Holding My Breath - A Reclaiming of Lost Humanity (Act 1)

Trigger Warning - Disfigurement, Mutilation, SA

Imagine Holding Your Breath for 48 years. That is a long time. This blog will serve the function of finally exhaling, an emission of a piece of myself—a part of my being. What name shall I give the substance I inhaled and have sat with for so long? It can't be named, only described. Something devoid of whatever substance creates laughter—the Absolute Void of laughter. There is no name for it; it can only be expressed phenomenologically—the closest word to name it emotively would have to be something like paralyzing fear—an experience of horror.

The Inhalation

I transport my Self back to the age of 5. It is sunny, and I am riding in the back of a small wagon. It is attached to something. A loud humming vibrates the air around me as I watch the blades of grass make their way back to the earth. The air is dense before me. A small 2-year-old boy is next to me, his curiosity is on display. The sense of Wonder in his eyes—a word not yet formed by my undeveloped brain, but I can see an expression in his eyes. Eyes have a way of doing that. His mother, driving the John Deere tractor across the earth, cultivating and tending to the plot of land I am traversing, focuses ahead to locate the obstacle that obstructs our path—a large tree branch.

She shifts it to neutral—a word I also have no concept of. All I have is the experience of stopping, an illusion of stillness. I am oblivious to the fact that the sound of humming is the reverberation of air all around me. I am still. I am watching—and unbeknownst to me—the Eyeless watches too.

Presumably, the mother removes the "debris." I am watching. The toddler next to me begins the act of discovery—reaching, grabbing, yearning—to close the gap of separation between himself and motherness—covered in the soft, silky sheet of innocence. 18 inches in front of me, he reaches out and grabs. He holds. It looks like a monkey bar. My brain has yet to form axle-ness. The mother returns and pivots back onto the seat of the John Deere tractor —her instincts betray her—she forgot to check the wagon. There is no fault at play here. Only the dense air of the Eyeless—watching. She shifts into gear. I am moving. He is moving—the toddler that is—he rotates into the blades.

It was the shriek from the Mother. It fragmented my undeveloped soul. I am frozen. The blades come to a stop, obstructed by Life. I watch frozen in place, still sitting in the wagon. 18 inches separate the horizontal vision I have under the tractor. It is the proximity—the experience of Horror seems amplified by proximity.

It was the oscillation of the limbs protruding from the discharge chute. His Mother's instincts kicked in. The John Deere had been turned off—a biochemical machination materialized in me. I transitioned from freeze to flight. I have no memory of how long it took to reach my Mother—we lived next door. I finally arrived with no concept of time. She was outside, playing the card game Bridge with other women in the neighborhood. She said, "Oh my honey! what is wrong? what happened?" I couldn't speak—suffocation through hyperventilation can do that to a person. But something else happened at that moment.

From the sob of the Eyeless, a Sacred Tear dripped deep into my Unconscience. It would take time—many years—along with holding to discover it.

The Holding

I transport myself back to 2023. I am sitting in my therapist's office. A relationship that started in 2020—for other reasons. I ask myself a question, spoken aloud, eyes glazed toward the window. "I haven't explored that experience in a long time. It has been on my mind lately. I keep asking myself: What purpose or meaning—if any—can be found in that experience? It seems unanswerable, pointless, a fool's errand. Shit happens. Get over it.....after all, there was no malevolence at play. No cause capable of carrying the Weight of Fault. Yet it keeps lingering for some reason." I stopped talking. That single Eyeless tear deposited into my unconscious seemed to seep its way into my subconscious—making interrogation possible. My therapist gently and tenderly asks me, "If you could talk to that 5-year-old Self—the little boy you were—what would you like to say to him?"

I attempt to access him, but he always seems to emerge with sobs and hyperventilation. The only way I know how to soothe him is by breathing. I begin by inhaling a deep, voluminous swath of oxygen. I hold it. I exhale. It soothes him. I put my arm around him, accompanied by a tender squeeze of gladness to be in his presence.

"Hey buddy, it has been a long time! How are you?"

"I'm ok I guess. Thanks for visiting me. I still have a lot of fear." he says

"Oh, little man, there is no need to be afraid anymore. Time heals all wounds, buddy. You'll be okay," I try to assure him.

"It's not THAT that I am afraid of anymore," he responds.

"Well, would you mind telling me what it is so I can help take it away from you?"

He turns to look me in the eyes and stares at me for about five seconds. "Mutilation. And you have already taken it from me but haven't realized it yet," he whispers softly. He finishes, "Mine was witnessed externally, yours is witnessed internally." He takes a long pause, giving me space and time to work out and ponder what he means.

