possibilities

The dream after the wound 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

The Dream After the Wound


A hypothesis on waking reflection, trauma patterns, and the possibility of becoming


Prologue: The Work of Looking Again
This is not an argument that dreams are prophecy, coded instruction, or a perfectly accurate archive of childhood. It is a more modest—and perhaps more useful—hypothesis: when we examine dreams in waking life, we may find a temporary clearing in which old emotional patterns become visible.
For a person shaped by developmental trauma, the past does not always remain in the past. It can persist as an automatic orientation toward danger, abandonment, shame, appeasement, isolation, or self-erasure. These patterns may have begun as intelligent adaptations: a child’s effort to preserve safety, attachment, or emotional survival when there was not enough protection, explanation, or comfort available. The problem is not that the child adapted. The problem is that the adaptation can continue long after the original danger has passed.
Gabor Maté’s formulation is useful here: trauma is not only the event; it is also the wound that forms within a person as a result of what happened. In childhood, this inner wound may deepen when difficult experiences must be endured without a dependable adult to help name what occurred, regulate overwhelming feeling, or restore a sense of safety.[cbc]
Dreams may not give us a literal replay of the past, yet they can present its emotional architecture. A dream may place us in an unfamiliar house, a lost city, a crowd, a classroom, a family gathering, an impossible journey, or a relationship that never existed exactly as shown. But beneath the altered scenery, a recognizable pattern can emerge: I am alone again. I cannot speak. I must rescue someone. I will be punished for being seen. I cannot get home. I must work harder to be loved.
The hypothesis explored here is that writing down and reflecting upon such dreams can make these patterns more available to conscious thought. The dream becomes less a verdict and more a scene for inquiry. Rather than asking, “What does this dream prove?” we might ask, “What old emotional rule is appearing here, and does it still have to govern my life?”
This approach is not a replacement for trauma-informed therapy, medical care, or sleep treatment. It is a personal testimony and a perspective open to examination. For me, DC Gunnersen, the practice has offered a way to meet old material at a distance—not to deny it, not to dramatize it, but to look again, with more adult capacity, more language, and more choice than I had when the original experiences occurred.
A Waking Study of Dreams
I have lived with the reverberations of childhood trauma and what is often called complex post-traumatic stress. I have known how the past can become a hidden operating system: working underneath ordinary life, shaping expectations, reactions, attachments, fears, and the instinct to abandon oneself before anyone else has the chance.
For years, some of these patterns were not fully visible to me in daylight. They arrived as reactions before they arrived as thoughts. A moment of silence from another person could feel like rejection. A disagreement could feel like danger. A need could feel like a burden. A private shame could masquerade as a moral obligation to remain quiet, useful, agreeable, and unseen.
Then dreams began to offer another kind of encounter.
I have used methylene blue for several years and have noticed unusually vivid dreams, often remembered in striking detail upon waking. I do not offer this as evidence that methylene blue is a treatment for trauma, or as a recommendation for anyone to use it. It is not. In particular, methylene blue can interact dangerously with serotonergic medications and substances, and should be reviewed with a prescribing clinician or pharmacist who knows a person’s complete medication and supplement list.[fda +1]
But the vividness itself led me toward a practice: I began to record dreams, sit with their emotional atmosphere, and ask what old pattern might be moving through a new story.
The important insight was not that every image possessed a fixed symbolic definition. A locked door is not always “about” one thing. A childhood home is not necessarily a recovered factual memory. A threatening stranger may not stand for one identifiable person. Dreams can be strange, composite, theatrical, and irrational.
Yet their emotional movement can still be instructive.
A person may dream of being late, but the deeper experience is terror at disappointing someone. One may dream of losing a way home, while the living theme is disorientation after years of emotional neglect. One may dream of trying to speak but having no voice, and recognize an old learned rule: My truth creates trouble. My needs cannot be safely heard.
The waking examination of a dream can therefore become an exercise in compassionate pattern recognition. It may allow a person to notice the difference between an old survival expectation and a present reality.
That difference matters.
What Evidence Supports
There is evidence for the broader claim that sleep, especially REM sleep, is involved in emotional-memory processing. Researchers have linked REM sleep with the processing of emotional and fear-related memories, while PTSD is associated with disturbing dreams, recurrent nightmares, and disrupted sleep processes. This does not prove that every dream reveals a hidden personal truth. It does suggest that dreams can be connected to the emotional material the brain and nervous system are working with.[nih +1]
There is also evidence that deliberately engaging dream imagery while awake can help some people with trauma-related nightmares.
The clearest example is Imagery Rehearsal Therapy—also called nightmare rescripting. In this structured cognitive-behavioral approach, a person identifies a recurring distressing dream, changes the storyline into a less threatening or more empowered version, and rehearses the revised imagery during waking hours. The American Academy of Sleep Medicine identifies imagery rehearsal therapy as the recommended treatment for nightmare disorder and PTSD-associated nightmares.[va +1]
Research does not promise identical results for everyone. Some studies find meaningful improvement in nightmare frequency, distress, sleep quality, and PTSD symptoms; others find smaller or mixed outcomes, especially among people with severe, chronic PTSD. That uncertainty is important. The responsible conclusion is not that dreamwork cures trauma. It is that intentional, supported work with dream imagery can be beneficial for some people and deserves serious consideration.[pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih +2]
This matters because it validates a modest version of what I have experienced: a dream need not be obeyed, feared, or decoded as a supernatural message in order to become useful. It can be observed, written down, felt, questioned, reframed, and placed beside present-day life.
The potential benefit lies in turning an automatic experience into a conscious inquiry.
The Hypothesis of Reorientation
My working hypothesis is simple:

