Allegory of the Cavé

 

The community complex cafe was a decent size, about as big as bookstore. Looking at it from above it took the shape of a lower-case R. At the midpoint of the R’s stem, underneath an open skylight, was a porcelain tub. Inside the tub accretions of dirt and grime lined the sides. Old soil, moss, a discarded paper coffee cup, dead insects, plant matter and an inch or two of rainwater floated together to form a shallow swamp. Throughout the community center people moved and idled about, working from their computers or moleskin notebooks, drinking coffee, writing, reading, planning. Odors of doughy pastries and fresh-baked sweets perfumed the air. Walking along side the tub I paused as the light glinted oddly off the dirty green water. 

Something seemed to be stirring. 

I inched closer to the tub. 

Squinting, I craned my neck over the basin to get a better look. Small, pearly white droplets fell into the tub from high above. What struck me immediately was that it wasn’t cloudy outside. The sun was shining out across a blue suede sky. Plop, bloop, plunk went the drops. I watched as the water took on a gelatinous texture. In the goopy water small organisms I’d never seen before were swimming, branching out like strands of mycelium, forming an elaborate web. Quickly I looked around to see if anyone else noticed what was happening, but a sudden splashing sound sent my eyes back to the tub. Something alien was growing, and fast. A fetus-sized creature twitched and thrashed in the water and as it increased in size so did my dread.

“Uhhh,” I said, raising my voice to alert the others, but it was too late.

By the time I transitioned from the U-sound to the H-sound, the thing had grown to the size of a dog. The commotion had attracted the attention of others in the space. Women and children began to shriek as the abomination hurled itself onto the floor beside the tub. Sharklike, it lurched and wobbled about convulsively. Sharp teeth snapped from its ferocious maw and bit viciously at the air. Its face was all teeth. Within seconds legs began to sprout from the thing’s lower body, causing it to produce hellish, squealing vulture sounds. I staggered backwards in disbelief and horror, trembling, barely able to breathe. A second creature flopped out of the tub with a wet thud. It mutated through rapid phases of gestation with the same uncanny speed as the first. People were falling all over themselves running for the door. Tables and chairs went flying. Cups and plates crashed and broke. The first beast swayed and stomped at the cement floor with its new talons and legs, flapping its frail fins like a demented, shark-headed tyrannosaurus. It lunged at a nearby elderly man who had been trying to flee and bit him clean in half. His legs ran on for a few seconds before collapsing onto the floor.

I tried to scream but only a raspy, choked whimper rose out of me. I turned around and ran toward the main exit at the bend of the R. I yanked madly at the door but it was sealed shut. Back by the skylight the monsters were tearing people to pieces. They had sharp, spearlike pincer arms jutting out from their backs now. Bodies were being thrown around like ragdolls. The only other door I could see was at the base of the R. So I dashed toward it. It wasn’t courage that propelled me, it was fear. I wasn’t thinking. My mind was a mess of adrenaline. My legs - not my intellect - seemed to move me. The creatures were too distracted by the others to notice.

I arrived at the door moving too fast to stop. My entire body hit it full force and blew it open. I went sprawling out into piercing white light and fell to the ground. It was pavement. Instinctively my hands shielded my face from the light. Wincing through my fingers my eyes began to adjust and I could make out that I was on some abandoned movie lot. The horizon was painted on. The lot was lifeless; no cars, no cameras, no equipment, no people, no director’s chairs, no nothing. 

I didn’t understand.

Looking back at the door I’d come through I realized it was made up to look like a community cafe. But. But if the whole building were a prop…then how was I in there with other people? None of us actors. Where was I? How had I gotten there? What was happening? My head was reeling. I stood up and looked around again. 

Nothing changed.

I walked closer to the door I’d come through, where that scene of mad, grisly mayhem still played out. On the doorframe a bulletin had been posted. It showed a picture taken of the storefront printed on faded pink paper. It said: Cavé. Then it dawned on me. This wasn’t real. We were being had. I ripped the bill off the wall and began to laugh. Clutching the pink piece of paper I strode back into the building. I found the nearest person I could and thrust the poster out in front of her. I grabbed her arm and dragged her to the door to show her the fake facade and the emptiness. She went through the same momentary confusion I had. When the bewilderment began to boil off she broke into fit of hysterical laughter. I joined her.

Without speaking, we spoke. 

“So, nothing matters?” we asked rhetorically.

“It’s not real,” we laughed.

“So the entire human experience, hahaha,” we started, “the, hahaha, the WHOLE thing, the ups and downs, the pleasure and pain, HAHAHA, the desire, AHHH AHAHAHA, the escapism, the getting old and dying!”

We were holding our heads laughing, leaning against the doorframe to hold ourselves up. Someone saw us and rushed over.

“What are you doing,” he shouted, “run!”

We looked at him and spit shot from our lips. Uproarious laughter took us. Our faces, uncaring irreverent and mirthful, filled the man with consternation. We grabbed his head and pulled it through the doorframe. A moment of silence. Then, as expected, a wild cackle came croaking out from his throat. His Adam’s apple leapt up and down. He bent over slapping his knee as we all wiped tears from our eyes.

“WhAt aRe yOu dOiNg,” we all said mockingly, “RUN!”

We could hardly stand the laughter as we held our stomachs. We were in stitches. Behind us the creatures continued to rampage through the space, indiscriminately slaughtering the people there. 

Pure pandemonium.

“So, being human,” we went on as we started to regain some composure, “it’s all a big scam? Everything that happens to us is just a push for us to drink coffee and eat cake and serve as patrons of this nondescript background cafe on an abandoned movie lot? Everything else - religions, laws, society, even our thoughts and feelings - is just an elaborate ruse?”

We howled and brayed and barked with absurd laughter. We were roaring. A severed head flew by and went rolling out into the old lot; marooned, detached, stranded. Its eyes blinked once and slowly opened again before a final bloody breath gurgled out.

“Let’s go back inside,” we said. “We have to tell the others!”

We took one another by the arms and in a whirl of joyous, ecstatic delight, we sailed in like dervishes. We sang and danced and laughed and did backflips over the mutilated corpses that lined the cafe floor. The creatures continued prowling, destroying, expanding, consuming, but that was of no concern to us. In this moment we were happy; tickled pink. We were not going gentle in that good night. No. We were going to let the others know. Even if nothing mattered it still felt better to go laughing instead of crying into that good night. Our time would come eventually. Yes, that much was certain. 