A flood of clarity enters my consciousness. He is referring to the mutilation of the soul that has taken place over the course of my life—years 6 through 30 and the experience of dehumanization—the weeds of self-contempt, the Machineel of total self-hatred, the maggot, the lab rat, the experimentation done by others, the soil of Shame, and the IT-ness of it all—malevolence. Only to find the same marring in benevolence as well—vampiric modern-day consumeristic Christianity—I fed on it while it fed on me. I spent years engaging in spiritual bypassing, fruitless clinging to pastoral preaching of the Word, the futile quest for Objective Truth, the experience of Total Depravity, credulousness lulling me by the Harpie's song of certainty, wondering why I could never 'hear God' in the same way that the spiritual exhibitionists could—both from prayer and pulpit. Earnestly seeking and searching for direction, only to stay disconnected from Self—under the rubric of having "hardened my heart." Ignoring all my deepest fears using selective scripture verses: "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear: but of power, and of love, and of sound mind." If that was Objective Truth, it certainly was not my Subjective reality—that reality was captured in Lamentations 3. Suddenly, the flash of memories ends. I notice no bitterness or anger percolating inside me after this recollection.

I stare at my little Self, stunned. "Thank you for sharing that" I reply, "I need to go away now."

"Please take care of yourself, Ryan. But I need to give you something before I leave. It has wetness and saltiness—in a Salt of the Earth sort of way. It was deposited into me by The Eyeless—The Watcher—without me ever knowing back on that day. I think it is some ointment or something. I asked the Eyeless if He would tell me what it was—he answered, but it was in a rumbled death growl—His voice! It was so peaceful and sorrowful. It didn't scare me, AT ALL! It was strange, but I experienced joy in fact. You wanna know what he said? He rumbled at me in a thunderous voice and answered 'MY GRIEF' "

The Exhalation

Before I begin the emission process—of the Breath held for so long—I keep Holding. My lungs are about to burst. Some mystical form of meta-cognition takes place. A Triangulation starts to form. Faint endpoints emerge, and I can barely make out an equilateral triangle. The bottom right endpoint becomes clear—it is my 5 yr. old Self-sitting Indian style. The top of his little hands resting on his knees, fingers pointing up. His eyes are shut. He seems so at peace. My eyes follow a line accelerating exponentially to the left. It goes on almost to Infinity before it finally stops at the Edge. My 30-year-old Self is standing at the bottom left endpoint. He is caged. He appears to be sitting on a bench, elbows resting on his knees and hands covering his face. An impaled but still beating heart on a pike next to him. He sobs the tears of Grief—but it is a shared Grief. The tears of the mother and her 2-year-old son are intermixed into my tears somehow. The tears of my teenage acquiescence along with its tormentive properties. The tears of lost decades and the father hunger I will never be able to slake. 30-year-old Self stands up, looking upward toward the heavens, hands clenched to the wooden encasement imprisoning him. At that moment, 5-year-old Self opens his eyes—an integration occurs between the two Selfs—and my dense black Spirit Eyes open.

A battle is about to take place. An unnamed, disowned part of me emerges, confronting me with contemplative-to-maniacal thoughts: "Why can you not rest from this Pursuer? The folly of faith leads only to your despair—lived stagnation…amplification of schism...the hemorrhaging of a ruptured Self. Your faith—IT uses YOU! Your credulousness got you here, imprisoned in the invisible straitjacket called Faith". Madness begins to emerge, endeavoring to soothe me. Cacophonous chatter ensues, as the sub-human teenage years resurface and the loss of Self began:

"YOU are responsible Ryan, don't you DARE play the victim...that leads only to excuses and you know it! HAHAH, NO....I just lied to you! You ARE the victim Ryan, don't you dare take responsibility for something you had no control over. Did I say no control? Don’t lie to yourself! Acquiescence is a BITCH isn't it? HAHAHAHA, you dumbass! Is it coercion or complicity? Willful obedience or reckless curiosity? How could you have been so stupid?! HAHAHAHAHA. Let me tell you something you shit-face: I was the one that smeared you in my fragrance!!! And you will NEVER find the midpoint between the ENDPOINTS of total victimhood and total responsibility. You can only choose one at the expense of the other....and I will torment you the rest of your life because of that paradox! YOU are MY contradiction—an animal of my making! I am the irresistible force, and you are the immovable object: The paralyzed possum playing dead—nothing more than an IT among a sea of beings, all with alien expressions sculpted by my hand. BWAHAHA. Your misery is my joy! I live—nay, DELIGHT—in your distress…in fact, I am upheld in your distress!!!!”

I beg for peace to revisit my mind. A final gentle, whispering thought enters my Singularity...my being...the noise subsides…someone is beckoning me. "Ryan, look beneath the mutilation...it is there you will find me...drink deeply." I hear nothing but Silence. Someone is speaking through Silence….