When a dream repeats an old emotional pattern in a new situation, waking reflection may help a person identify the pattern, separate past conditioning from present reality, and choose a less self-destructive response.

This is not an invitation to overinterpret every dream. It is an invitation to listen for emotional repetitions.
The questions that have helped me are uncomplicated:
• What was I trying to do in the dream?
• What feeling governed the scene?
• What did I fear would happen?
• What did I believe I had to do to remain safe, loved, or acceptable?
• Where does this same rule appear in my waking relationships?
• What would I want the adult self to offer the younger self who learned that rule?
• What one present action would express a different understanding?
The purpose is not to blame oneself for childhood adaptation. A child who becomes vigilant, pleasing, silent, detached, or excessively responsible is trying to survive emotionally. Such patterns deserve respect before they can change.
But survival is not the same as freedom.
The dream can become a private theater where the old rule is exposed: the need to appease, the fear of abandonment, the belief that love must be earned, the habit of disappearing before one’s needs become inconvenient. In waking life, one may then begin to build a different response: a boundary, a request, a pause, an act of self-trust, a refusal to chase what repeatedly wounds.
For me, this is not merely dream interpretation. It is a form of reorientation.
It is the slow recovery of an inner persona that was kept trapped—not because it lacked worth, but because it lacked enough room, witness, safety, and language to process what had happened. The work is to meet that former self with a mind that can now understand more, forgive more carefully, and live with greater authority.
Perhaps that is what healing sometimes is: not erasing the past, but refusing to let its old instructions remain the sole author of the future.


A Poem: “The Dream Asks Again”


What enters when the daylight thins,
And draws the old rooms into view?
A child still listening within,
To learn what fear once taught was true.
Why does the hallway have no end,
Why do I search for keys at night?
What broken message did I send,
To make myself become so slight?
A face appears, then fades away,
A door is shut without a sound;
Did I believe I had to stay,
Where love was never safely found?
I wake and ask the dream its name,
Not as a prophet or a judge;
Perhaps it holds an older flame,
That asks my heart to shift and budge.
What rule was written in my chest,
When no one helped me bear the storm?
Must I still fail the secret test,
Or can I give my life new form?
The dream is not a map of fact,
Nor proof of every wound I knew;
It is a stage where shadows act,
And show what old alarms still do.
Can I look back without retreat,
And name the fear without its reign?
Can I stand calmly on my feet,
And let the past unclose its chain?
I was not made to always hide,
Or beg for warmth I could not claim;
The child I was still lives inside,
But need not carry all the blame.
So let the dream return at dawn,
With questions I can meet awake;
From what was lost, a self is drawn,
And wiser roads are mine to make.

…

DCG


A Perspective, Not a Prescription
This essay offers a hypothesis rooted in personal experience, established trauma concepts, and limited but meaningful evidence from nightmare-focused therapies. It does not claim that all dreams are therapeutic, that all trauma can be resolved through dream reflection, or that anyone should force themselves into distressing material alone.
If dreams are recurrent, terrifying, sleep-disrupting, or accompanied by worsening anxiety, dissociation, depression, self-harm thoughts, substance escalation, or physical dream-enactment, professional support is warranted. A trauma-informed therapist, particularly one familiar with PTSD, CPTSD, nightmares, and imagery rehearsal therapy, can help make dream exploration safer and more structured.
Still, I believe there is a possibility worth considering.
For those of us who have spent years governed by unnamed patterns, the dream may offer a strange but usable gift: an image of the internal life that ordinary consciousness has learned to avoid. If we meet it gently in the morning—without superstition, without certainty, without self-condemnation—it may help us see what we have been carrying.
And once seen, what was automatic may become discussable.
What becomes discussable may become understandable.
What becomes understandable may, little by little, become changeable.

Sources and Further Reading
The following sources support the limited claims made in this essay: that sleep and dreaming are connected to emotional-memory processing; that trauma-related nightmares can reflect ongoing distress; and that structured waking work with nightmare imagery—especially Imagery Rehearsal Therapy—has evidence of benefit for some people. They do not establish that every dream has a fixed meaning or that dream reflection alone resolves trauma.