A bright red spray of blood, wet, metallic and glistening, misted over my face. Was it mine? I don’t know. 

Why worry about it?

The Horror of Count Rockula

 

Here's a quickie. The weather in Wrocław is rainy and dark. Proper horror movie weather. I watched The Horror of Dracula earlier, starring Christopher Lee as Count Drac and Peter Cushing as Dr. Van Helsing. Classic Hammer Horror at its best. Give it a whirl if you're looking for something retro with good set design, impeccable costumes and great music. For October I've been watching a horror movie every night. It's been tough because inevitably I'll miss one and then need to watch two horror movies in a day to get back on track. At the moment I'm still behind and need to watch two more today to get back on track but there isn't any time since we have to meet friends in town before their trip to India this weekend. With only a few days left in October it would be a shame to stumble after coming so far. Give me strength my friends!

IFS meditation update:

Today my fear part became the focus of the session. Myself, shame and judgement all scrubbed him clean when he transformed into a giant ossified tooth. 37 years of plaque and grime, spiritual coffee stains, and all varieties of decay and paranoid bong resin had accumulated all over its surface. We power washed him with enormous toothbrushes, buffers and drills. By the time we were done he was pearly white and shining. All of the polluted black scum we'd removed washed away into a stream and got carried down the waterfall. 

There was the intuitive sense that dispersing all of that out into smaller particles instead of having one part try and deal with all of it made more sense. Why have one person struggle with a giant boulder when each person could carry a small brick?

The Third Day

 

Today's meditation was more mild than the previous two. Maybe this is what happens - things gradually calm down and slowly fade into harmonious resolution. Or maybe they ebb and flow and come in waves and cycles. It's too soon to tell, having only done this for three days. 

In this meditation I decided to approach it from a different angle: instead of trying to juggle a circle of different parts all trying to be seen and heard at the same time, isolating the shamed part in order to work on its problems and needs seemed more straightforward. So the request was made to the group and myself and the shame wandered off to a grassy overhang looking out over a lake reflecting the moonlight. In the distance was the gentle hiss of a waterfall. During our discussion, which was foggy and not as definable as before, other parts flickered in and out. Jealousy and assertiveness. Assertiveness relates to shame because it wants shame to stick up for itself and to reject the maladaptive beliefs that whisper (sometimes scream) I'm not good enough. Jealousy, on the other hand, can become activated if shame is triggered. It covets whatever inadequacy shame perceives in itself. If my feeling is that someone is funnier or more clever than me, maybe better looking or more interesting, then jealousy may intervene to feel angry about how unfair it all is; why can't I be funny or good looking, why don't people like me?

It was useful to observe the interplay between these different forces, or parts, and notice how they protect and build upon one another. But the most crucial question asked to my shamed part today was regarding why, when overwhelmed with shame, does it distrust the good intentions of a person and elect to subscribe instead to a negative belief about itself? How does that serve or protect it? Certainly choosing to denounce the negative or critical belief would be more useful if the aim is to lessen feelings of inadequacy. When this question was asked, an answer was not given for a long while. Only toward the end of the session did it tell me.

If I suspect the worst intentions of a person, then I won't be fooled when they hurt or betray me.

It hurt to hear this. It resonated deeply and I understood. I recalled traumas from early childhood, early romantic relationships, friendships. The only thing worse than having someone confirm the limiting beliefs you have about yourself is having been gullible enough to have let your guard down and trusted that they cared about you in the first place.

Observations From The Interior

 

I made a mistake yesterday by not immediately writing down any notes or observations after my meditation session. Only later, perhaps two hours later, did the opportunity arise to record and document what had happened. Promptly after the session ended there was a call from my mother. She is to have hip surgery in two weeks. For years now she has been walking with a limp due to pain. She used to be a runner, competing in various marathons and half marathons around New York and on Long Island. Not only that, but she was also a personal trainer for most of her adult life. Fitness was something core to her identity. Recently, she's been walking with a cane, like a hobbled pimp. Her nerves and anxiety have been tormenting her about this. Not about becoming a pimp, but about what may result from the operation.Worries of complications, infections, further loss of mobility, a long and arduous recovery cycle, supporting herself while out of work during the six-week rehabilitation period, not to mention the elephant in the room - death. All of us, particularly as we age, begin to fear death will be delivered to us sooner than we'd like, and in ways more painful than we'd be comfortable contemplating for any length of time. 

Once we concluded our conversation (shortly before, actually) Asia's brother arrived home from the women's volleyball game he'd been coaching. They lost. He wasn't too bothered by it because the team had already sunk their chances to move on to the finals. Now, he said, it freed him up to focus on cohesion and improving team spirit. Amongst the players there were rivalries and heated court-side arguments which would spill out onto the field and damage cooperation and morale. Emotions run high during sporting events, especially when playing to win. Sometimes simply letting go of the desire for victory can transform a destructive dynamic and redistribute emphasis on playing. Over the past weekend a friend had relayed a story about a time he spent in Thailand at a silent meditation retreat. He told us about how the presiding monk had a humorous disposition, amusing anecdotes and a funny, cartoonish voice. Imitating the monk, my friend said, "you must release the mango." We laughed and wondered what the meaning of the silly phrase was. He went on to repeat the same short parable the monk had repeated to him:

In a dense jungle there was a hunter. The hunter was hunting apes. To hunt these apes he would set a trap. The trap consisted of a delicious mango placed in the center of a metal cage. Inevitably a wandering ape would come across the cage and see the delicious mango inside. The ape, with an open hand, would reach in, grab the mango, and find itself trapped when it tried to remove the hand clutching the mango. Unwilling to release the mango, the ape would pull and pull and try in vain to free itself from the trap. 

"So," the monk would say, "if you want to be free, you must release the mango!"

After Asia's brother and I had been speaking for a while Asia came home. It was at this point that my attempts at note-taking were abandoned. 

The problem with not capturing notes right away after one of these IFS deep-dive meditations is that the texture and content of the experience quickly evaporate, like the details of a dream upon waking. If they are not hastily scribbled down then they are lost to language; which is fine, since some things are not meant to be trapped in the amber of grammar or pinned down by words. In fact, the meditations are much like dreams. Ideas and feelings are frequently conveyed through imagery and memories - through the senses instead of the intellect. Commonly, the words come slow and opaque. There is much stillness. At times the sort of dreamworld in which the experience takes place itself becomes murky and indistinct as my concentration wanes or is interrupted. If too much liberty is taken with respect to managing the experience - grasping at answers or prioritizing speed over quality - the space begins to recede.