I shut my eyes again, and return to the mystical place of Spirit. 5-year old Self is bursting with child-like anticipation now looking upwards towards the heavens. A faint smile—is it possibly Hope?—emerges from the caged 30-year old Ryan. He too, looks upward toward the heavens. And then something happens...the heads are lowered but their faces are lifted...in exact unison...it begins:

Two lines start moving at the speed of light, stretching light-years beyond, slanted 45 degrees northeast and northwest respectively. The lines converge at the inner edge of the universe, amalgamating. There is stillness. The Eyes of the Eyeless Watcher opens, and the top endpoint starts to form. It feels like an eternity has passed. My Spirit eyes see an essence descending—a thing. We start to see feet, then legs take form—it is something out of nothing taking place. The feet are nailed to a wooden beam. We keep our stained Spirit eyes fixed on the exact spot of convergence. A single Higgs Boson particle separates the material from the non-material realm of the Eyeless—the Beyond. I am watching. A torso takes form. Outstretched arms hang horizontally. Limp wrists emerge. His left index finger points directly southeast, exactly at 5-year-old Self. His right index finger points directly southwest, exactly at 30-year-old Self. A face finally emerges. His right eye is half-open, tilted, staring directly into us. His left eye is half-open, tilted, staring directly into us. It ends. Stillness. I finally made out the wreath of thorns atop His head. His lips are parched, dry, and blistered. It is The Mutilated Man hanging from a cross—in some non-corporeal form. His radiance is blinding. Our dense black Spirit eyes can see clearly. He speaks, softly.

"My child, I have been waiting for this moment. I have come to Heal your fragmented Self. Only then can your lost humanity be restored. All this time you have been suffering, it was so you could gain something." My lips quiver, and words crowd to my blistered throat. In a raspy voice, I ask, "Why all this suffering? Why the internal marring? What on earth could I have gained from it? The pieces of me are irreparable at this point."

"Ahhh, about that," he says. "I will answer you, but first there is something you must do."

"What is it?" I ask. "Take the ointment of your Grief. Pour it on my lips. Only then will you understand." 30-year-old asks "But how can I reach you when you are so far away?" 30-year-old Self reaches through the putrid cage of rotten wood, unable to close the distance to quench the lips of The Mutilated Man. "By Faith," he says. "You can only cross this abyss by Faith—others will describe it as Absurdity. To leave the cage, you must apostatize. Leap into the darkness of this abyss and Step On Me, only then will you reach me" Kierkegaard and Endō race through my mind. Nothing but total Silence. At that instant, I step. Abandonment carries me home. I traverse space-time...and now I have reached Him. Without hesitation, I pool my tears in the cup of my hands—almost as if I was receiving communion, but in this case it was reversed: Am I administering my communion somehow?—and place the salty wet tears onto His parched lips—where a shiny gloss of Splendor now shines. "Your tears. They are delicious to me." He says.

"It is good to finally see you, even though you likely are a construct of my mind—yet somehow real. I thought you said I would understand. Can you help me understand the stench in my mind? Why does it impair my vision?" I plead.

The Mutilated Man speaks compassionately, "Did I not turn water into wine? I turn grief into compassion. I have been with you since the beginning. You have reached the 2nd stage of Life now Ryan. Your large heart is now ready to be filled with my compassion. You have drank from my cup. Our shared suffering was not in vain. You Belong to me now. I have been watching you this whole time. I was there with you when it all happened—through horror, through dehumanization, we have endured together—I with you and you with me. Go forth and release my compassion into the world. You can breathe now. The creative force swirling in you will be your guide. My Spirit resides within you. It dwells in the private garden deep within you. Underneath your longings. Go forth and Emit"

My current Self emerged. I am now back in the present moment. I look at my therapist, into his eyes this time. I am present in the moment. Acute Awareness envelops me. "Ken, I just made a connection. I feel like the story of my life so far has been made clearer. I can't really explain it. But someday, when the time is right, I may decide to write about it. This was a very productive session. Thank you, Ken"

I left his office and got into my car. I hooked up my phone to charge while hitting play on my Spotify. A song started playing. I knew this song quite well, but I never really understood it. The lyrics were cryptic and esoteric, yet I always felt connected to it somehow. At that moment, a symphony of the soul began—a Union with the Divine—the Burning of My Wings. The cauterization of Hope in Tragedy. I still carry the bones of a deformed child, but my breath—it is no longer polluted with religious contagion.

I roam in search of release among the downtrodden, the addict, the prostitute, the Leper, the homeless, the mentally afflicted, the disabled, the enslaved, the broken-hearted, and the Othered. I suffer unto life, not death. I am ready to emit now, to breathe finally. I am compelled to accompany this emission with the music that vibrates the particle within me, attuned to the Life all around me:

Our Wings Are Burning

After the song finished—hands gripped to my steering wheel tightly—something happened. The air trapped inside me for 48 years exited my soul....

and I began to Laugh.

“If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know a man, don't bother analyzing his ways of being silent, of talking, of weeping, of seeing how much he is moved by noble ideas; you will get better results if you just watch him laugh.” ― Fyodor Dostoevsky

Individuation requires integration, and integration requires interrogation…and interrogation requires holding (inwardness)

Just some guy named Ryan, on the journey of Recovering his Lost Humanity