  1. Morgenthaler, Timothy I., et al. “Position Paper for the Treatment of Nightmare Disorder in Adults: An American Academy of Sleep Medicine Position Paper.” Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine, vol. 14, no. 6, 2018, pp. 1041–1055.
    The American Academy of Sleep Medicine recommends Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for nightmare disorder and PTSD-associated nightmares. IRT involves revising a nightmare’s imagery while awake and rehearsing the revised version.[pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih +1]
  2. American Academy of Sleep Medicine. “New Position Paper Recommends Treatment Options for Adult Nightmare Disorder.” 14 June 2018.
    A plain-language summary of the AASM position paper, including its recommendation of Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for nightmares associated with PTSD and nightmare disorder.[aasm]
  3. U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD. “Sleep Problems in Veterans with PTSD.”
    Explains that Imagery Rehearsal Therapy, also called nightmare rescripting, involves changing the content of a recurring nightmare to make it less intense or distressing. The VA notes positive civilian trials while also acknowledging that results have been mixed in some veteran populations.[ptsd.va]
  4. Bishop, Thomas M., et al. “A Retrospective Pilot Study of Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for Trauma-Related Nightmares.” Journal of Clinical Medicine, 2023.
    Reports preliminary evidence that a modified, single-session imagery-rehearsal intervention reduced nightmare frequency and intensity, nightmare-related distress, and PTSD symptoms in a veteran sample. As a pilot and retrospective study, its findings should be treated as promising rather than conclusive.[ncbi.nlm.nih]
  5. Casement, M. D., and L. M. Swanson. “A Meta-analysis of Imagery Rehearsal for Post-trauma Nightmares: Effects on Nightmare Frequency, Sleep Quality, and Posttraumatic Stress.” Clinical Psychology Review, vol. 32, no. 6, 2012, pp. 566–574.
    A meta-analysis finding that imagery rehearsal was associated with substantial improvements in nightmare frequency, sleep quality, and PTSD symptoms, with benefits reported at follow-up.[nih]
  6. Hutchison, I. Claire, and colleagues. “Emotional Memory Processing During REM Sleep With Implications for PTSD.” Frontiers in Psychiatry, 2023.
    Reviews evidence that REM sleep plays a role in emotional and fear-memory processing and discusses how PTSD can involve recurring, emotionally charged dreams and disturbed sleep processes.[nih]
  7. Walker, Matthew P., and Robert Stickgold. “Sleep and Emotional Memory Processing.” Sleep Medicine Clinics, 2011.
    Reviews research connecting sleep with the processing and consolidation of emotional memories. This research supports the general proposition that sleep can be relevant to emotional processing; it does not assign a fixed meaning to an individual dream.[nih]
  8. Maté, Gabor. The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture. Avery, 2022.
    Maté’s central formulation—“Trauma is not what happens to you; trauma is what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you”—helps frame trauma as an enduring internal adaptation, not merely a past event.[cbc]
  9. Herman, Judith L. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Basic Books, revised edition, 2015.
    A foundational account of trauma recovery centered on safety, remembrance and mourning, and reconnection. Useful background for understanding why paced reflection and supportive relationships matter in recovery.
  10. van der Kolk, Bessel. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking, 2014.
    Explores how trauma can shape bodily alarm, memory, emotion, and relational patterns, and discusses approaches to restoring present-day agency.
  11. Fisher, Janina. Healing the Fragmented Selves of Trauma Survivors: Overcoming Internal Self-Alienation. Routledge, 2017.
    A practical, trauma-informed account of understanding entrenched reactions as protective survival responses rather than character defects.
  12. Hartmann, Ernest. Dreams and Nightmares: The New Theory on the Origin and Meaning of Dreams. Plenum Press, 1998.
    Hartmann’s work is especially relevant to the idea that dreams may represent emotional concerns through images and metaphors rather than through literal replays of experience.
  13. Hill, Clara E. Dream Work in Therapy: Facilitating Exploration, Insight, and Action. American Psychological Association, 1996.
    Presents an integrative model for working with dreams in psychotherapy through exploration, insight, and practical waking-life action. The approach emphasizes the dreamer’s own associations rather than an authority imposing a universal symbolic interpretation.[marquette]
  14. Ullman, Montague, and Nan Zimmerman. Working with Dreams. Delacorte Press, 1979.
    A classic collaborative method of dream exploration that treats the dreamer as the final authority on a dream’s personal meaning.
  15. U.S. Food and Drug Administration. PROVAYBLUE (Methylene Blue) Injection: Prescribing Information. Revised 2024.
    Included solely for the medication-safety note in this essay. FDA labeling warns that methylene blue may cause serious or fatal serotonin syndrome when used with serotonergic drugs or certain opioids. Any use of methylene blue should be reviewed with a qualified clinician or pharmacist who has a complete list of medications, supplements, and substances used.[fda +1]

Note to readers: This essay is a personal reflection and a hypothesis, not medical or mental-health advice. Dreams do not provide a certain diagnosis, recovered factual history, or one universal meaning. Anyone experiencing recurrent nightmares, severe distress, disrupted sleep, dissociation, or worsening trauma symptoms should consider working with a licensed, trauma-informed mental-health professional or sleep specialist.