Lesson learned. For now, at least.

So, below are some notes taken too late and too long after. 

Notes from the second session:

• A new part emerged: Judgement (mother of shame).
• Judgement wore an astronaut suit, Daft Punk-esque sci-fi silver helmet.
• Later a second new part emerged: Self-policing (sibling or brother or some other relative of shame). 
• Police part dressed like a NYC cop.
• First person to show up in these sessions is always fear (and the guard).
• This is illuminating since I often feel this is true for me in life in general.
• When shame appeared it said it was feeling a bit better and it enjoyed playing and exploring.
• Noteworthy because when overwhelmed with shame we often can't focus on anything but ourselves. 
• This signifies a shift.
• Judgement's self-proclaimed purpose was also protective and aimed at self-development and growth to surface areas for improvement.
• Shamed part said that when this is directed inward it becomes a sort of auto-immune attack and this can be damaging to the self.
• Shamed part voiced displeasure to the judgement part, indicating that there's a paucity of positive judgements or acknowledgements and a toxic fixation on the negative or bad. 
• Shame made a request to start adding these positive judgements and reducing or excluding the negative, abusive ones.
• Shame also confronted judgement about how it seems to take pleasure in some of the crueler judgements and wondered why this was.
• Judgement did not seem moved to speak.
• Surprised by how fast the hour went.

I Shall Be Released

 

I'd intended to write yesterday to celebrate my first month of being funemployed, but I got sidetracked. You wouldn't believe how busy life is even without a job! I don't mean in a fun way, either. I'm talking bureaucracy, closing bank accounts, updating permanent residency documents because your American passport expired and needed to be renewed, canceling contracts with cellphone providers to get a cheaper plan, booking travel for upcoming trips to Budapest and Prague, the list goes on. 

Then there are the things I do because I want to, not have to. Things like going to the gym, reading, maintaining a long-distance relationship, writing and meditating (which I'd like to write about today). Every day I'm amazed at how precious little time there is in a day. The fact that winter is coming only exacerbates this issue. Every day is getting darker. Constantly I need to fight the urge to be productive, to squeeze the most out of each passing day. Why? What's wrong with slowing down, resting, simply doing nothing? We as humans have gotten into the habit of opposing nature's cycles; instead of sleeping we stay out late drinking and dancing, in the summer we turn on our air conditioners and in the winter, the heat. Men take pills to boost our aging boners or stimulate growth for our thinning hair, while women inject their faces, breasts and butts full of silicone and other chemicals in an attempt to wage war with gravity and time. Why? Be proud of the those wrinkles, let those milkbags sag! 

Men, you fool-hearted bastards, let those bald heads and bloated beer-bellies be a testament to lives well-lived! Who cares if you can't get it up anymore? Find something more spiritually fulfilling than your sweaty, thrusty, grunty 5 minutes in heaven. Of course it makes sense why things are this way. We stare into mirrors every morning when we wake up and again before bed, we're marketed to relentlessly, made to be self-conscious of our bodies, social media has distorted our sense of normal with its algorithms and skin filters and completely manicured and unrealistic depictions of what real life is. 

Nearly the whole of society has been conditioned to consume. We don't feel good if we aren't eating, drinking or buying something. The things we buy promise us we'll be better versions of ourselves if we just have the latest technology, the best beauty products and skin-care regimens, and an exclusive limited-time set of high-quality and expensive accessories that just ooze status and wealth. Meanwhile, we walk around emotionally stunted and repressed, alienated from our own deepest feelings and needs, bereft of a sense of true meaning, almost totally void of real community and purpose, sitting in front of screens in big concrete boxes full of smaller boxes wondering why we feel so sad and alone. It doesn't have to be this way. 

We could all agree that this way sucks and collectively start writing a different story. That power is at our disposal, always. It starts with you.

Now, back to the promised topic. Meditation. 

I've carved out a daily hourlong meditation practice and I've been loving it. But today I did something different. There were a series of three videos (I'll link the first of them at the bottom) that Asia sent me to try out. The first video gives some context for the IFS (Internal Family Systems) framework and discusses what it might be like to look at our shamed parts using this modality. In a nutshell, IFS takes the approach that every individual has a family of different parts inside of them which comprise you as the individual; you have a shamed part, a confident part, a protective part, a managing part, an impatient part, a loving part, a people-pleasing part etc., and you're this sort of intricate dance between all these parts. I haven't read the book yet, and it's possible I'm misunderstanding, so don't take my word for it and look into IFS yourself.

The second video dives deeper into what working with those parts entails, leading up to the third video which is a guided meditation inviting the meditator to witness the shamed parts of ourselves that we normally protect by hiding away. So, I gave it a whirl. In the past the skeptical parts of me judged this type of meditation to be silly or even childish - that to participate in such a meditation was to participate in a kind of masturbatory magical thinking. This time was different. Now, perhaps more than ever before in my life, I'm open to these types of ideas and experiences. It's likely something became unblocked during my adventures with Community Building. In any event, this is what happened:

I sat down to start the meditation knowing I'd be pausing it in between at key junctures to give space to the parts that might need it. After a few minutes of breathing I felt my body relax enough to allow me to venture into the deeper recesses of my psyche. Suddenly I was below a night sky beside a campfire. The air was cool, though not cold, and the fire was warm and pleasant. In the silence the wood popped and crackled. I felt calm being there. The stars shimmered and shined above as an audience of my parts giving space and watching my movements from afar. A sense of otherness pervaded. The others were parts of me, but distinct from me, in the way my big toe is distinct from my elbow but they both belong to this body. So I sat there waiting for the shamed part to reveal itself. After some time, it did not come. Instead, I noticed a tall metal perimeter fence some feet away from me. A military officer (who was also me) stood guard. I acknowledged the guard and he asked me to identify myself. The guide for the meditation said this might happen. I paused the video and continued chatting to the guard.

"Hey, I'm you..but not you. I'm 37 years old and have positive intentions. I come from a place of love and understanding and just want to listen and talk to the part of me that's beyond this fence, if you'll let me."

I don't know who you are. I've never seen you before. No one informed me anyone was coming.

"True. You haven't ever seen me. I guess I am arriving unannounced. My apologies. I got the impression my presence was requested."

The guard looked suspicious of me.

"I have nothing to hide. You can call your superiors or the other guards - or really anyone who has any concerns for that matter - and I'd be happy to speak to them and offer assurances."

