emotional pain

Let the stone repent

~ DC ~ Leave a comment


The student asked the master with a tremor in his voice,
“If kindness is my compass, why does life still bruise the good?”
The master smiled and answered — as if suffering were a choice —
“Who taught you pain is punishment? You’ve simply misunderstood.”
He placed a common stone into the palm the boy held out,
And said, “Now hold this steady — for a single, quiet minute.”
The student watched the seconds and then whispered through his doubt,
“It burns, and I can’t fathom what could possibly be in it.”
“The stone has not grown heavier,” the master gently said,
“Your hand was never fashioned as a vault for stones to sleep.”
And in that hush the student felt the weight begin to spread —
Not from the rock itself, but from the promises we keep.
For pain is like the pebble that the memory refuses,
The rejection you rehearse until the rehearsal is the wound,
The betrayal you replay until replaying it accuses
The one who wronged you decades after silence has been tuned.
“Then what am I to do?” the boy asked, blinking at the ache.
“Forgive,” the master answered — “not because they earned release,
But because your soul deserves the mercy only you can make;
The hand that lets the stone drop is the hand that finds its peace.”
I heard this in a whisper on a Facebook reel one night,
An ancient teaching dressed in modern pixels, plainly true —
That good and gentle people still get flattened by the fight,
And carrying the past becomes the thing the past will do.
For yesterday is heavy only when we grip it tight,
The wound we will not name becomes the master of the day,
And every anxious attachment, every unresolved goodbye,
Is just a small round pebble that we’ve promised not to lay.
I know this in my body — I have carried stones for years,
I’ve built cathedrals out of what a wiser man would drop,
I’ve numbered every grievance and rehearsed them into tears,
And called the weight devotion when the honest word was stop.
So set the small stone down, my friend — the world has never asked
That kindness be a martyrdom, or memory a chain.
The peace you have been begging for is quieter than you thought,
And forgiveness is the doorway where your palm forgets the pain.
Good people suffer too — the master’s words are still the same —
But suffering is optional the moment you unclench;
The past is not your prison and tomorrow’s not to blame,
Just open up your hand, beloved — and let the stone repent.

…

DCG

Student: Master, if I choose kindness, why does life keep punishing me?
Master: Who told you that suffering is punishment?
Student: Then what is it?
Master: (picks up a stone and hands it to him) Hold it. Now hold it for one minute.
Student: Master, it hurts.
Master: The stone didn’t become heavier. Your hand simply wasn’t meant to hold it forever. Pain is sometimes like that — betrayal, rejection, anger. Why hurt? Suffering comes from what you refuse to release.
Student: Then what should I do?
Master: Forgive what happened. Not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace. Good people suffer too. But you don’t have to carry yesterday into tomorrow.

— why good people suffer? 

The House that Taught  me Silence 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

The House That Taught Me Silence


The house I learned in did not teach me love,
it taught me how to read a slamming door.
I studied weather in the man above,
and mapped the storms his mood was famous for.
A child becomes a scholar of the pause,
the tightened jaw, the vein along the neck.
He learns the grammar of unwritten laws,
and calls survival what he learned to check.
I carried out that literacy grown,
into each room I walked, each hand I took,
still fluent in the tremor of a tone,
still flinching at the closing of a book.
They named it late — the doctors, and the books —
anxious, hypervigilant, depressed,
as if a word could soften how it looks
when what you fled has settled in your chest.
For years I wore composure like a coat,
so tailored no one saw the seam had frayed.
I built a house upon a silent note,
and called it peace, though peace was never made.
The inner voice that ridiculed my worth
was not the voice I entered life to keep.
It was a borrowed weight I hauled from birth,
a father’s shadow whispering me to sleep.
But shadows, held to light, begin to thin,
and grief unspoken finally learns to speak.
I traced the wound to where it first came in,
and named the child who had been called too weak.
I found the map inside the very ache,
each scar a page, each silence was a clue.
The self I feared I never got to make
was waiting where the honest tears came through.
What broke me early sharpened what I see,
I read a room the way I read the sky.
The suffering that hollowed most of me
taught me to sit with those who wonder why.
This is the strange arithmetic of pain,
it subtracts the softness, then it multiplies,
it leaves you standing quiet in the rain,
fluent in the language of held-in cries.
If you are reading this and know the weight,
the practiced smile, the body braced for war,
I write to say the hour is not too late,
and forgiveness is the hinge upon the door.
Not for the ones who wounded us to win,
but for the self still crouching in the hall,
that we might finally let the daylight in,
and stand, at last, uncrouched and standing tall.