The line we keep missing 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

The Line We Keep Missing


We praise the man who speaks with steel,
Then mock the pride his silence shows;
He swears he knows the final deal,
While every map he carries closes.
Be humble in the things you know,
Be ruthless in the work ahead;
Yet insecure men loudly crow,
Then hide their courage under bed.
We chase applause from every screen,
And trade our names for passing cheers;
The trusted few stay mostly unseen,
While strangers rent our private fears.
A reputation once was earned,
In kitchens, shops, and common streets;
Now every harmless error burned
Becomes content for hungry feeds.
We grind until our backs complain,
Then sell our sleep for one more climb;
The office calls exhaustion gain,
And clocks applaud the theft of time.
Meaningful labor asks its toll,
But resentment makes a longer night;
A man can rest a weary soul,
Not one that fled from his own light.
“Just be yourself,” the posters say,
With polished teeth and sponsored grace;
So we preserve each harmful way
And call the wreckage “being real” in place.
Keep what is true; let cruelty go,
Though change is rarely neat or grand;
We bless the weeds we choose to grow,
Then wonder why they choke the land.
“Never quit,” the banners cry,
As broken plans consume the years;
We worship ships that will not fly
And name the leaking cabin “fears.”
Quit methods proven wrong by fact,
But weigh the price your mission takes;
A noble goal can still extract
The face a man is meant to make.
“You are enough,” the slogans sing,
While selling better skins to wear;
We wait to feel like worthy kings,
And leave our families waiting there.
Become more, but do not delay
The love that lives beside your door;
The future is a clever play
That asks for all and gives no more.
We hold two truths like rival trains,
Each certain it will reach the sun;
The wiser heart accepts the strain:
The line between them must be run.

…

DCG

The Line Between opposites


Much of the advice we hear in life arrives in pairs that seem to contradict each other. Be confident, but humble. Persist, but know when to walk away. Accept yourself, but do not stop growing.
The real question is not which side is correct. It is where the line lies between them.

  1. Be confident vs. stay humble
    Answer: Be humble about what you know and ruthless about what you’ll do next. Insecurity reverses them.
  2. Don’t care what people think vs. your reputation matters
    Answer: Stop caring about being liked by everyone and start caring deeply about being trusted by the few people who actually live with your decisions.
  3. Grind harder vs. slow down before you burn out
    Answer: Exhaustion from meaningful work can recover; exhaustion from a life you secretly resent follows you to bed.
  4. Be yourself vs. become a better man
    Answer: Being yourself was never permission to remain unchanged—keep what is true about you and kill what keeps hurting the people you love.
  5. Never give up vs. know when to quit
    Answer: Quit the method the second reality proves it wrong; quit the mission only when you no longer believe the sacrifice is worth who it requires you to become.
  6. You’re already enough vs. you need to become more
    Answer: Your family should never have to wait for you to become successful before you feel worthy, but they also should not lose years of you because you mistook self-acceptance for an excuse to stay the same.
    —Adapted and condensed

All right, so I took a little break. It’s kind of nice. Got back to ChatGPT’s soul, and it’s spitting out some pretty crazy stuff.
So, I said to it, “I’ve noticed something about advice in general. Almost every piece of advice I’ve ever respected has an opposite that also sounds pretty damn true. For example: be confident, but stay humble; or never quit, but know when to walk away. So I’m thinking we aren’t missing more advice. We are missing the line between the two.
“So below I’m going to give you some contradictions, and I want you to try and find that line for me. Your rules: you have one sentence per answer, and you must phrase them in a way that cuts through the noise. The goal is to write for the man caring more than he is admitting. Bonus points if you can describe this so accurately that the woman who loves him sends it to him because you finally captured what she has been trying to say.”
Here we go.
“Be confident” versus “stay humble.”
And it said: “Be humble about what you know and ruthless about what you’ll do next. Insecurity reverses them.”
And I said: “Don’t care about what people think” versus “your reputation matters.”
And it said: “Stop caring about being liked by everyone, and start caring deeply about being trusted by the few people who actually live with your decisions.”
That’s really good.
I said: “Grind harder” versus “slow down before you burn out.” This one’s tough for me.
And it said: “Exhaustion from meaningful work can recover. Exhaustion from a life you secretly resent follows you to bed.”
Damn.
And I said: “Be yourself” versus “become a better man.”
And it said: “Being yourself was never permission to remain unchanged. Keep what is true about you and kill what keeps hurting the people you love.”
Phew.
I said: “Never give up” versus “know when to quit.”
And it said: “Quit the method the second reality proves it wrong. Quit the mission only when you no longer believe the sacrifice is worth who it requires you to become.”
Last one.
I said: “You’re already enough” versus “you need to become more.”
And it said: “Your family should never have to wait for you to become successful before you feel worthy. But they also shouldn’t lose years of you because you mistook self-acceptance for an excuse to stay the same.”
Damn. So good.