The guard still didn't budge.

"I'm really grateful for what you're doing here, honestly. I see how you're trying to protect the shamed part and I'm happy you care. I'm happy to answer any questions you may have or even talk through the fence to the shamed part if you're comfortable with that."

The guard made a quick call on his walkie talkie. Suddenly several other parts appeared. One was inky and dark and I could feel it in my stomach. It stank. It was fear. It did not like this. 

Why are you here? Who are you? How can we believe that what you're saying is true and you don't just want to do harm here. You could be a terrorist for all we know!

This part was very strong and most of the other parts didn't question or argue with this part. They seemed afraid of it, which was interesting because it wasn't physically menacing. Merely by being there though its presence seemed to be causing visceral reactions, in me too. I asked it to sit down with me and talk.

"I promise I am here to heal and regenerate. I have no interest in harming anything or anyone. I come only to understand. If at any point any of you feels an overwhelming need for me to leave, I will leave. Can you tell me what you need from me in order to feel safe and trust me?"

The conversation went on like this as I tried to keep things calm and ask for space. Eventually the shamed part of me quietly walked through the fence and came to sit at the circle around the fire. My eyes welled up with tears at this point and I felt pain in my body and sensed the fear part of me reacting strongly. The shamed part of me was younger, just a boy. His skin was scarred and burned, body twisted and maimed. He seemed to have suffered incredible damage, to have been brutally tortured. The fire cast cruel shadows across his lacerated face. His eyes were lifeless pieces of coal. 

I felt a deep relationship between him and the fear. Intuitively I knew they were related - perhaps father and child. 

The other parts took seats around the circle. Many of the parts were much smaller in stature than the fear. I knew them as confidence, happiness, peace, trust. We all sat in silence. I waited for the shamed part to speak but no words came. Soon I understood the shamed part was either too afraid or too wounded to speak. I asked the fear why it was reacting to the shamed part the way it was.

I'm afraid of this. I don't know what will happen. I just always try to protect. I didn't mean to cause any harm. Maybe I feel guilty that I've unintentionally caused this damage.

Others in the circle seemed moved to speak. Confidence confidently said that fear's voice is often too loud, he yells, and he scares the other parts. Happiness chimed in and said when fear talks he takes up most of the space and leaves little room for everyone else. Peace and trust echoed similar sentiments. Trust added that he trusts fear's intentions are good but that he needs to learn a different way to work with the group. As the conversation moved from part to part I noticed the size of the parts change slightly. Fear got a bit smaller and the other parts got a bit larger. I, or the caring part of me, tried checking-in to make sure everyone was feeling safe. There was no objection. But still, the shamed part hadn't spoken a word. When I looked to the shamed part I sensed he wanted to talk but something was stopping him. Instead he sent me some early childhood images of feeling shamed, unwanted, not good enough, cheated on, betrayed, lied to, tricked, stupid, hurt, alone. My eyes were wet again.

"Thanks for sharing those images. I remember them. You've been holding these for a long time. What is it that you want?"

Shame didn't reply. I pressed play on the video. The guide indicated that some parts might need to be asked to leave temporarily, or to hang out in a waiting room in order to make space for the shamed part. 

Bingo.

Speaking to the fear I asked, "would you be willing to take a walk with the guard for a little while? I think it might give some space to the shamed part so he could speak to the group. I promise you will be updated on whatever is said upon your return, and if the group is willing you could even rejoin the circle."

Fear agreed in an instant. There was absolutely no protest. It struck the group as such a clear show of love and respect to the shamed part that everyone was deeply moved. We could sense the sadness in the fear as he got up to walk away but it was eclipsed by the radiant paternal kind of love for the shamed part. I think this gesture caused something to shift in the shamed part. After some minutes of silence, he spoke.

I feel so exhausted...I've been carrying this burden so long.

The group gave space and asked no questions. The weight of his burden was visible.

I feel so much pain. I have no one to lean on. I feel unbearably alone.

The guide in the video said it could take a while and to let the part continue speaking as much as it would like. The guide encouraged me to ask it if there is anything else it wanted to share. So I did.

"Is there anything else?"

Yeah. A part of me feels so foolish. How did I think I could do this alone?

This was fascinating. I hadn't considered that a part could have its own parts. Of course it makes sense, it's fractal. As above so below. But this complicates things. If my parts are made of parts do I have to climb inside that part too, opening it up like a series of nested Russian dolls?

Another part of me feels shame. The ignorance. Arrogance. Was I too proud to ask for help? Why did I believe the things I let myself believe?

Shame under shame. The video didn't mention anything about parts of parts so I was a bit lost in the water here. But I stayed with it, asking if there was anything else. 

I don't want to feel like this. I want to be happy. I want to let this pain go.

Then silence. For a long while. I pressed play on the video. The guide recommended asking the part what it wanted. It had already told me. But as the guide spoke, something else resonated with the part. Many options were proposed; to be freed, to be absorbed into some other part of the body and a few others, but the one that spoke the loudest was simply to play. To be free to not carry this weight. 

"How would you want to be released?"

I want to feel pleasure. I want to know what it is to not feel this pain. I want release.

This is weird, so stay with me, but on some level it communicated to me that it wanted to migrate to my balls and be released in a glorious orgasmic spurt of semen. I could feel blood rushing to the region in quick anticipation. I scanned the video to see if there was any mention of this. There was not. But I knew I had to oblige. I asked it what it wanted. Surely this wasn't too much to ask from a part that's endured lifelong suffering? So I marched to the bathroom and meditated while masturbating, transforming the trauma to delightful gratification. Talk about masturbatory magical thinking! After some time his wish was granted and he evacuated my body in convulsive sprays of white liquid light.

I shall be released.

I returned to my seat back in the living room and resumed the video. The guide asked to check in with the part and ask it how it felt now. So I did. When I found myself back at the campfire under the starlit sky, I was immediately surprised by how the scars all over his body seemed to be lighter, more faded. The body was less contorted, less mutilated. 

I feel better than I did before. But I don't know that everything is out yet. 

He communicated an image of us speaking more. The guide said this might happen and he recommended establishing a schedule for checking in each day over the next three weeks to help the part heal. We came to the agreement that during my hourlong meditations he could take any amount of time he'd like during the next 21 days. We convened the circle, fear and the guard returning. It was clear that fear saw the change in the shamed part and felt relieved. We sat in silence for a few minutes to let everyone get settled.