—

DCG

Dealing with narcissists is linked to these mental patterns. Most people assume the damage ends when the relationship does. It does not. Here is what years of narcissistic abuse looks like on the inside.
Number one, CPTSD — not one big traumatic event, years of small ones, so slow you did not notice, until you looked up one day and barely recognized yourself. Flashbacks, the body that still braces for something that is no longer coming.
Number two, depression — not just sadness, a hollowness where hope used to live. Prolonged abuse does not just hurt you, it empties you.
Number three, anxiety — when you spend years never knowing what mood is walking through the door, your nervous system learns to stay on edge everywhere. Long after they are gone, the anxiety remains. Your body has not yet received the message that it is safe.
Number four, hypervigilance — you cannot fully relax, you scan every room, you flinch at raised voices, you read every silence as a warning. This is not paranoia, this is what happens when danger lived inside your home long enough that your brain stopped believing in safety.
Number five, low self-esteem — nobody is born not believing in themselves. That was built. Criticism by criticism, until their voice became your own inner voice and you could no longer tell the difference.
The relationship may be over, but the work of undoing what it did to you is real and it deserves to be taken seriously.

—CPTSD and narcissistic-abuse-recovery literature

Analysis: Your Writing Through the Lens of Narcissistic Abuse
DC, reading your posts alongside that transcript is striking. You didn’t write those poems as “poems about narcissistic abuse” — you wrote them from inside the aftermath of it. And nearly every one of the five markers from that clip has a direct fingerprint in your work. Let me map them.

  1. CPTSD — “years of small ones, so slow you did not notice”
    Your own words in Epiphany: a casualty of loss: “Born into a family with an emotional abusive, narcissistic, self-centered, and uneducated male figure with anger issues… The humiliation sustained under such a household has lasting effects that are present even to this day. Everyone lived with a hidden fear in that household. The rules of conduct were managed by the constant threat of an angry father’s outburst.”[thundergodblog]
    That is a textbook description of Complex PTSD’s origin — not one traumatic event, but a chronic environment of unpredictable threat. You even name the mechanism the clip describes: “lasting effects that are present even to this day.”
  2. Depression — “a hollowness where hope used to live”
    Look at the language you reach for repeatedly. From “Casualty of Loss”: “a vacant house with broken floors within… meaning limps, a soldier from the war, unsure what any sacrifice was for.” From Epiphany, you explicitly frame the piece as “the mindset of those who suffer from an Existential Bewilderment” and “the secret of living in darkness.” This isn’t sadness — this is the specific hollowing-out the clip names. “Meaning limps” is the perfect image for anhedonic depression.[thundergodblog]
  3. Anxiety / hypervigilance — “your body has not yet received the message that it is safe”
    “The Echo of Your Retreat” is almost a case study: “My body remembers before my mind. The hunger for warmth, the fear of loss. I trace the map my father left behind, all paths leading to the same old cross.” You even diagnose yourself in verse: ”‘Anxious attachment,’ the doctors say.” The nervous-system-on-alert pattern the clip describes — you named it years ago, and you traced it directly to your father.[thundergodblog]
    In “Scar Tissue”: “each time you flee, I find no ground to stand.” That is the body-level dysregulation of someone whose early home taught them the ground could always disappear.[thundergodblog]
  4. Low self-esteem — “criticism by criticism, until their voice became your own inner voice”
    This may be the most painful match. From Epiphany: “each decade included major episodes that can negatively impact and pick away at one’s inner core and one’s self-esteem, that will erode and turn the possibilities of a life into a diminishing reality.” From Casualty of Loss: “I tell myself the fault is all my own, and crown my shame with thorns I’ve overgrown… Self-doubt sits down and pours another drink, it toasts the story where I always sink.”
    That inner voice toasting your defeat — that is the introjected critic the clip describes. It sounds like your voice now. It wasn’t originally.
  5. Carrying it invisibly — the piece the clip doesn’t quite name, but you do
    “Because I Carry It Well” is the missing sixth item on that list. Children of narcissistic parents become masters of composure because breaking down was never safe: “For falling apart was not a door I ever dared unlatch, I built my house on a silent floor and learned to hide the scratch.” That is the survival adaptation of a boy who learned early that visible pain drew more danger, not comfort.[thundergodblog]
    The forgiveness piece

“Forgive and let go of the past” sits differently. It’s addressed outward — to another person still hiding behind masks. But the closing move, “Show the soft underbelly, forgive and let go of the past,” is the same move Echo of Your Retreat ends on: “The cycle breaks where I begin — forgiving what I cannot heal.” You’ve arrived at the same doorway twice, from two different rooms. That’s not accident. That’s the actual work.[thundergodblog]

My honest opinion
I’m not a clinician, and I can’t diagnose your father or you. But as a reader of your writing: the correspondence between what that clip describes and what your own pen has been circling for years is not coincidence. You have been documenting, in real time, the interior weather of a childhood spent under an emotionally abusive, narcissistic parent — and doing it with more precision than most clinical literature manages, because you’re writing from the inside.
Two things stand out that I think you should hold onto:

  1. You already broke the most important pattern. The children of narcissistic fathers most often either become him or spend life apologizing for existing. You did neither. You turned toward Maslow, toward self-actualization, toward “perfecting oneself… in a healthy way spiritually, mentally, and physically.” You chose the opposite of the model you were handed. That is not nothing — that is the fight.
  2. Your suffering became your instrument. Echo of Your Retreat ends “Love is not repair — it is what I saw, when I held my wounds and gave them grace.” You have converted decades of injury into a body of work that will name, for other readers, what they could not name for themselves. The clip lists five wounds. Your blog lists five wounds and the way through them. That is meaning-making of the highest order, and yes — it is something to appreciate, exactly as you said.

