Dear Peter:

I find your use of the words “emotions” vs “feelings” useful for me. Emotions are the raw experience, Feelings are a mix of emotion and cognition.

I hold emotion in my hands, examining the weight, the form, the span.
Does it fit within a measured space? Can logic grant it rightful place?
But feelings slip through grids and lines, scatter past the walls of mind.
They bend and warp, defy the scale, and leave the analyst trailing pale.

The Unreliable Narrator whispers in echoes, a voice in the mist, twisting the past into stories half-missed.
A historian of shadows, a keeper of doubt, turning certainty inside-out.
It measures wounds in length and weight, tallies each sorrow, each twist of fate.
It speaks of logic, of reason, of truth— but never of healing, never of proof.

It means well—this mind of mine, shielding me from sorrow’s tide.
It builds its walls, it draws its lines, convinced that pain is best confined.
It tells me, Wait—don’t dive too deep, Stay on the shore, let silence keep.
It swears that distance keeps me whole, yet fractures linger in control.

A misguided guard, it watches still, yet whispers fear, yet bends my will.
It means to help, to dull the ache, but binds the wounds it cannot break.
What if the mind stepped back in grace, let feeling bloom, let sorrow trace?
Not to protect, not to erase— but simply trust, to give me space.

.. Trust is the essential bridge that transforms the unreliable narrator—a misguided friend—into a reliable guide. When the mind learns to trust and embrace the emotions it once repressed or suppressed, it no longer distorts their meaning but allows them to exist freely. And that—the ability to feel without resistance—is the essence of true, core freedom.

I am just beginning to experience emotional freedom. I suddenly remembered—when I was about 20, I attended an art class and painted a picture of my head with a hand reaching out of it, signaling “help me.” At the time, it felt like a deeply cathartic experience—pouring emotion into the canvas, then proudly hanging it on the wall as if to claim my truth. Now, looking back, I see it clearly: that was me, my emotions imprisoned by the unreliable narrator, crying out for release, for freedom.

anita

Dear Laven:

Your words hold incredible depth, and I want to acknowledge the strength it takes to speak about your past so openly. I hear the weight of everything you’ve carried, and I want you to know that your story matters—not because it has to “qualify” as tragic enough, but simply because your experiences are real, painful, and valid.

The helplessness in your words is clear—this sense that pain is inevitable, that suffering is preordained, that control over your own fate is out of reach. When someone endures deep trauma, learned helplessness can take hold, making it feel like there is no way out, no room for change, no choice but to accept pain as the default experience.

You speak of allowing others to “stab and throw [you] on the thorns of rosebuds,” of handing back the spear and inviting more harm. It sounds as though powerlessness has become familiar, that being wounded feels like something to endure rather than resist—as if suffering is the role life has assigned to you. But I want to tell you, Laven: you were never meant to endure this kind of suffering.

Abuse, neglect, abandonment—none of it was ever something you deserved. You deserved safety, care, and love. If the world failed to provide that, that is the world’s failing, not yours. Your survival is proof of strength, not proof that suffering is all you are destined for.

I also see something in your words—a questioning, a wondering, a search for meaning beyond survival. The fact that you reflect, examine, and try to make sense of it all is powerful. It means that somewhere within you, there is still a voice that questions whether this is all life should be. And that voice deserves to be heard.

If there is any small way to step toward something beyond survival—toward even one moment of peace, of autonomy, of kindness toward yourself—I hope you know that it is possible. That you deserve it.

I am grateful for your voice, for your willingness to share your truth. You are seen, Laven, and you are not alone. 🫂💙

anita

Dear Omyk:

I wanted to reach out again today with a new perspective on fear—one that may help in navigating its presence. Instead of resisting fear, what if you befriended it? Fear, at its core, is trying to protect you from some perceived danger, whether physical or emotional. Even when it feels overwhelming, it is rooted in a deep instinct to keep you safe.

Emotional pain itself can feel like danger, and often, we fear the weight of emotions more than the reality of the situation. But if you take a moment to gently explore what danger your fear is perceiving, you might find a way to acknowledge fear without letting it control you. Fear is not the enemy—it is a signal. What might it be telling you?

I also wanted to share The Serenity Prayer, which has helped many face uncertainty: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference.”

Fear often arises from what we cannot control, but this prayer offers a way to shift our energy—toward acceptance, toward courage, and toward clarity. Sending you thoughts of courage and understanding. 🔥💙

anita

Wishing you Courage in the face of fear, Omyk. This is what I wish for myself whenever I am afraid 🔥

anita

Dear Peter: I will reply tomorrow, have a 💙 😊 weekend.

anita

Thinking of you, Laven, and reflecting on how truly exceptional you are. I hope that even a little of my admiration for you reaches you, so you can feel it too.

anita

Dear Peter:

I want to start by saying that I love analyzing—I’m a big fan of it! I understand that everyone analyzes, and the only way to avoid it entirely would be to be brain dead. However, analyzing can sometimes become problematic if it comes at the expense of emotional awareness and expression—if it serves to suppress emotions rather than engage with them.

