For many years, it seemed self-evident that there was
something wrong with me. That basic sense – that I was too much or too little,
off-centre or not quite right in both definable and indefinable ways –
permeated most of my experience. What else could explain the conflict, pain,
and discomfort that inevitably arose in my relationships?
After yet another scene – tears, shouting, bewilderment –
with my then-boyfriend, I described the pattern:
“When the anger comes at me from someone, from somewhere
else, at first I’m there, holding, defending, blocking. Then I crumble, and it
starts: I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. It’s all my fault. It would’ve all
been alright if I hadn’t done, or said, or been. Very soon, I’m not in myself
at all. I’m somewhere else, a small, small girl, trying so, so hard to be good
and not be a problem. I apologise for myself and deny myself and lie about
myself and betray myself. If you’re right (which you always are, or at least
you say you are) then I can be nothing but wrong. And so, some small-ish human
mistake, a frailty, some misconceived, insensitive, unthinking act of no
particular consequence becomes an enormous wrongdoing, a hideous, heinous crime;
suddenly, the whole situation has taken on entirely delusionary proportions
because I’m apologising for my existence whilst simultaneously knowing that
what’s happened between us is, actually, just a part of being alive.”
Despite the sense that there was something illusionary
playing out, such occasions seemed to provide all the evidence required that
there was, indeed, something wrong with me. Like many of us, I tried hard to
make myself better – therapy, remedies, meditation. New ideas and approaches
brought new dawns, followed by the inevitable disappointment that, despite my
efforts, I seemed to remain stubbornly...me.
Our stories of deficiency appear to be absolutely real. Thoughts,
emotions, and sensations create compelling experiences, the validity of which seems
certain. We believe that there is something wrong with us, because our thoughts
and emotions tell us so. And we are always able to back up our claims of
inadequacy: Of course I’m a failure.
That’s why I didn’t get the job. If I was really okay, I’d be in a long-term
relationship by now. We view the situations and people we encounter through
the lens of our own story of deficiency, comparing, contrasting, coming up
short.
Of course, there may also be times when we believe that
we’re better than others. The inner story of deficiency may be so painful that
we develop a compensatory persona, projecting the unwanted qualities outwards. I’m the strong one – it’s him that’s weak.
If only other people lived like we do, the world would be a better place. It
takes effort to keep up the pretence, and we find ourselves easily defensive,
shoring up our identities against attack.
Eventually, exhausted, we may find ourselves incapable of
continuing to hold the line. We begin to investigate the truth of what we’ve
believed for so long, and start to question the basic assumptions that have
underpinned our stories of deficiency. That there is a solid, separate me. That
there is something wrong with me. That steps need to be taken to improve me.
That there is a destination I need to reach, in order for me to be okay.
Through the process of inquiring into what we’ve believed
ourselves to be, we discover that we are not who we thought we were. True
inquiry allows us to see through the identities and beliefs that we’ve clung to
for so long. We realise that what previously seemed solid and fixed is, in fact,
a mere chimera. And as we see that the story of deficiency is just that – a story
– our hearts inevitably begin to break open.
Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there’s a
field
I will meet you there.
Rumi.