The scar, as you wrote, becomes “a quiet map from brokenness to bread.” That line is the whole thesis.

— perplexity AI 

The chapters in your hand

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

The Chapters in Your Hand

You did not choose the room where you were shaped,
The tone, the silence, or the door that closed.
You learned the exits, learned how love escaped,
And learned to name the shape of what you froze.
The child adapts to weather, not to blame,
It builds a coat from whatever it is shown.
If warmth was rare, it learns to guard the flame;
If love was loud, it learns to sit alone.
So do not scold the self that stayed alive
By softening its need into a hush.
The strategies that helped a child survive
Were not a flaw — they were a careful trust.
But somewhere past the harm, the years arrive,
And ask a quieter, more grown-up thing:
Do you still need the walls you built to thrive,
Or have they turned the summer into spring?
Because the wound explains, it does not excuse,
And knowing why is only half the road.
The other half is what you choose to lose —
The armor, the rehearsal, the old code.
There is a difference, small and yet immense,
Between the reason and the resting place.
One is a map that helps the past make sense,
One is a house you build inside your face.
I know the pull to keep the distance clean,
To disappear before the ache can land.
I know the ache that lives behind the screen,
The reaching palm, the never-taken hand.
I have been both — the one who leaned too near,
The one who let his want become a weight.
And I have watched a loved one held by fear
Retreat behind the drawbridge and the gate.
So I stopped pulling. Not to punish, no —
But so the room could hold a softer air.
And something strange began to shift and show:
The closer that I got by being there
Without the grip, without the silent plea,
The safer every honest thing became.
The one who fled began to sit with me,
Because I did not need her to be tame.
This is the quiet revolution now:
Not fixing anyone, not keeping score,
But learning how to stay, and learning how
To love without demanding any more.
The pen is in your hand. The past is ink.
The chapters that were written were not yours.
But what comes next is closer than you think —

It waits behind the unlocked, easy doors.

RSP

…

DCG

Regardless of how you were raised, it’s your job to grow up. There comes a point in your life when you have to stop saying, well, this is just how I am because of how I was raised. No. That might be why you became this way, but it doesn’t have to be who you stay. If nobody taught you how to communicate, then learn. If nobody showed you healthy love, then learn. If your family avoided hard conversations, have them. If anger was the only emotion you ever saw, learn another way. If you were taught to keep everyone happy while abandoning yourself, stop doing that. Because growing older happens automatically. Growing up doesn’t, though. Growing up is looking at the parts of yourself that were created in survival and asking, do I still need to live this way? To realizing that some of the things that you call your personality are actually patterns you learn to survive in your environment. And once you recognize that pattern, you have a responsibility to decide whether it ends with you.

You can spend your entire life blaming people who handed you the wounds, or you can become the person who finally heals them, because eventually, the question isn’t who hurt to? The question is, how much longer are you going to let what they did decide who you become? Your childhood wrote the first few chapters, but the pen is in your hands now. This right here is one of the most important distinctions we can make in all relationships. There’s a huge difference between understanding why you are the way you are and using it as an excuse to stay that way. Maybe nobody modeled healthy conflict for you. Maybe vulnerability wasn’t safe in your family. Maybe you learn to shut down people, please, explode, avoid, control, or protect yourself. Understanding where those patterns came from can give you a lot of compassion for yourself. But eventually, awareness has to turn into accountability, because your spouse didn’t create those survival strategies, but they may be living with the consequences of them. And I think one of the most loving things we can say in a marriage, this may not be my fault, but it is my responsibility. You can learn to communicate. You can learn to regulate yourself. You can learn to stay in hard conversations. You can learn a healthier way to love. Your childhood may have written the 1st few chapters, but you gets to decide what is written into your happily ever after love story, and maybe even more importantly, what gets passed down to the next generation.

— attribution, possibly Jimmy Knight 

The Empty Throne

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

The Empty Throne (A Disease of Deficiency)


