowski alludes to above, insight into our own mindsets, shortcomings and behavioral patterns demonstrates awareness. While awareness is often recognized as the precursor of change, it’s certainly not a guarantee.
Consider the first step, often deemed the most important and foundational step, of any twelve-step program:
We admitted we were powerless over (insert addiction) — that our lives have become unmanageable.
In order to work the steps of a twelve-step program, you must first concede that you’re powerless over your drug of choice — be it sex, booze, pills, shopping — whatever. Talk to an addict in active addiction though and you’ll realize that insight is no match for the herculean death grip propelling them forward to the next fix.
Thinking precipitates fear.
You can’t think your way out of fear. I’ve tried. Thinking is the Director’s ploy to keep you safe and stuck. It leads to procrastination and perfectionism. It tells you to revise it, scrap it, rewrite it, and ultimately call the whole thing off. It transforms writing into a blank screen and blinking cursor.
Action is the only solution.
This is my attempt to process through my own debilitating fear and hopefully, help you in the process.
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