"I want to thank everyone for being present today, for giving space, for trusting, for being willing to listen, open and move toward healing and integration. I know for the protective parts this was stressful. I'm truly grateful for your service and desire to keep us safe. Fear, you missed a lot but you can see the change. It's clear the both of you are deeply entwined and I wonder if on future talks over the next three weeks you'd like to be present or informed after. Shame, if this is okay with you, of course." 

Shame seemed to agree, but I made it clear that shame would need to consent. Consent now would not guarantee consent later. The energy around the campfire seemed lighter and more balanced. I pressed play to conclude the video. The guide recommended trying to re-experience the inciting event from earlier in the meditation to see how it felt to expose the parts to the trigger. When I did so I was happy to find more distance between the shamed part and the trigger. It was much less reactive. 

Progress!

I look forward to see what adventures await me in the coming days and I will keep you updated of any and all insights.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SPfiTld_Js

Week One - A Whole New World

 

This concludes my first week as an unemployed good-for-nothing drifter. Much has changed since I last wrote:

• My position at work has been dissolved
• I've returned to the gym
• I have reclaimed a daily meditation practice
• I'm reading more
• I've started a gratitude journal
• Asia and I have signed up to become facilitators in Community Building
• My interest in Buddhism has been rekindled
• My penis has grown 7"
• I saved a bunch of money by switching to Geico
• I've gotten my teeth cleaned for the first time in nearly 6 years

I won't talk about all of these things, only the important ones. Seven extra inches. It's absolutely changed my life! Now when I stand at the urinal in public restrooms I don't have to use the kids' urinal anymore. I can really rock out the way I've always dreamed.

Losing your job is a fascinating experience. It teaches you about fear, uncertainty, freedom, and money in a way only being jobless can. In my case the termination wasn't a surprise. I'd been expecting it for many months now. It started when my entire team had either quit or been fired. Finding myself orphaned - for the second time at the company - was not what we call in the business a good omen. Luckily, as you may know from reading my previous posts, back in April I'd untethered myself from my employer in terms of my residence permit. Now I am in no danger of being deported. And while I am under no threat of destitution or homelessness, I do look like I may be both, or either. My straggly beard is still hanging off my face, and I'm still considerably underweight as a result of the chronic gastritis that's been plaguing me for nearly a year now. On the bright side, my return to the gym has helped me gain a kilo over the past two weeks.

I'm still in the honeymoon phase of my unemployment, so it isn't lost on me that things could take a sudden and unexpected turn for the worse. I may, for instance, succumb to pangs of panic and find myself in the throes of great worry, having been bereft of both purpose and the capacity for economic productivity. Meditation, daily physical exertion, reading, and some artistic outlets have been put in place to keep me on the tracks. Earlier I was speaking to Asia expressing how establishing these routines are very important for me during this uncertain time. They are protective mechanisms; preventative, even. While beneficial, they do introduce a sort of complication in terms of how they impact our long-distance relationship. It means that for now a greater burden is placed onto Asia. She must take the initiative to come to me: since any departure from Berlin at this point runs the risk of jeopardizing my routine at this critical juncture. I'm aware of this and want to do what I can to be flexible and supportive, but I know myself. If I take away the guardrails I've put up, I can easily spiral out. In order for me to show up for our relationship I need to show up for myself and ensure I'm taking proper care. I'm no use to anyone if I'm destabilized, erratic, anxious and out of touch with my needs and feelings.

But since I am in this honeymoon phase, I can enjoy the added leisure time spent reading, playing guitar, meditating. It definitely feels more natural than working for a company 8hrs a day. I can't imagine, and hope I don't eventually have to, return to that world. It's dehumanizing. Right now I'm staring out at an all new open road. For the first time in my adult life my future seems wide open. There's no guidebook or plan for how to proceed when you're 37-years-old and find yourself unplugged. Some things are clear. It's clear I want to get involved in regenerative practices. I want to help people and places in the face of all the cruelty, dehumanization and ecological destruction. We know we'll be doing inner work as we move along the path in Community Building. We'll be meeting interesting people with much to show us and even more to learn. We'll spend time on farms and eco-villages helping learn a thing or two before setting out to do it on our own. We might even find a community that feels like home and join them. A whole new world is possible. 

A better, more humane, more interconnected, vibrant, playful, healing, mystical and kind world.

Building Community

 

Holy Jesus it's been a long time. Since I last wrote I got my permanent residency here in Germany, I'm still battling stomach issues, my teeth are better, and I took two trips to a Polish eco village. The most recent of those trips happened a week and a half ago where the focus was community building. Mainly I attended because Asia was interested in the topic. That's not to say that I am uninterested in community, or that I'm averse to self development, but rather that I didn't consider myself particularly community-minded. For my entire adult life I've enjoyed living alone. I never had roommates. My hobbies have consisted of solitary activities like photography, writing, reading, or music. In social situations I generally feel stressed. Always there is the fear of saying something stupid or offensive, of being misunderstood, remaining unseen, unheard. Sometimes I worry I have nothing to contribute...and that everyone knows it. This leads me to exclude myself as a sort of defense mechanism; just a way to exert control and reduce exposure to pain or judgement.

I hadn't reflected much on these tendencies or patterns. Though powerful, they were largely invisible to me. Until this workshop, that is. 

The workshop was built on the work of M. Scott Peck, and it was comprised of three parts: brief informative lectures, paired exercises, and circle time. All together there were about 30 of us. The lecture functioned as the theory and laid out the framework for what was to follow in the exercises. In the exercises we would get the chance to put things into practice in what was effectively a circle of two before doing it together as a large 30-person group. If I had to summarize the core methodology and condense it down to a single sentence, I'd say: optimize for empathy, listen silently but attentively, and speak only from your heart about your personal experience. This is of course a wild oversimplification, and although it is technically what we were doing, it is easier said than done. To be vulnerable and honest in front of a circle of strangers is to render yourself naked. It is downright horrifying. Something sexist whispers that it is harder for a man to do this than it is for a woman. We are conditioned to treat feelings as something to control, not talk about. As men we are told to be strong, not to be a pussy, to keep your chin up, that boys don't cry.

I cried for four days.