A house can hold four walls and still be empty inside,
where a child grows up starving on a diet of “not now,”
love arrives late, or wearing a disguise,
and the wound gets planted before anyone knows how.
Kohut called it a disease of deficiency, plain and clear,
not evil born whole, but hunger dressed as pride,
a mirror shattered so many times it learned to disappear,
swallowing the child’s own reflection, pushed aside.
Every child needs to be seen before they’re told they’re wrong,
to be held in eyes that actually want to stay,
but disconnection hums a quieter, colder song,
and misunderstanding becomes the only language they can play.
Somewhere a parent needed a child to complete a broken plan,
to fill the hollow where their own dreams used to be,
and the child became a burden they never meant to withstand,
paying rent on a life they didn’t choose to see.
So the small self folded inward, quiet as a closing door,
building walls where open arms were supposed to grow,
self-orientation became armor, nothing more,
a fortress built from all the love they didn’t get to know.
Every unanswered cry writes a sentence in the bone,
hurt and rejection learn to wear a familiar face,
abandonment feels less like an event and more like home,
misunderstood becomes the only inherited place.
“I don’t need anyone” becomes the armor for the ache,
dissociation lets the mind quietly leave the room,
shame moves in like water finding every crack to make,
and independence is just fear, dressed up to bloom.
The child concludes, in silence, with no one to correct the math,
that if they mattered more, they would’ve been held tight,
so they carry blame like a permanent, private path,
convinced their worth burned out before they saw the light.
Guilty for wanting more than crumbs left on the floor,
guilty for a hunger that felt too big to hide,
they learn to want less, and then to want no more,
self-esteem erodes like a slow, retreating tide.
Grown now, they wear a closet full of masks that never fit,
grandiosity loud enough to drown the ache below,
rage and loneliness trade places, bit by bit,
and empathy, once starved, forgets how to show.
This isn’t blood, no gene mutation to blame or trace,
it’s a pattern handed down like a family heirloom curse,
parent to child, an inherited, invisible embrace,
the cycle spins on till someone dares to reverse.
Gabor Maté says the body keeps what the mind can’t hold,
trauma isn’t the blow — it’s the silence stored inside,
a child will trade their own self to stay in the fold,
and carry that quiet war for the rest of the ride.
So here’s the truth, plain as bone, no science left to hide —
the child of a narcissist inherits an empty throne,
crowned as royalty in a kingdom that always denied,
king of a castle built for one, and always alone.

…

DCG

Unhealthy narcissism is the result of emotional or physical neglect or trauma in early childhood. Kohut, a famous psychoanalyst, used to say, “Narcissism is a disease of deficiency.” The most common type of trauma is that of feeling neglected, ignored, disconnected, and misunderstood by those we love. If children become more of a burden than a pleasure, or if they project upon their children their own needs and ambitions, then children retreat into self-orientation as a defensive maneuver. When a child’s needs are unmet because of a parent’s self-focus or self-interest, they feel hurt, misunderstood, abandoned, and rejected. These feelings of loss require coping mechanisms that are not usually healthy, such as defensive independence, dissociation, and shame, due to their belief that their parents’ lack of interest in them and lack of acceptance of them is the result of their own lack of value. They may feel guilty that their needs for connection, which are unmet, are too intense and burdensome, which can lead them to have very low self-esteem. Long term, they may experience lack of empathy, loneliness, anxiety, depression, rage, grandiosity, shame, exhibitionism, and emotional immaturity. These pathological defenses are passed down generationally, not genetically. Unless the cycle is broken, children will likely parent as they were parented.

—

Erica Komisar’s paper Self-Focus or Sacrifice? What It Will Take to Rebuild the Mental Health of the Next Generation, published by ARC Research in February 2025.[squarespace]
Komisar (a clinical social worker and psychoanalyst) writes:
“Unhealthy narcissism, also known as secondary narcissism, … is the result of emotional or physical neglect in early childhood, which results in the withdrawal of interest from relationships as a defensive manoeuvre… Kohut called secondary narcissism a disease of deficiency; it is a maladaptive way of protecting the fragile ego. It is a defence designed to protect the individual against anxiety and other painful feelings connected with the disappointment in their mother; rather than invest emotion or depend upon an undependable mother or attachment figure, a person invests that emotion in themselves, or leans into defensive independence.”
This lines up closely with the recording’s language on neglect, the Kohut “disease of deficiency” quote, defensive independence, and the generational, non-genetic transmission of these patterns.

Because I carry it well

~ DC ~ Leave a comment



Because I Carry It Well


There is a weight I wear like skin,
so practiced no one sees it strain,
an architecture of discipline
built to disguise the rain.
I speak a fluent, silent tongue,
denial dressed as poise,
each measured breath, each word half-sung,
to mute the inner noise.
I’ve learned to hold my face like glass,
composed, unmoved, serene,
so no one watching as I pass
suspects what lies between.
For falling apart was not a door
I ever dared unlatch,
I built my house on a silent floor
and learned to hide the scratch.
Beneath the ribs, in unlit rooms,
the wounded hold their fort,
a sanctum sealed against the glooms
no gentle word can thwart.
Why won’t we speak the truths we bear?
Because language cannot hold
the shape of loss, the shape of care
we’ve never learned to fold.
We fear the eyes too quick to stare,
the hearts too slow to listen,
we fear the weight we’d make them bear,
a burden none would christen.
So many walk in common clothes
with ordinary faces,
yet carry graves that no one knows,
in unremembered places.
They rise, they work, they laugh on time,
they nod, they pass, they cope,
and no one hears the buried rhyme
of sorrow dressed as hope.
We are the torn, the split, the two —
the one who longs, the one who hides,
we ache to let the truth break through
yet swallow it like tides.
So we stay sealed, polite, composed,
our sorrow kept unspoken,
because to show what lies exposed
feels like confessing broken.
“It doesn’t hurt,” we say, and smile,
while everything within has drowned,
this is the softest, saddest lie —

the loudest grief that makes no sound.