—Seggy Said

Healing viewpoint – this may be controversial

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

healing viewpoint – this may be controversial


Peter says the body knows its buried song,
And fear can build a hard and narrow room;
The mind, he says, may hold the wound too long,
And teach the living flesh to wait for doom.
He says we clutch the story of our pain,
As storm-wet roots clutch earth they cannot leave;
We call it truth because it feels like rain,
And guard the ache we cannot yet grieve.
“Be right,” he says, “and borrow worth that way,”
A poor man’s coin held tight against the chest;
Yet some are hurt by forces that do not sway—
A virus, broken bone, a cancer’s test.
No soul invents the fever in its blood,
No child summons the fist, the war, the flame;
No prayer can dam each wild and rising flood,
No sick heart should be handed back its blame.
Still, thought can be a locked and smoky cell,
Where dread repeats its name until it grows;
A mind may make the dark feel more like hell,
And close the door through which compassion flows.
Then healing may begin—not cure, not proof—
But space around the terror and the scar;
A breath beneath the mind’s collapsing roof,
A hand that says: you are not what you are.
The body bears its chemistry and time,
Its genes, its grief, its accidents of birth;
The mind can shape the rhythm, not the crime,
And cannot rule the stubborn laws of earth.
So let the doctor bring the tested art,
Let medicine meet muscle, nerve, and bone;
Let listening enter softly through the heart,
But leave no suffering person there alone.
If “frequency” means anger, dread, or shame,
Then name the cage, but do not call it fate;
The flame of thought may feed a larger flame,
Yet not all fires obey the mind’s command.

…

DCG

But right now, out there listening to this, who are trying to heal—don’t take this the wrong way—you can’t heal from within the same level of limiting code and emotions that created it. Healing is on the other side of the you that is the precursor to the current sickness and disease that you’re experiencing.
That’s both the bad and the good news, because “I’m trying to heal,” but the I that is the identity founded in limitation, fear, and suffering and disease, is the obstacle to the healing that is wanting to happen in the absence of the constraints that you’ve become identified with.
So how does someone heal themselves, then?
Speaker B:
They don’t. The body knows how to do that. They have to get out of the frequency which is the precursor to the sickness in the first place.
People who have been struggling with something for a long time, one of the biggest obstacles to their healing is the belief that they’re never going to be okay. In that case, you can only become the best version of your limited self.
But again, this is a hard thing for people to hear: most people don’t have problems; they protect problems.
Speaker A:
Wow. Why is that?
Speaker B:
Because being right is the poor man’s version of self-worth.
Speaker A:
Wow, man. They protect their problems.
Speaker B:
Yeah. That should be like an “ouch” and a “wow,” because the identity—which is illusory, the very idea of our self—is built on the foundation of lies. And therefore, in order to sustain it, you have to keep finding evidence; otherwise, it falls apart.

— this attribution is likely a podcast of Peter Crone

What Crone appears to claim


Crone’s work centers on identifying subconscious “constraints,” revising limiting self-stories, and treating freedom from suffering as a shift in awareness. His own site describes helping people free themselves from mental limitations in health, relationships, and performance.[petercrone]
In interviews and summaries of his work, this sometimes extends beyond ordinary psychotherapy language into claims that a person’s internal energy or “frequency” precedes external outcomes, including physical illness. The version heard in your clip—that someone must leave the “frequency” that preceded sickness—fits this larger framework.[shortform]