There is much to write about, but we swore to confidentiality. This is because people share deeply intimate stories about themselves involving terrible traumas, insecurities, pain, grief and shame. So instead of sharing theirs, I'll share mine. I'm anxious around people. I've been this way for a long time. In the past I used alcohol to mask this. It works well. Up until a point. Eventually, after many years, I realized I was using drugs and alcohol as a crutch. But by doing so I was weakening my ability to work with these feelings because I was never forced to sit with them in a productive way. Once I stopped drinking I began to understand my motives more clearly and had the opportunity to confront these feelings and try to meaningfully address them instead of avoiding them. I don't think I'll ever fully overcome them, but I've got a much better, much healthier handle on them now. Another thing is that I self-censor and police myself to the point that it's hard to be fully authentic. This wastes a considerable amount of energy and leaves me feeling drained instead of recharged after social interactions. I'm plagued by feeling I'm going to make a mistake or make a fool of myself. I worry that I'll reveal myself as the worthless person I am and that once I do people won't want to hang around me anymore. I place considerable pressure on myself to say something smart or interesting or funny, which a person cannot always do. Inevitably, once I come up empty-handed, I become self conscious and fearful and this stress makes it hard to transition towards a relaxed emotional space where I might actually say or contribute something of value.

Some of these issues arise from my childhood. My father was a psychologically abusive (occasionally physically, too) alcoholic and would often condescend and verbally abuse everyone in the household. It was rare to hear the words I love you, or I'm proud of you, or you did a good job. Much more common were the insults, being talked down to or attacked. Our family unit existed in a perpetual state of chaos. Feelings of true community were infrequent and fleeting. As a child I remember having routine nightmares. They were vivid and intense and I'd wake up in a state of abject terror and puke in a red bucket beside my bed. Part of this must have been fueled by the fundamental absence of safety in my family unit. The male caretaker was unreliable and unstable and I never knew whether I was getting the mean version or the avoidant version. Because my self worth was always under attack, I tried to carve out more objective indications of value, like getting good grades, or establishing a moral high ground. As anyone who has done the same can tell you, when you place your worth in your intelligence, it makes you very sensitive to misspeaking or being wrong -- because then to be wrong is not just to make an error, it is to invalidate your identity.

Most children lack a sense of control over their world. When you're still shitting in a diaper, you probably can't exert much control over the environment around you. As you age you slowly acquire more and more agency and become less dependent on your parents. As a child with an alcoholic parent, I had a diminished sense of control. It is hard to reason with or influence the behavior of a person who is not sober. Even harder as a child. So instead, I started to learn to control my own emotions. If I could convince myself I didn't need my father's affection or approval, that he was a villain, then I couldn't be hurt as easily. While true, this just made it more important for me to get validation from my peers. I was operating from a deficit. I'd like to think most people start at zero, or maybe even with a small surplus of love and support from their parents, but because I was already in the negative I wanted to be admired by my friends. This made me a people pleaser and at the same time someone who didn't care about the opinions of others. The second state I would resort to if I felt I couldn't control the person's perception of me. I would use this as a shield to protect myself from rejection which would further harm my already low self worth. It's a fucked up situation.

The workshop was full of insightful and revelatory observations like these. While some were not new, this time they felt different. Perhaps I had previously intellectualized and understood these things, but I had never viscerally felt them. In the week and some days that have followed the experience I've had some dreams and conversations which expanded and enriched my appreciation for the session. I'm still sorting out the learnings and trying to integrate them and make sense of what I was feeling. I want to write some of them down so I can refer back to them. I should have done this immediately and as a result of not doing so I've likely lost a bunch of observations. 

Luckily we've decided to attend another workshop this coming weekend, so I'll have the chance to capture some more. In the meantime, here are some thoughts:

• I told myself community wasn't that important to me to avoid the pain of not having it.
• This practice of self exclusion is poison. It toxically reinforces loneliness and starves me of a sense of real belonging.
• Burning Man was so important to me not because of the drugs and dancing and the bang and spectacle of it all, but because of the profound sense of community it offered. It was one of the few places in this world where I felt home. This was because of the kindness, warmth and kinship of good campmates and friends...the campfires of gentle people.
• There was a moment at the workshop where we were performing a ritual out in an open field. We were moving in a circle and singing and dancing and pouring metaphorical cleansing water on each other and ourselves. Once the ritual completed we all stood in silence in the tall grass holding hands. The wind gently blew. The sun shined. Everyone looked around the circle smiling. A deep sense of comforting peace pulsed inside me. I felt happy.
• I wondered if we might be forming a cult. I didn't care if we were.
• In my every day life I can remember moments where I experienced sensations similar to those felt while sitting in the circle - sweaty palms, racing heart, tension in my muscles and stomach. I never acknowledged these messages as messages from my body. I never recognized them as truths pounding at my heart's door trying to find a way out.
• While inside the circle there were times when someone would share and it would seem as if they verbalized a kind of pain I'd never spoken before...as though they were sharing one of my feelings, not theirs. In those moments something magic would happen. I would feel such connection to them and want to heal their pain. I could feel love radiating out from me. My energy was wrapping itself around theirs. 
• Only after thinking back to these moments I realized that my natural reflex was to hold and protect, yet I don't provide this same love to myself.
• Upon further reflection I realize that by giving this hurting person love and empathy I was indirectly giving it to myself and this is why I found these circles so healing, so therapeutic.
• At first I was skeptical of the circles, and even felt there was some unspoken rule where we were permitted only to speak about pains and hardships. It was not until later when I realized why this was. It is because our pains and traumas take up enormous mental resources. They distract us, make us less available to others. When vocalizing these feelings we empty and free ourselves of them, which leaves us enough space to hold and really hear others. If we are too full of pain we cannot truly see and hear others, and if we cannot see or hear them, we cannot help them.
• The most important thing in this world are the people you surround yourself with, the communities you form. 
• Everything we do in life is contained inside of our words and actions. If a person is unseen and unheard, they have no real life outside of their thoughts. 
• Our lives only have meaning when we speak and act with others. 
• Our words and actions combine in unpredictable ways to create new actions, new words, new ideas. In the absence of others, we cannot achieve this.

Involuntary Masochist

 

We've all heard of incels, but have you ever heard of an inmas? It's me. Rhymes with dumbass, but means involuntary masochist. On my conquest for ever increasing painful medical procedures, this morning I visited the dentist for what I thought would be a routine filling. The tooth in question is one that's been problematic for over a decade now. Twice before, attempts were made to rectify the situation, but each time the results were less than ideal. Slowly decay manages to set in and I lose a bit more of the tooth. each time. A German dentist tried once more to treat it, maybe three or four years ago, but my current dentist indicated we'd have to have another go at it. So I showed up and buckled in for some lunchtime dentistry. First thing she did was apply what looked like dry ice to my tooth. She asked me if I could feel it. I couldn't. Two more times she applied the cold at different locations, but nothing. 