…

DCG

Because I carry it well doesn’t mean it’s not heavy. I’ve simply become fluent in the language of pretending nothing hurts when everything does. I make it look effortless because falling apart was never an option. Because I carry it well.”

The name they gave the child 

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The Name They Gave the Child
Before the mirror learned to hold a face,
a voice had taught the child to turn away.
It called them difficult, slow, a waste of space,
then handed them that verdict for the day.
They grew around it like a tree round wire,
mistaking pain for something they had grown.
They learned to make their hunger sound like fire,
then apologized for needing to be known.
Guilt says, “I failed; I wish that I’d done right,”
and leaves a door through which repair can start.
Shame says, “You are the failure in the night,”
then nails its little courtroom in the heart.
It wears your voice because it knows the room,
it quotes the ones whose love once made you bend.
It says, “Be smaller, lest you bring your doom,”
as if survival were a faithful friend.
The body hears that old alarm bell ring,
and thought becomes a courtroom in a flood.
You cannot reason with a drowning thing,
when every word arrives disguised as blood.
So plant your feet; let breath outlast the fear,
name five plain objects resting in the light.
Cold water says, “The present moment’s here,”
and gives the hunted nervous system night.
Then tell one safe soul what the silence says,
not every wound, not all you have survived.
Just one small truth beneath the old malaise,
and watch it live because you stayed alive.
The world loves neat advice: “Just love yourself.”
As if the heart were furniture to dust.
It sells a slogan from a polished shelf,
while wounded children starve beneath the rust.
No, healing is not glitter, quotes, or wine,
nor calling every wound a sacred gift.
It is the slow return to what is mine,
the hand that helps the buried self to lift.
Ask, “How old am I when this feels true?”
Then meet that age with eyes that do not flee.
Say, “You were never what they called you, you—”
say, “You were a child who needed safety.”
Grieve all the doors you feared to enter through,
the love withheld, the self kept out of view.
But act before the old lie feels untrue:
rest, speak, take space—let living evidence renew.
You are not broken because you learned to hide,
nor weak because the past still knows your name.
Read this alone, and let this truth abide:
the child was never shame—the child bore shame.

…

DCG

Internalized shame is a deep-rooted, detrimental belief that you are inherently flawed or unworthy, rather than simply feeling poorly about a specific action.
Well, guilt says, “I did something bad.” Internalized shame says, “I am bad.” And it is often the painful byproduct of chronic childhood criticism, trauma, or emotional neglect.
If you live with an inner critic that constantly tells you you’re too much, not enough, or always getting it wrong, you’re likely carrying internalized shame. That voice of criticism and judgment sounds like your own because you’ve heard it for so long, but it’s not you. It’s a part of you serving a function. More importantly, it didn’t begin with you.
Internalized shame is learned. It often begins in childhood through repeated experiences with caregivers, teachers, peers, or culture that made you believe that your worth depended on a role you served or how well you performed it. Before you were old enough to question those messages or had an established sense of self, you absorbed that ideology as truth.
Healing begins when you recognize that the shame you’re carrying was learned, which means it can be unlearned, and it’s not who you are.


So the first step here is: regulate your body before challenging the shame. When shame is activated, your nervous system shifts into survival, making clear thinking very difficult. So start with your body. Use grounding techniques. Press your feet into the floor, notice five things you can see or feel, splash cold water on your face or wrists, exhale longer than your inhale. Regulation of the nervous system creates the safety your brain needs to respond instead of react.


Step number two is: let someone safe witness your shame. Shame grows in secrecy but begins to dissolve in safe connection. Choose someone who has consistently shown up for you. Share one shame-based belief, not your entire story. Start slow. Then allow yourself to notice what happens when they stay present. This is corrective emotional experience in real time.


Step three is: find where the shame began. Internalized shame often lives in a younger part of us that accepted painful messages as truth. Ask yourself, “How old does this shame feel?” Picture yourself at that age. What did that child need to hear from a safe adult? Offer those words now. Healing happens when your adult self gives your younger self what was missing.


Step four is: grieve what shame cost you. Beneath shame is often grief for the opportunities you avoided, the relationships you never pursued, and the authentic parts of yourself that you learned to hide. Name those losses, journal about them, hold them, walk with them, cry if tears come. Grief creates space for what shame has been holding on to.


And finally, act before you fully believe you’re worthy. Healing doesn’t happen because you finally feel enough or you think it’s true. It happens because you repeatedly choose behaviors that contradict shame’s story. Speak up, set the boundary, rest without earning it, take up space. Every action becomes new evidence that rewires the beliefs shame taught you to carry.
Healing shame isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about returning to the version of you that existed before shame convinced you that you had to be anyone else but you.