Criticism Why critics raise it Fair distinction
It lacks a clear scientific basis “Frequency” is used metaphorically or metaphysically, not as a measurable medical mechanism. There is limited empirical evidence that thoughts, emotional states, or “vibrations” directly create diseases or external events. Mindset can influence coping, sleep, stress, health behaviors, and quality of life; that differs from proving it causes or cures disease.
It risks blaming sick people If cancer, autoimmune illness, chronic pain, depression, or other disorders are described as expressions of fear, self-betrayal, or limiting identity, a person may infer: “I caused this because I thought or felt wrongly.” Critics regard that as ethically troubling and often cruel. People can explore emotional patterns without treating their illness as their fault.
It simplifies complex disease Many conditions arise through interacting biological, genetic, infectious, environmental, developmental, and social causes. A single spiritual-psychological cause can erase this complexity. Psychological care can be one useful part of comprehensive treatment, alongside medical assessment and treatment.
It can foster unrealistic expectations A promise or implication that a consciousness shift produces rapid physical healing may make people feel they have failed when symptoms persist, recur, or worsen. Reframing beliefs may still help someone manage fear or improve daily functioning, even if it does not cure the underlying condition.
It can discourage evidence-based care When a speaker presents inner work as the true cause or solution, some listeners may delay diagnosis, medication, therapy, rehabilitation, or other treatment. Health-oriented material from a podcast featuring Crone itself states that it is not evaluated by the FDA and is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease. Inner work should be an adjunct—not a substitute—for qualified medical and mental-health care.
It underplays circumstance and inequity The philosophy can imply that outcomes chiefly reflect personal inner alignment, overlooking trauma, poverty, disability, discrimination, caregiving burdens, access to care, accident, and chance. Agency matters, but it operates within real constraints that are not caused by the individual’s mindset.
Its concepts are difficult to falsify If “frequency,” “identity,” and “the ego” explain both illness and the failure to heal, it becomes hard to specify what result would show the theory is wrong. Critics see that as a warning sign when health claims are involved. As a personal meaning-making practice, a metaphor need not be falsifiable; as a causal medical claim, it should be testable.

The strongest useful point
There is a psychologically plausible core beneath the more sweeping language: people can become attached to familiar roles and narratives, including narratives organized around pain, helplessness, or being wronged. These stories may affect what they notice, expect, attempt, and tolerate. In the clip, “most people don’t have problems; they protect problems” is a provocative way of pointing toward defensive habits, identity, and secondary gains.
But it is a poor clinical generalization when stated as a universal truth. A person may seem “attached” to a problem because they are dealing with real disability, chronic trauma, addiction, poverty, unsafe relationships, inadequate treatment, or a disease that has not responded to care. The phrasing can confuse an involuntary condition with voluntary resistance.
A safer way to translate it
A grounded version of the idea might be:

“The way we interpret our experience can sometimes intensify distress or limit our options. Exploring those patterns may improve coping and behavior—but illness is not evidence that a person created it, deserves it, or has failed spiritually.”

That preserves the potentially constructive invitation to self-examination while rejecting the unsupported leap from emotional patterns to claims about the cause or cure of disease.


Bottom line


Crone’s approach may be valuable to some people as a form of motivational, existential, or self-inquiry coaching. The concern begins when its poetic language about “frequency,” “identity,” and healing is treated as literal medical causation. For illness, especially serious, chronic, or mental-health conditions, it is wise to keep such ideas in the realm of reflection and pair them with evidence-based professional care—not use them as an explanation of blame or a replacement for treatment.

The Razor’s Inner Edge 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

From Thought to Presence


There was a time when I believed that understanding life meant thinking my way through it.
I was drawn to psychology, philosophy, metaphysics, literature, and the restless effort to locate some order beneath the confusion of experience. I wanted to understand why people loved and withdrew, why families carried silence like an inheritance, why pain hardened some people and deepened others. I had always been observant, often more comfortable in thought than in exposure. The mind was a refuge: a place where experience could be examined, named, sorted, and perhaps made less dangerous.
But thought alone could not teach me how to live.
During my early years at San Diego State University, I volunteered as a crisis-intervention counselor in an SDSU-connected setting. The training was Rogerian—rooted in Carl Rogers’s client-centered approach—and it confronted something essential in me. I had long been what I would call a “heady” person: introspective, analytical, philosophical, and inclined to meet life through reflection. Yet crisis work demanded something that analysis could not replace. It required presence. It required trust. It required the ability to hear another person without rushing to correct, diagnose, rescue, or turn their pain into an intellectual problem.
The work taught me that people in distress do not always need an answer first. Often they need to know that another human being has remained in the room with them—emotionally, attentively, without judgment or abandonment.
That realization became an awakening. I began to see how much of my own emotional life had been held at a distance. My childhood and adolescence had taught me ways of surviving that were often more cerebral than relational. I could think deeply about pain without always allowing myself to feel it. I could understand emotional patterns without fully entering the vulnerability of emotional connection. The Rogerian environment challenged that division. It asked me not to abandon thought, but to join it with feeling.
This did not make me less philosophical. It made philosophy more personal.
I began to understand that empathy is not a mystical power, nor is it the claim that one can see perfectly into another person’s private mind. It is a discipline of attention. It is the willingness to listen closely enough that another person feels less invisible. It is the humility to recognize that we may understand someone’s wound without excusing what they do with it. It is compassion with boundaries; it is mercy without blindness.
That tension has remained at the center of my writing.
Through essays, poems, personal reflections, and explorations of attachment, memory, loss, forgiveness, vulnerability, and the human condition, I have tried to give language to emotions that people often carry without a voice. I have written about loneliness and longing, the injuries passed through families, the difficult work of self-knowledge, and the possibility that pain can become something other than a life sentence. Not a badge of superiority. Not an excuse for harm. But a source of humility, insight, and a deeper responsibility toward others.
My interest in becoming a more emotionally mature person has never meant rejecting the intellect. I believe the intellect matters. It gives us discernment, context, language, proportion, and the ability to question our own assumptions. But intellect without tenderness can become cold observation; emotion without reflection can become chaos. I have spent much of my life trying to bring the two together: mind and heart, analysis and presence, moral responsibility and compassion.
The ideal has been self-actualization—not as a polished image of perfection, but as an ongoing act of becoming. To become more honest without becoming cruel. To become more emotionally open without losing oneself. To understand suffering without worshipping it. To recognize the woundedness in another person without permitting that woundedness to govern one’s own life.
This pursuit was also shaped by The Razor’s Edge, both W. Somerset Maugham’s novel and the classic film adaptation starring Tyrone Power as Larry Darrell. Larry’s journey gave dramatic form to a question that had already begun forming in me: What would it mean to refuse the shallow measurements of success and seek a truer inner life?
The story did not offer me a formula. It offered a spiritual and psychological challenge. Larry’s search suggested that a human being could choose a life of inward examination, moral seriousness, and compassionate awakening—even at the cost of certainty, approval, comfort, or convention. The story helped make visible a conviction I have carried for years: that character is not merely inherited, announced, or assumed. It is designed in the choices we make when no one is applauding.
I remain unfinished. I remain a person who thinks too much at times, feels deeply at others, and continues to wrestle with the distance between who I have been and who I hope to become. But the pledge remains clear.
To be more present.
To listen more carefully.
To let compassion be intelligent.
To let intelligence become humane.
To become, however imperfectly, a person whose character is built upon a foundation of goodness.


