Moving Atoms
Thursday, February 20, 2025
Before words, energy
Wednesday, February 19, 2025
Unease
Fiji
I felt like I should purchase something, so I purchased a fish bone necklace. My guide had said that whale bone was a symbol of forgiveness, and fish bone seemed close enough and a lot less morally problematic. As soon as I put it on I got a Bad Feeling, so I took it off and put it in my bag. It has since vanished. Ominous.
~
The man sitting opposite me said his name was Jason. He reached out a hand for me to shake. We shall do a ceremony, he declared, filling the bowl with water. He ground the kava into the water in silence. Hand, he asked. I held out my hand. No no, just clap. I clapped uncertainly. One, two, three he said. Then filled me a small bowl and nodded to me to drink. Should I … should I sip? Or drink it all? Drink it all! The guy behind him chuckled, all at once. He made cheery small talk with me - where are you going? Do you have family and friends there? How long for?
After I drank, Jason’s eyes went dead. He looked down at the floor, wordless, his part over. The other guy took over.
He took me to see the handmade items in the shop. What will you get your boyfriend? He said. What about this? I can carve his name in it. It’s too expensive for me, I said. I refused in different ways, several times. He realized I was serious. His smile disappeared, his eyes downcast. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. Yes, yes, goodbye, he said sullenly.
~
The women, we make these necklaces, to earn money and feed the families. I waited until we were out of earshot of the other women. What do the men do? I asked hesitantly. Oh, she waved her hand, they farm, they’re doctors, nurses, fishermen.
Each woman described the same set of necklaces to me at different stands. This, this is real pearl. They said. These are hematite. Good for the blood stream. I murmured my approval, rubbed them in my hands appreciatively, and rested them back down, waiting to move on.
Before the Methodists came, my guide explained to me, we had no religion. Then they came and gave us a coat, and we still have the buttons from the coat. Every morning at 5am the drums sound and we get up to pray. Every evening when everyone comes home from work we pray. God is everywhere in our lives.
We found ourselves in a church. That is where the chief sits, she said in a hushed whisper. We sing, and it echoes. Yes, I can imagine - I gestured at the high ceilings. She started singing. Her voice was lilting, clear, angelic. A pure tone, untouched by doubt - how great is God, she sang. Eyes closed, I followed her voice with my own.
Afterwards, she turned to me. Will you … will you pray?
God, I thank you for this connection. For being here in your presence, in each other’s presence.
Our lord, she continued, bless Amanda and her family, her mother and father. Bless that she came to be here on this day. Hold her in your care as she travels today, take care of her. Thank you, thank you Lord. Her voice shook. Tears were in her eyes. Mine were welling up. All of a sudden I was two, three, four times bigger, an expanding spirit superimposed on my physical body. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I will keep praying for you, she said. The women will keep praying for you.
Then, in a hushed tone, have you given your life to the Lord? I guess I have, in my own way, I replied. I have to keep asking that, she says, and one day someone will ask me back. I wait upon God’s timing. We slowly stood up and wandered out, the ripples of our spiritual communion like waves in my system.
We reached the end of the tour. Vinaka (thank you), have a nice day!! She said cheerily, and waved me off. I was on my way, she was on to her next tour. A strange moment of communion in a strange relationship.
~
The woman sat under a table covered in bananas. She yelled out to her son, playing carelessly to the side. Lines and lines of bananas, mangos, papayas. Some sat behind the tables, bored. Others chatted with each other. Who … who was buying these? I glanced around but I didn’t see anyone there buying anything. Just the listless sellers and endless bright rows of fruit.
~
I guess I should have lunch too? My tour guide pulled out his phone, awkward, playing some news video to avoid my gaze. I think he wasn’t used to one-on-one tours. I stared off into the distance, at the chopping waves and moored boats.
What was it like growing up for you here? I ventured.
What can I say? It was nice. Silence. He seemed to want to say more, but didn’t quite know how.
You know, in the villages we have chiefs. There’s a chief family. I took his offering eagerly. A family? Yes, in my village, the chief was my father’s older brother. It stays in the family.
Did you like him? Yes, he is a good chief. Back to silence.
He eventually left me to it. Give me your WhatsApp, he said, and I will pick you back up when you are ready.
I lay down on the deck chair, planning to journal and process. Instead I passed out. The sun moved through the sky and the heat stretched out over my body. I awoke groggily, uneasy. What was I doing here, in this heat and white sand and choppy pale blue ocean? In this place where everyone smiled and said Bula! and the cars were dusty and run down?
Vinaka! They beamed at me as I left. A child sitting on a wall followed me out with his eyes.
~
The lookout was breathtaking. Imagining them arriving here thousands of years ago, in canoes from Africa, overcome with awe at discovering a paradise. Imagining them hacking pathways through the thick, lush forest to climb the hills, to survey the land that will become their home. First things first, I imagine them saying, we need to find food. Discovering the juicy breadfruits and papayas. An oasis of greenery compared to their homeland. Everywhere the eye touches is a deep, alive green or a smudged blue.
