On visions of entrapment

I’ve had my soul trapped many times.

Feeling trapped is a well-know, detailed mapped scenery I’ve been so hung up on that not feeling this way is weird, unknown almost.

For years on end, I was trapped under water, somewhere dark, with chains surrounding me; heavy chains pressing against my chest, all tangled up, struggling my way up towards the surface. I could see some dim light penetrating the waters but they felt distant, cold, unfamiliar.

For years, I felt the chains would lift, one by one, painfully slow.

Then there were times, for half a lifetime, when I didn’t feel trapped. I just lived. Anchored. Determined. Plain and laser sharp oriented towards doing rather than thinking.

It was easier. Less pain involved when looking at myself.

And after a good 8–10 years like this, things shifted again.

This time, my trapping became a beach.

At first I thought it’s a metaphor for my meditation and my quietness of mind, when I needed to find it. I would see this beach every time I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. After my initial impression of being a mental getaway, I discovered it was the opposite. The beach had ends, walls. Had spikes all over the sand surface. I couldn’t move. At times, I could make the beach burn. Other times, I would run endlessly towards the edges only to find myself in the middle once again.

It felt like a prison, although I could feel the sea air, the salty particles dancing towards my lungs, the sun rays blinding my pale skin.

I tried to raise the spikes from the ground once. Thought I would make them levitate and set them on fire. But it was a flimsy trial, as my feelings of entrapment didn’t subside.

My vision shifted again at some point.

I was looking over a gap, in a canyon. The sun was falling under the horizon just slowly enough to keep a permanent sunset light. My eyes were half closed, watching the golden-orange sun dancing all over the red canyon rocks. The steep gap was there, waiting for me.

At times, I would fall endlessly in it, spiraling down into the abyss only to find myself back on the ledge, like nothing ever happened.

Other times, I would try to turn my back on the gap only to find it there, starring back at me. I was over the gap, on top of it, on the edge, falling into it and over and over again.

But there was warmth from the sun. And although I felt alone and in pain, the sun was there alerting me about everything that’s good in this life.

It never occurred to me that with each therapy session I have placed a stone on a new foundation. And that is why my visions changed throughout the months since starting therapy.

The common messages and hints are there:

There’s dark, loneliness, pain, unjustified anguish but there’s also a light source. There’s also warmth, hope for a better me, an evolved individual who can manage conflict.

Every vision I have tells a story about my next stage, my future reactivity to conflict and problem management. I almost had another one but once I started writing it faded away.

Could this be a sign that writing makes it better? Or that writing makes my mind more anchored into reality? Do I need visions, fantasies and metaphors to live? Or is it a coping mechanism that is childish, obsolete?

Maybe the mind cannot be understand as the mind is completely and utterly individualistic for each person. Maybe “the mind” does not exist, so it cannot be categorized, diagnosed, belittled, blamed, judged.

Maybe there is…my mind, your mind, his mind, her mind, each mind is it’s own universe, set of rules, functionality and coping mechanism manager.