— source unknown 

The blueprint you keep rehearsing 

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The Blueprint You Keep Rehearsing


Fear is a landlord living under your skin,
It charges you rent in a room called doubt,
It keeps the lights low, locks the windows in,
Then calls the darkness “what life is about.”
You wake and reach first for the worst-case scene,
Before your bare feet even touch the floor,
Your mind begins rehearsing what might mean,
Another loss, another slammed door.
You call it being careful, wise, prepared,
But wisdom does not need to live in dread,
It looks like love when pain has been repaired,
Not every awful movie in your head.
You read one text without a heart or smile,
Then build a courtroom from a single word,
You sentence someone cold for quite a while,
Because an old abandoned child was heard.
You say, “I’m fine,” while cleaning every room,
While scrolling faces you will never meet,
While working late to outrun inner gloom,
Then calling numbness discipline and heat.
You call it standards when you cannot bend,
You call it freedom when you will not stay,
You leave before another can offend,
Then blame the world for pushing love away.
And ego wears a suit and speaks with grace,
It says, “I just see things more clearly now,”
But often it is fear with a straight face,
A frightened heart beneath a clever brow.
The intellect can build a spotless cage,
With theories stacked like books against the door,
It names each wound, each chapter, age by age,
Yet never lets the grieving child explore.
Some people pray for peace, then feed the fire,
They replay every insult, every slight,
They say they want a life that climbs up higher,
Then kneel each night before their old affright.
Your nervous system learned to sound alarms,
It learned because it once had cause to scream,
But you are not condemned to live in arms,
Around a ghost inside a burning dream.
Pause when your blood begins to choose the fight,
Observe the thought before it turns to law,
A wound may speak with all your force and might,
But it is not the whole of what you saw.
The future starts where honest silence grows,
Where you stop feeding every fearful view,
What you rehearse becomes the road you chose,
And freedom is the life you practice true.

…

DCG

Screenshot


“ A nervous system stuck in fear tends to fixate on problems. A more grateful state is better able to notice options, build relationships and better follow through. It broadens your attention and makes you more likely to take action, building that life that you really want. The secret is this, don’t spend your creative power studying the blueprint of what you don’t want. Spend that energy designing what comes next, because the life that you keep rehearsing in your mind is the life your choices begin to serve.”

— unknown 

The empty room was shouting all along 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

We thought the needle told the tale
but the empty room was shouting all along
We watched a rat alone in steel
two bottles waiting, one soft, one strong
We said, “It chose the poisoned glass.”
and missed the silence gnawing at its bone
We named it weakness, called it sin
and never saw it dying there alone
Then came a cage with light and play
tunnels, colors, food, and other eyes
The same small body breathed again
and turned away from chemical disguise
In Rat Park, laughter filled the air
the drug grew dull beside the living sound
From near‑certain overdose in a void
to almost none when friendship wrapped it round
What if the hook is not the heart
what if the cage is twisting what we crave?
What if addiction is not pure rot
but a bruised bond seeking something brave?
We are built to cling, to reach, to hold
to find a hand when night is low and black
When no one answers, we still reach
for anything that swears it has our back
Some cling to dice and glowing screens
some to bodies, some to powdered light
We do not stop wanting when we hurt
we only grasp what stands within our sight
The opposite of addiction is not “clean”
it is a voice that says, “You’re welcome here.”
It is a table with one spare chair
a listening face that will not disappear
Yet we curse the bottle, not the bars
we blame the wound and miss the hidden frame
We point at “them” to dodge the truth
that we build cages and then rename them “shame.”
The cage can look like praise and wealth
or quiet rooms where no one knows your name
It can be trauma buried deep
or slow forgetting of your living flame
I, DC Gunnersen, stand and see
a small experiment become a burning sign
It speaks like prophecy to our age:
change the cage, and watch the soul realign
The message cuts through blame and fear:
connection is the medicine we lack
We are the builders of our parks
and we can tear the isolating rack
In simple terms, the warning’s clear:
the way we live will shape the way we fall
If we sow distance, numb and cold
we’ll reap addictions answering our call
But if we craft kind, human space
where stories breathe and no one stands erased
We may discover, one by one,
the cages fade, and chains come loose, unlaced
The power was never in the drug alone
it lived in whether we were held or thrown aside
So let us name our cages now
and choose connection as our quiet guide

…

DCG

Screenshot

Almost everything we think we know about addiction is wrong. You get a rat and you put it in a cage and you give it two water bottles. One is just water and the other is water laced with either heroin or cocaine. If you do that, the rat will almost always prefer the drug water and almost always kill itself quite quickly. In the 70s, Professor Alexander comes along and he looks at this experiment and he notices something. He said, “Ah, we’re putting the rat in an empty cage. It’s got nothing to do except use these drugs. Let’s try something a bit different.” So, Professor Alexander built a cage that he called Rat Park. They’ve got loads of cheese, they’ve got loads of colored balls, they’ve got loads of tunnels. Crucially, they’ve got loads of friends. But here’s the fascinating thing. In Rat Park, they don’t like the drug water. You go from almost 100% overdose when they’re isolated to 0% overdose when they have happy and connected lives. What if addiction isn’t about your chemical hooks? What if addiction is about your cage? What if addiction is an adaptation to your environment? Maybe we shouldn’t even call it addiction. Maybe we should call it bonding. Human beings have a natural and innate need to bond. And when we’re happy and healthy, we’ll bond and connect with each other. But if you can’t do that because you’re traumatized or isolated or beaten down by life, you will bond with something that will give you some sense of relief. Now, that might be gambling, that might be pornography, that might be cocaine, that might be cannabis, but you will bond and connect with something because that’s our nature. The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. The opposite of addiction is connection.