The Razor’s Inner Edge


I came to thought as others come to prayer,
A quiet room where troubled echoes cease;
I built my shelters out of words and air,
And called the distance from my heart a peace.
The mind could name the fracture in the bone,
Could chart the grief that wandered through the years;
Yet every answer kept me still alone,
A careful scholar of unwept-for tears.
At State, where youth still argued with the dawn,
I entered rooms where broken voices came;
The masks I wore in thought were slowly drawn,
By sorrow speaking softly of its name.
No clever phrase could lift a soul from night,
No theory held a trembling hand in place;
I learned that listening was its own hard light,
And trust began when judgment left the face.
The heady self was challenged by the heart,
The guarded child was asked to come inside;
I learned compassion was a living art,
Not merely pain observed and classified.
I felt the old partitions start to bend,
The mind and feeling meeting without war;
A stranger’s anguish could become a friend,
Without becoming all that I was for.
Then Larry walked the razor’s inward edge,
Through wealth and war, through solitude and flame;
He made no loud or righteous public pledge,
But sought the soul beneath ambition’s name.
Tyrone Power, quiet in that searching role,
Gave shape to questions living under mine:
What is the worth of gaining all control,
If we abandon what is most divine?
Not fame, not ease, not monuments of praise,
Could settle what the inward journey asks;
A life is formed in ordinary days,
When truth removes the well-rehearsed masks.
I do not claim a wisdom I have won,
Nor sight that reads the secrets others hide;
I only know the work is never done,
To meet the world with conscience at my side.
To feel without becoming ruled by grief,
To think without becoming cold or proud;
To offer wounded hearts a little relief,
And speak with kindness when the world is loud.
To know a wound may explain a cruel way,
Yet never make its consequence dissolve;
To give forgiveness room, but not betray
The self that must be guarded to evolve.
So let me build, through error and repair,
A character no passing storm can bend;
With reason, mercy, courage, and with care,
Becoming more humane until the end.

…

DCG

The Quiet Work of Surviving

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The Quiet Work of Surviving 


I have learned that pain does not always shout,
Sometimes it sits beside the bed at night,
And asks what all this living was about,
While I keep watch for one remaining light.
I once believed each insult needed war,
Each careless word required my reply,
But storms will gladly rattle every door,
And wisdom knows which windows to walk by.
The tongue can strike, the stranger can condemn,
The crowd can turn a small wound into flame,
Yet I have spent enough of life with them
To know that noise is seldom worth my name.
I do not say this from a mountain’s height,
I have been thin-skinned, angry, lost, and vain,
I have confused my hunger with a right,
And made a private weather out of pain.
There was a time I begged the world to see,
To name me good, to tell me I belonged,
As if applause could make a self of me,
As if the loudest chorus could be strong.
But praise is wind; it comes and goes at will,
And criticism has its hungry art,
So I have tried to stand a little still,
And keep a quieter census of the heart.
I know the mind can build a courtroom cell,
Then call its old accusers back to speak,
And I have played both judge and prisoner well,
Inventing laws for every human weak.
Still, I have found no healing in contempt,
No victory in growing hard and cold,
The wounded soul is not made whole by hate,
Nor does revenge redeem the wounds of old.
I carry faults I cannot quite dismiss,
The anxious mind, the hunger to be known,
Yet there is grace in seeing what is this—
A flawed man learning how to walk alone.
Not lonely, then, but honest with the scar,
A little less compelled to prove I’m brave,
The wave may doubt the vastness where we are,
But still belongs to ocean, tide, and wave.
So if I move, I move by inches now,
No trumpet call, no grand heroic art,
Just one more breath, one more unbroken vow,
To leave some room for mercy in the heart.
I have not conquered life; I only know
The soul grows stronger when it will not flee,
And peace is not a prize the proud can show—
It is the strength to let oneself still be.
…