"I'm afraid the tooth may be dead," she said.

Well, then what?

"Then we need a root canal."

Okay. How can we tell for sure if the tooth is dead?

"Let's begin the filling without any pain medication."

My face said what for me. 

"If you don't feel anything then the tooth is dead."

Yeah, I understand the logic, but if the tooth is alive this is going to be quite the sensation.

"Well, then at that point I'll give the pain medication."

It didn't seem like there was another option for me, so I reluctantly agreed. For a few minutes I too suspected the tooth to be dead. But then. ZAM! 

"It's alive!" Dr. Frankenstein cried.

My tooth is still aching. Partially from the trauma of all the drilling but also because of the weird plastic tarp they attach to the base of the tooth to separate it from the rest of the mouth. I definitely appreciate that all the debris and bacteria land on it instead of directly into my mouth, but god damn that thing irritates the fuck out of my gums. Honestly I can't localize whether the pain I feel right now is on the gum or the tooth itself. Maybe it's both.

The only remaining doctor's appointment I have left is one next week which should just be an annual checkup and some bloodwork. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this encounter is quick and painless.

At 8:00AM tomorrow I have my appointment for permanent residency. It's taken literally one year and a week since I submitted the request for them to grant me an appointment. Everything is good to go except I still don't have the proof of my test results from the citizenship exam I took last month. Probably they will arrive tomorrow at lunch, just in time to be worthless. It's astonishing to me that it's taken them 5 weeks to grade a test I finished in 5 minutes. If I am denied permanent residency tomorrow because of it, I don't know what I'll do. 

(Moving discussion of The Human Condition to tomorrow because my tooth has decided it is what I am to focus on for the next while)

The Journey Continues

 

I've been away for a while, but I'm back in Berlin now. I was greeted by frightful fits of sneezing upon entering my apartment. Well, not quite upon entering. The sneezing started seven minutes after entering. I've already soaked through four sheets of paper towels. My nose is spewing snot like a firehose. Spring has sprung, it seems. This wasn't the case in Poland for the last two weeks. There, I had no signs or symptoms of allergies. Poland offered me other gifts, of the birthday kind. In the aftermath of Easter, the anniversary of Jesus' zombification, my stomach was reeling. It is tradition in Poland to eat as many eggs as humanly possible over this holiday. Breakfast begins with hardboiled eggs, deviled eggs, egg salad, and soup with eggs. You get the idea. Before lunch time I had ingested a month's worth of cholesterol. Predictably, and because my stomach was already on precarious footing after the colonoscopy, my digestive system did not condone this Christian celebration. So, to gain some insights into my predicament, I saw a doctor. Three doctors, to be exact. The first prescribed me antibiotics without confirming I had an actual infection. This prompted me to seek a second opinion. The second doctor, having performed additional diagnostics (at additional costs) confirmed that my internal organs seemed normal via an ultrasound. He recommended I test my stool for H. pylori, and he suggested the cause of my discomfort was not an infection, but rather acid. So, I marched my way to the pharmacy and got a stool test and some proton pump inhibitors. The stool test came back negative but my stomach pain wasn't being mitigated by the PPIs. This is where the third doctor comes in. An appointment was made to visit the practice on my birthday - not by choice, but because this was the only appointment available for a gastroscopy. Because I am covered by German health insurance, and with Poland being a different country, I would have to pay for this visit out of pocket. But this was not a problem. 

The problem was the procedure would happen without sedation.

That's right. A long, snaking tube with a camera would be inserted down my esophagus and coil itself into my stomach. A birthday gift from me to me. It took some mental preparation, of course. There was the requisite nightmare leading up to the event, but this wasn't as barbaric or awful as the actual procedure. Words do little to relay the experience. Until it happens to you, it is something you can only imagine and, when you imagine it, you, not having felt these sensations before, have little to compare it to. Choking on a long object while your mouth is held open by a sort of ballgag is something that probably many of my readers have insights into, so I won't elaborate much on this except to say that trying to breath while you're wrenching and heaving and convulsing feels something akin to drowning. The body is a state of biological terror and turmoil: to say it is alarmed is an understatement. As it tries futilely to dislodge the endoscope, you must whisper sweet nothings to yourself while literal tears stream from the eye closest to the bed you lie on, insisting that although the situation seems quite dire and horrific, you are safe and everything is alright. A dissociation of the mind and body is required if you are to endure. Breathing slowly in and out through my nose was the only thing I forced my focus on. 

Psychologically, though, my mind began to turn on me once it realized we were only 120-seconds into an event which would take approximately 10 minutes. How would I do this for another eight minutes? This thought needed to be ushered away immediately, like a riotous and disorderly drunk from an otherwise peaceable party, because to entertain this idea for too long may have caused a mental panic to match the physical panic my body was in. So I ejected him. Things calmed down momentarily when the scope entered the stomach cavity, until a new sensation introduced itself. Have you ever seen the movie Alien when the little face hugger bursts through the man's midsection at the table? Or The Matrix when they force that electronic insect down his throat and it begins visibly squirming beneath the skin of Keanu's abdomen? Well, I can tell you that seeing it and feeling it are very, very different things. It felt like what nails on a chalkboard sound like. The crawling sensation though not painful, is somehow worse because of this absence. The doctor needed to take a biopsy and remove two polyps. Again I thought I was through the worst of it, and that the gastroscopy was nearly over when they cut the first polyp. I felt my stomach jump and recoil inside my body, yelping like a wounded dog. Thankfully I was unaware this would happen a second time. For had I known, I would have probably began trying to yank the instrument out of my throat. Soon they were exiting the stomach and the retching began again, but this time worse because of the air they'd injected into the stomach during examination. Now burping, gagging, covered in drool and spit, the device was retreating from deep inside my midsection. When it finally came completely out I sighed with genuine relief.

I thought I had been through some pretty tough medical procedures; I've had cameras in my urethra, I've broken my spine, I've had a metal rod drilled into my broken hand to set the bone, I had four wisdom teeth removed at once and was given no pain medication post operation. Each of these were bad, terrible even, but none of them quite match the skeevy Cronenbergesque body horror of this experience. Certainly there are worse fates to suffer, no doubt, but Jesus, if you have the chance to be sedated for an endoscopy, please take the drugs.

