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totlemoc
22 janvier 2011

How the time flies! I just noticed the time and

How the time flies! 

I just noticed the time and realized that it took me 90 minutes to produce the last entry in this journal. Upon rereading it, I notice how little I have achieved in those 90 minutes: it is chaotic, poorly written, full of errors; above all, I cannot see how, proceeding in this manner, I can uncover the whole meaning of what had happened to me, and I am not at all sure that even if I do, doing so will achieve that cathartic liberation for which I am hoping. Instead of making me feel better, this writing is making me feel worse. I finished last night's session by dousing myself with Xanax, despite which I woke up only marginally OK; I may have to resort to Xanax again this morning. Should I persist? Or should I revert to the old tactic of simply trying to forget? That bore its fruit after 8 years, perhaps I can do it again?

The forgetting cure failed because I made a mistake. The mistake was to help my aunt settle in Asia. I lived it here then, she came for a visit, and having visited and liked it, asked me to help her settle down here. Having fallen and broken both wrists, she was no longer able to work and wished to take an early retirement. Her Swedish pension would not start arriving for a few years, but she had some savings on which to live in the meanwhile, and was suing the city for compensation for her accident (she'd fallen into a whole in the sidewalk). Out of the goodness of my heart, I agreed, all the more readily as I was already leaving and on my way to Europe. I arranged for her to move into my apartment, introduced her to all my friends and acquaintances in Asia, my doctors, dentist, lawyer, my travel agent. She was going to be OK here and I was going to be safely away from her, and therefore from the possibility of contact with my family. It seemed to work well until my aunt suffered her psychotic attack and my friends in Asia demanded that I return to take care of her; and I made contact with my family again.

As a consequence of which all, I am left feeling miserable now: not only because I now realize that I must abandon my aunt to her fate; but also because the old wound has opened up and years of careful healing are lost, gone up in smoke. I feel again as if it all happened yesterday.

I know that the forgetting cure works -- eventually.  But the cure is too slow:  I am 47 now, in 8 years I will be 55 and perhaps I will be healed by then, but the original forgetting cure did not feel nice:  the first few years were miserable, only after four or five years did I begin feel normally and the feeling of pain began to recede, come back less and less often.  I am 47 and may perhaps have 25 years to live, am I again willing to settle on a cure which takes 8 years?  Besides, who will guarantee me that the old wounds will not open again after eights years, my memory jigged by further developments (death, inheritance, disease, funerals)?  So, would cathartic writing about what happens be a faster cure? Or more permanent?  I suppose I can try it for a while longer, until I can no longer break through the pain. 

There is one clear lesson in the error I made concerning my aunt: the lesson is that I must allow absolutely no contact with my family at all, no exceptions.  And its corollary is that I must help absolutely nobody from now on.  This is because the mistake I made with my aunt was due to my willingness to be generous and good:  when I resolved to help her settle in Asia, I knew I was taking a risk of running into my family. Looking at it now, I realize I should have refused.  And this is what I will do from now on.  I will distrust the feeling of generous self-sacrifice and refuse.  If i can refuse my aunt, I can refuse anybody.

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G
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