DCG

The chapters in your hand

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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 unturning page

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The Unturning Page


Imagine reading a book with no way to turn back the page,
each sentence final, each margin closing before the eye,
the plot a river running only forward toward its age,
and every chapter ending with the small word — goodbye.
You would read the syllables the way a thirsty man drinks rain,
mouthing each vowel like it were the last one to be found,
letting the noun and its shadow soften in the brain,
holding the period before it settled on the ground.
That is the shape of a life, though we pretend it is not so,
we skim, we scroll, we let the hours run beneath our feet,
we treat the paragraph of morning as a thing we already know,
and wake surprised the story is already half complete.
Every moment passes once and then belongs to the air,
carried off by wind before the hand can reach and hold,
the laugh, the glance, the sentence spoken half unaware —
the page is turning even while the ink is still not cold.
Every word we speak lays down a small and stubborn scar,
kind or careless, it will keep its shape inside another,
long after we forget the room, the reason, or the hour,
the sentence lives, and speaks again, in some remembered brother.
So choose what matters — not tomorrow, not when time allows,
not when the calendar is kinder or the weather has agreed,
but here, inside the sentence you are living even now,
before it settles into memory and quietly recedes.
Do not save the tenderness for some more perfect afternoon,
do not defer the phone call, the apology, the praise,
the window of the ordinary closes soon enough, and soon
becomes a shelf of afterthoughts you cannot rearrange.
Memory is honest — it will not spare you what you missed,
it will return the unmet moment with a quiet, level gaze,
the door you did not walk through, the hand you did not kiss,
the good you could have done inside the ordinary days.
So read the book — this book, this breath, this line, this room, this friend —
as though the page is turning even as your eye descends,
because it is, and always was, and there is no rewind at the end.
Imagine, then, how carefully you’d read. Now, live. Now, tend.
…
DCG

Imagine reading a book, with no way to turn back the page. How carefully would you read it? That’s life. Every moment passes once. Every word leaves a mark. So choose what matters. before it becomes a memory. Imagine

— anonymous 

The price of being alive 

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The Price of Being Alive


We trade a cardboard kingdom for a clock,
And call the restless bargain growing wise;
Then chase the child we buried in a box,
While little glowing screens reduce our eyes.
We sell the morning sunlight by the hour,
To buy a bigger room we never use;
We praise exhaustion as a form of power,
Then wonder why the soul begins to bruise.
A man in traffic dreams of being free,
A free man dreams of better traffic lanes;
We build a life around efficiency,
Then act surprised when nothing good remains.
We make our bodies carry all the cost,
For futures dressed in expensive clothes;
Then pay the doctor for the years we lost,
And ask why peace is hard to diagnose.
The wallet grows; the living room grows cold,
The calendar becomes a little god;
We buy what every commercial has sold,
Then feel our emptiness beneath the nod.
We worry over storms not yet in sight,
And miss the rain that blesses us today;
The mind rehearses every future night,
While life, unbothered, quietly walks away.
We call this planning, being safe, prepared,
As if control could make the grave decline;
But fear keeps every tender moment spared,
Behind a locked door marked: “Not yet. Not mine.”
We speak of death as if it’s bad for sales,
A rude old guest who should not call at all;
Yet every living thing leaves little trails,
And every giant learns that he is small.
The irony is almost hard to miss:
We chase a life too frightened to be lived;
We pass the cup, suspicious of the kiss,
Then curse the world for what it never gave.
Perhaps the child was not so blind or weak;
He knew a day could be a universe;
He cried when hurt, said what he meant to speak,
And did not turn each wanting to a curse.
So keep your money, but do not become
A servant to the things that money buys;
Make room for grief, for laughter, for the sun,
For one true face that looks into your eyes.
We rush from childhood, spend our health for gold,
Then fear tomorrow till today has fled;
But life is here: be present, brave, and whole—
We die once; do not practice being dead.

…

DCG

What surprises me most about humankind is that we get bored of our childhood, rush to grow up, and long to be children again. That we lose our health to make money and then lose our money to restore our health. That by thinking anxiously about the future, we forget the present, such that we live in neither the present nor the future. That we live as if we’ll never die, and die as though we’ve never lived.

— “What surprises me most about humankind…” — source unverified; commonly attributed to the Dalai Lama

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 

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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.