They diagnosed me with gastritis which, based on the picture they took inside my stomach, is pretty gnarly. It looks like the stomach is trying to become a brain. Instead of being smooth it begins to develop ridges and folds, grooves and channels. So now I'm trying to restrict my already restricted diet even more to accommodate the inflammation and irritation from the all the poking and prodding I've been subject to lately. I'll keep you updated on how that goes. Speaking of which, I need to cook dinner.

I finished Steinbeck's Winter of Our Discontent, but I can't say I was crazy about it. I started reading Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition and I'm loving it. 

I'll try and write more about that tomorrow.

Alive! (For now)

 

I'm still among the land of the living, for now anyway. The possibility of a delayed onset complication doesn't elude me. I'll wait until my first bowel movement so I can check for any excessive blood before declaring I'm in the clear. This was a bizarre, once (I hope) in a lifetime experience. I had planned to take the subway to the doctor's office, but because my colon was still emptying when I should have been leaving my apartment, I had to take an Uber. The driver got me there just in time, at a minute after 8:30. Since last night I'd been a bit frantic because I accidentally drank unstrained chicken broth after starting the laxatives. This meant very small bits of spices and seasoning would have likely made their way into my otherwise pristine intestines. A sudden jolt of fear gripped me when I realized what I'd done.

Fuck, I said out loud. I was incredulous. How had I made such a mistake after taking pains to properly strain the first glass? At the time my mind was all over the place with stress. I had been speaking to an old friend on the phone who was on his way to the airport to catch a flight from JFK to Utah. This proved a sufficient distraction for the error to occur. In fact, I didn't even notice I'd done it until I had hung up the phone, gone inside, gone to the bathroom, and gone back to the kitchen to continue drinking. Once I held the cup to my eyes in better light I saw I'd forgotten to strain the bits from the pot.

Google revealed others had made similar absentminded blunders, but I couldn't determine conclusively whether this would nullify the entire colonoscopy. Would my intestinal tract be littered with small pieces of debris which would interfere with the scope? Presumably this would increase the risk of complications such as a perforation since the doctor would need to maneuver around them, right? There was no one to call - it was already past 8pm - so I turned to Reddit. The consensus was that it should be okay, but no one was willing to say this with certainty. So when I arrived at the office this morning I brought the powdered broth with me to show to the doctor. 

Everything was okay. 

Phew. The thought of having to go through the prep again within a week or two made my insides quiver. They directed me to a chair behind a curtain where I was instructed to remove my shoes, clothes and underwear, and put on a pair of shorts which had a large flap open on the backside. They looked comical, clownish even. I asked the nurse if she could take a photo of me wearing them. She said she was going to take plenty of photos, I just wouldn't be awake for them. Jokes aside, the nurses were very nice. They did a great job at distracting me and setting my mind at ease with their demeanor alone. They led me to an adjacent room and laid me down on a table where I was hooked up to an IV and a pulse oximeter. The other nurse put an oxygen tube in my nose. Soon the doctor arrived. This is where things got strange.

He told me something in German, but the only word I understood was dreams. 

So I said, "I didn't catch all of that, but you're wishing me good dreams?"

The anesthesiologist translated and confirmed. 

"Okay, but I don't feel very sleepy and the drug was administered two minutes ago. The last time I was asleep within a few seconds."

The anesthesiologist said yes, you should be sleeping, hold on. So she pushed more propofol into my vein. Nothing. I looked at her quizzically. It was burning slightly. I wonder if it was somehow blocked. She pushed more of the drug into my vein. It was at this moment that I saw my hairy asshole on the TV screen.

"Wait a minute," I started, looking over the shoulder towards the doctor, "shouldn't we wait until I'm asleep to start?"

You'll be asleep any second, he told me, as he pressed a lubed up thumb into my conscious anus. I made a protesting groan of discomfort in response. He was right: I felt like I was drifting, but not fast enough. I turned back toward the anesthesiologist who looked on at me with pity. Her eyes seemed to say, I'm sorry. In my half dreaming, delusional state I looked over at the TV as the camera snaked its way deeper into my anal cavity. I was mesmerized. This was trippier than anything I'd ever seen at Burning Man. My colon was clean, shiny and well-illuminated, and it was on display in 4K for the world to see. There were no seeds or grains and, to my surprise, no chicken broth seasoning. Clean and wet as a whistle. I tried to say something but noticed my vocal cords weren't responsive. Somehow I was able to muster a feeble groan to signify I was still awake and could feel the device slithering up into my stomach, but no one paid me any mind. For a moment I slipped into unconsciousness but then I was back a few seconds later. More visages of my colon floated by as I felt myself disassociating from my body. I saw her give one last press of the 240mg of propofol into my bloodstream and then I was gone. Some time later I was being walked back to my bed in the room with the curtains.

I laid there for a few minutes, not quite dreaming, not quite awake, trapped in that pleasant and perpetual state of ease and timelessness one feels in between alarm snoozes. Soon a new nurse, but also a familiar one, appeared. She had helped me on Wednesday. I explained to her that I wasn't fully asleep, that I had 'witnessed my own asshole.' I tried to communicate what it was like to simultaneously watch the penetration but also experience it. When she asked me how I was feeling I told her I felt okay, but that I wasn't as drowsy or incapacitated as I've been in the past under similar circumstances, that'd I'd be on my feet in no time. She went to bring me a cup of green tea and I got dressed while she was gone. She was surprised to see me fully clothed and upright. 

"Can I eat the banana I brought?" I asked.

Sure.

"Ah, also, is it okay if I wipe the goo from my ass? I brought my own wipes. Can I dispose of them in this bin?"

Yes.

"Perfect."

I cleaned myself up a bit and waited for the doctor. When he entered he told me everything was fine, that there was no inflammation or blood or signs of cancer. I asked him if there were any polyps because I was reading on the paper that one biopsy had been made. He told me no. He seemed to be in a hurry. He was gone as soon as he came. The nurse reappeared and she handed me a report to give to my house doctor. On this report it also mentioned a polyp was found.

"Hey, one question. Was a polyp sent for biopsy, because I just asked the doctor and he said no but on both pieces of paper I've seen it looks like there was."

"Hmm, that's strange" she said, "yes, a polyp was removed. We're sending it to the lab and they should have the results sent to your doctor within a week."

"Weird. I wonder why he said there were no biopsies made. Maybe he misunderstood me?"

"No, that would be strange," she said.

I agreed. We both awkwardly shrugged.

They called me a cab and I left.