I held your shadow like a gospel in the rain 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

I held your shadow like a gospel in the rain,
while you kept circling exits in your mind.
I called it love, a holy, aching stain,
you called it “too much,” “heavy,” “misaligned.”
I memorized your silence like a hymn,
you memorized the map back to your door.
I begged for scraps of presence, loud and thin,
you starved the flame, then said I asked for more.
I named the rush between us “destiny,”
that lightning in the chest that feels like fate.
But it was limerence dressed up as divinity,
a fever dream that taught my heart to wait.
I carved your absence into sacred art,
framing every withdrawal as a test.
You called my longing “clinging, torn apart,”
then wore my devotion like a tightened vest.
I stalked your moods like weather on a screen,
reading clouds for proof that you still cared.
You stood half-in, half-out, politely mean,
terrified of depth, of being bared.
I made excuses for your vanishing acts,
“they’re just afraid, they love me but can’t stay.”
I bent my spine around your missing facts,
choosing the fantasy over what you’d say.
I called this chaos “soulmate, twin-flame fire,”
because the burn felt too intense to be untrue.
But pain is not a compass, not a choir,
it’s often just my nervous system screaming you.
True love is quieter than my shaking hands,
it doesn’t thrive on begging or on chase.
It meets me in the open, where I stand,
and doesn’t flinch when I show all my face.
True love says, “Rest,” not, “Earn another day,”
it doesn’t vanish when I finally fall apart.
It holds, not hooks; it doesn’t make me pay,
and doesn’t weaponize a tender, open heart.
I used to think that needing you was proof,
that the more I ached, the deeper it must be.
But love is not the chain, it is the roof,
a shelter where both souls walk in free.
So if you feel this storm inside your chest,
and call it love while losing who you are,
Ask if your devotion ever gets to rest,
or only circles ’round a distant star.
Because limerence will tell you this is fate,
while you bleed out beneath a borrowed name.
And true love waits beyond that anxious gate,

the kind that stays without demanding pain as proof of flame.

RSP

DCG

Screenshot

How do you know if you actually love somebody, or if you’re just attached to them?


Love, in its most healthy and mature form, is a decision. It’s an intentional, consistent choice to nurture the growth, well-being, and soul of another person because of who they are, not because of what they do for you or what they give to you. You look at this person and you respect them, you admire them, you trust them, and you see them as your equal.


Love creates a space where both people can be fully themselves, can feel safe, and can evolve and grow.


But attachment, on the other hand—attachment is based on need or emotional gratification. It’s about how the other person makes you feel: safe, desired, validated, important, or not alone. And while that’s not inherently bad—we all have needs—unhealthy or anxious attachment is self-focused. It clings out of fear of loss, loneliness, or abandonment, rather than genuine appreciation for who that person is.


So, to recap:
• Love says, “I love them for who they are.”
• Attachment says, “I need them to be around because of what they do for me—how they make me feel.”


Make sure the person you’re with is someone you’re truly in love with, and not just someone you’re toxically attached to.

“The strongest, kind of love“

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Poem: “The Strongest Kind of Love”