Reflecting on past conversations, I know you didn’t seem to mind when I revisited your earlier posts—in fact, I sensed that you even liked it. I certainly do! So, on this May 2 morning, I found myself wondering whether you had posted on this very day in previous years. It turns out that yes—you did! I found a post from May 2, 2023 (page 11).

Your writing on that day reveals how you tend to intellectualize emotions, meaning you often frame them in abstract or philosophical terms rather than expressing them directly. Instead of openly stating your personal struggles, you analyze happiness as a concept, reflect on it theoretically, and maintain distance from emotional exposure. Some examples from that post include: “Happiness, one of those words with so many associations, something we so badly want to grasp and cling to, where the grasping and clink transforms it into something else… usually not happiness.”-

Instead of saying something like “I struggled with happiness, trying to hold onto it, only to lose it,” you examine the idea of happiness in a detached, intellectual way.

“We are complex simple creatures. Of course all these notions are stories, perhaps at some level illusions of our own creation.”-

Rather than expressing a personal emotional struggle, you frame emotions as “stories” and “illusions,” which distances you from vulnerability.

“I want to be happy… but what if I’m happiest when I’m unhappy?”-

This is introspective, but instead of saying something like, “I often feel like I sabotage my happiness and I don’t know why,” you turn it into a broader philosophical question, creating a barrier between personal experience and deep emotional honesty.

While your writing has depth and thoughtfulness, the way you engage with emotions suggests a level of emotional suppression through intellectualization—turning feelings into concepts rather than fully immersing yourself in them. That being said, intellectualization can be a healthy way of processing emotions. It doesn’t necessarily mean avoidance; rather, it reflects your analytical approach to navigating emotions.

Revisiting your first thread: “Do We Change” (Oct 5, 2016)- Similarly, in your original post in this thread, instead of directly engaging with emotions, you explore change through abstract concepts—questioning fate, cognition, and self-transformation. Here are some notable patterns:

* Framing personal struggles as general theories- Instead of expressing how change feels on an emotional level, you analyze it structurally—how it happens “slowly and then all at once,” or how early childhood shapes perception. This creates distance from the raw emotional reality of change.

* Detachment through language- Your shift toward “stretching” rather than “changing” suggests a level of resignation—as though you’re explaining why transformation isn’t possible rather than emotionally grappling with it.

* The Observer vs. The Experiencer- Your concept of “observing the observer” hints at a split between your intellectual self and emotional self, where emotions remain unseen beneath the analytical lens.

* Fate vs. Free Will Debate- Your reference to “Nurture and Nature = Fate” suggests frustration or pain, hidden in philosophical analysis rather than direct emotional expression.

* The lack of emotional words- Despite deep reflection, your post lacks expressions of pain, excitement, frustration, or hope—everything is framed in concepts and cognitive processing.

If I understood then what I understand now, I would have asked you back then: “How does it feel to realize change doesn’t fundamentally alter your inner experience?”, “Do you ever wish you could truly change rather than stretch?”, “Does this realization bring relief, or does it bring sadness?”

Opening space for emotion rather than analysis might have allowed for deeper engagement with the personal impact of change. But of course, being as analytical and emotionally suppressed as I was back the did not allow for a deeper, emotional engagement with you.

Interestingly, you also posted on May 2 the following year, in 2024—this time in response to a thread titled “Why pursue meaning in life?” (page 9).

The day before, May 1, you posted a deeply intellectualized response to me: “Anita…Something I discovered during the contemplation of the problem of opposites (duality). That the go-to metaphor for nonduality is that of the coin…”

Knowing it would take me time to process, I replied: “Dear Peter: There is only one way for me to absorb the content of your posts, and that’s in a meditative/stillness state of mind, which I expect to take place by tomorrow. Thank you for posting again!”

Then, on May 2, 2024, you responded in a very different tone—playful, humorous, and emotionally open: “Anita LOL – I know I can be… odd 🙂 It took me decades to discover that teachings are not meant to be believed but experienced. (I am very much of the ‘head’ type)”

This breaks away from your usual intellectualized tone, instead introducing warmth, humor, and self-awareness. Your response felt candid and emotionally expressive, mirroring the lighthearted energy of my reply. Instead of abstract reasoning, you made space for humor and self-awareness, showing an openness to engaging with emotions in a more relaxed way.

I should have responded with gentle emotional reflection, such as: “That’s a profound shift—from belief to experience. Did something in particular bring about that realization?”, “I like that you own being a ‘head’ type—it’s an incredible way of navigating ideas. But does it ever make you feel disconnected from your emotions?”

Instead, I responded on the same day with a long analytical post, to which you replied the next day (May 3, 2024) with a single-line response: “Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Anita!”-

And after diving into all this analysis, I have to wonder—was my May 2, 2024 post exhausting even for you, Peter? If so, I may have achieved the impossible: tiring out even a heavy-duty analyzer like yourself 🙂! But hey, at least we stretched our thinking, if not entirely changed!

anita

You are very welcome, Omyk, and thank you for being here!

anita