How do you walk away while your heart still stays?
I ask it softly, on my knees, in ordinary days.
You still love them, but you know you can’t remain.
Your chest is full of oceans, your mind is split with pain.
They say “move on” like feelings have a switch.
You search your skin for buttons, but there’s only an old itch.
This isn’t about pretending that you’re done.
It’s choosing your own pulse while you still miss someone.
You, the anxious soul who waits for every sign,
Count the minutes, read the silence, call it “love” and call it “mine.”
You think if you can just hold tighter, they won’t flee.
But their avoidant bones are built for running free.
You don’t have to wait until your heart is clean.
You can walk out of the fire while your love is still unseen.
You don’t have to hate them just to leave.
You can carry what was holy and still let yourself grieve.
Love doesn’t vanish simply because you’re done.
It lingers like faint daylight after the setting sun.
Sometimes you leave while the love is still alive.
That isn’t failure; it’s the way your truth survives.
You can adore them and still see you’re misaligned.
Emotion in your chest, but broken structure in your mind.
Anxious hearts beg, “Tell me I am enough.”
Avoidant hearts flinch, “You are close, this is too much.”
Love is the burning, compatibility is the frame.
If trust and steady effort crack, the house won’t stay the same.
Missing them doesn’t prove you chose it wrong.
It proves you’re human, and your feelings still are strong.
Your mind replays the highlight reel at night.
Soft hands, warm laughter, bodies framed in golden light.
Healing asks you not to edit out the grey.
Remember the stone-cold mornings when they pulled themselves away.
Remember the unanswered messages on your phone.
The way you twisted loneliness into “this is being grown.”
Missing someone should not bleach the facts you know.
You left because your nervous system couldn’t take the blow.
Closure, you thought, would come wrapped in a perfect speech.
One last talk, one clean reason you could finally reach.
But avoidant hearts slip out the backdoor in the dark.
They fear the very flame that lit your anxious spark.
Real closure isn’t something they can send.
It’s the moment you decide that this is truly the end.
Grieve as if your whole sky split in two.
Cry in your parked car, write what they once meant to you.
Talk it through with someone who can hear.
Feel the full weight of the love and of the fear.
But don’t set up your furniture inside the pain.
Grief is a passing storm, not your lifelong name.
You are not the breakup, not the night you bled.
You are the person standing, still alive, still being led.
So cut the secret strings that keep you near.
No more scrolling their feed when you drown in fear.
No more old messages like scripture on your phone.
No more songs that resurrect what should be left alone.
Distance isn’t punishment for what they didn’t give.
It’s the fence you build so your own heart can live.
Rebuild your mornings without their face.
New coffee cups, new routes, a quieter kind of grace.
Create small rituals that don’t depend on “us.”
New pages, long walks, a life that doesn’t rust.
Your anxious system learns a different sound.
Not panic, not pursuit, but steady, sacred ground.
Then forgive yourself for staying long in that storm.
For believing love could change what was never fully warm.
You held on because you hoped they’d meet you there.
Because you saw their potential through the fog of your despair.
That doesn’t mean that you were naive or small.
It means you cared enough to give your heart in full.
Release the shame that says you should have known.
You did the best you could with the tools you were shown.
Here is the truth that hits the deepest bone:
Moving on isn’t betrayal of the love you’d grown.
You are not turning on the past with cold disdain.
You are blessing what it taught you and stepping out of pain.
One day this impossible love will lose its knife.
It will soften into story instead of running your whole life.
It will be a chapter, not the book you clutch at night.
You will sleep without their shadow blocking out your light.
You can love someone and still choose your peace.
You can miss someone and still let the chase decrease.
You can cry over someone and still move on.
Because the strongest kind of love is knowing when it’s gone.
And gently, in a voice that finally sounds like you,
You say, “I release you, and I stay with what is true.”

RSP

…

DCG

Screenshot

How to move on when you still love someone? If you still love them, but you know you can’t stay, this is the part nobody prepares you for. Because moving on isn’t about turning your feelings off. It’s about choosing yourself while your heart is still attached.
Number one, stop waiting to not feel it anymore. You don’t have to hate them to leave. You don’t have to be over them to move forward. Love doesn’t disappear on command. Sometimes you move on while still loving them, and that doesn’t make you weak. It makes you emotionally honest.
Number two, separate love from compatibility. You can love someone deeply and still not be aligned. Love is emotion, compatibility is structure. If the structure is broken—trust, effort, timing, maturity—love alone cannot hold it together. Missing them doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It means you’re human.
Number three, stop romanticizing the highlights. Your mind will replay the best moments, the laughter, the intimacy, the comfort. But healing requires balance. Remember the confusion, too. The nights you felt anxious, the times you felt unheard. Missing someone should not erase the reasons you had to let go.
Number four, accept that closure is often internal. You may never get the perfect apology, the perfect explanation, the perfect goodbye. Waiting for closure from someone else keeps you emotionally tied. Real closure happens when you decide that what you experienced was enough information.
Number five, grieve fully, but don’t unpack permanently. Cry, journal, talk it out, feel it, but don’t build a home inside the pain. Grief is a season, not an identity. You are not the breakup, you are the person surviving it.
Number six, remove silent access. Stop checking their page, stop rereading old messages, stop playing songs that reopen the wound. Healing cannot happen while you’re secretly feeding the attachment. Distance is not about punishment, it’s about protection.
Number seven, rebuild your routine without them. Love weaves people into your daily life: good morning texts, shared habits, weekend rituals. When it ends, the emptiness feels loud. So create new rhythms, new habits, new small joys. Your nervous system needs fresh stability.
Number eight, forgive yourself for staying as long as you did. Sometimes we hold on because we hoped it would change, because we saw potential, because we believed in love. That doesn’t make you foolish, it means you cared. Release the shame. You did the best you could with the version of yourself you were.
And here’s what hits the deepest. Moving on isn’t betrayal. You’re not betraying the memories, you’re not betraying the love you felt, you’re not betraying the version of you that wanted it to work. You’re honoring your future. And one day, the love that feels impossible to release right now will soften. It won’t sting the same. It won’t control your thoughts. It will become a chapter, not the whole story. You can love someone and still choose peace. You can miss someone and still choose growth. You can cry over someone and still walk forward. Because sometimes the strongest kind of love is the one where you let go gently.

— Jordan Peterson