They used to eat humans, my guide had said to me. Other invading tribes. They would hit them with this neck breaker, then eat them with this cannibal fork (she wielded the items with a toothy glee).
I imagined them running through the thick greenery, against the burning sun and halcyon blue backdrop, calling out cries of the hunter and the hunted.
The thick, bright forest rose through my throat and up into the sky, a soaring joy.
Saturday, August 24, 2024
The Many Lives of Amanda
The gatherer
I wake up. The sun is filtering through the leaves, overlaying on my cheeks. The birds have been singing for hours. I breathe in and smell the pine freshness of the air. I roll over gently, savoring the moment and the slow, morning warmth.
The builder
My mind races ahead to the many worlds unfurling in front of me. It places pieces, moves them around, tries out patterns and watches the cascading effects. Faster, we are always moving faster. Tumbling, controlled, catching each other, our legs running over rocks in rhythm. Everything blurs in the background of the one pathway we are running over at breakneck speed.
The writer
The ocean crashes gently as I cradle my coffee. Thoughts swirl in my mind, forming and unforming, machines constructed and run in subconscious seconds. Chewing, my mind pours over the granules of an idea, looking for footholds. Worlds pour out of my fingers for others to inhabit, filled with wonder.
The wanderer
The grass is damp under my bare feet. I scan for trees to tie my hammock between. The sun is beginning to set, and their laughter is loud as they set up a campfire. Someone begins strumming a guitar. A quiet, low voice weaves amongst the trees. Tomorrow, I will see new faces around new fires. Today, the light dances over their eyes, uncovering, fleetingly, all the worlds they have seen.
The movement builder
People brush past me, purposeful, voices calling out across streets. I clap my hands in delight. “Where should this one go?” someone pants at me, the corner of a heavy table supported by their stooping shoulder. “Over there!” I cry. “What should I do with the pamphlets that just arrived?” someone runs to ask. “Ah, perfect, leave them here,” I say gratefully. Colorful flags raise up on every corner. Something is beginning.
The healer
I hold her eyes, softly, gently, a pillow of love for her to unwind into. The lines around her eyes and mouth begin to fade, her breath deepens. Remember how deeply you are loved, my gaze tells her.
The traveler
I sip coffee, staring out at the river and the streams of people passing by. My backpack sits at my feet, journal open in front of me. Soles weary from many footsteps, I listen to the chatter and wonder at the lives of each passing person – the woman with designer sunglasses and a purposeful stride; the man in jeans with a waddling dog. The keys for my hostel room press against my leg.
Sunday, August 18, 2024
freckles
she asked to be reminded she is
alive and I asked
if she had tried curling up
in the curve of someone’s arm
recently and getting to know
for the first time their freckles
did you know people have freckles
inside their eyes?
I found that out on the fifth night
have your feet felt the hot tar
of the summer road recently
and when was the last time you remembered
to breath as if the cells in your lungs
just emerged from the vortex of a wave
gasping for air?
The second diffuses
There is, there, a deep sadness at the fragility of the sense of being.
At each second slipping away.
At generations rising and falling and fading away into sepia-toned memories, known only by stories and thumb-worn phrases repeated with laughter over the dinner table.
There was a life I was meant to live. In the forest, hearing the rain patter through the leaves. Feeling the sun begin to bathe the damp moss in its touch. Barefoot. The village has yet to wake. There are mushrooms to gather in the quiet morning light. The air is heavy with rain and the first birdsong and the slow, ever so slow, passing of time (not a ticking, but an overflowing, falling gently over the edge). Time holds my breath and exhales it through the pores in the saplings and crumbling soil.
There was a life I was meant to live, standing poised beneath the gnarled trees, alert to every sensation. Thunder sneaks back from the days to come and runs along the hairs on my arm.
There, every second swells, entire worlds crystallizing inside. Order, and chaos, and love, and grief, and birth, and acceptance, arrange and rearrange themselves in the shifting structure; then disintegrate as the membrane becomes too thin to distinguish from the air around it. An exhale; the second diffuses, taking with it lifetimes of ache and memories, and then a new second begins.
The moments are pulled from my throat, voice empty, crying out soundlessly for what has already dissipated.
Sunday, February 25, 2024
An Algorithm for Psychological Healing
I wrote this piece 6 months ago, before I went to a month-long retreat in the forest focused on intense emotional healing. The retreat spun me around and threw me on my head – it took a long time to digest and integrate to the point where I could come back to this post. Delightfully, I've realized that while I have a richer conception of trauma, emotional processing, and how to heal now, the building blocks are still very similar. So, here's my already-outdated-but-hopefully-still-useful write up of transformative psychological healing :)
~~~
If you’ve talked to me in the last few months, I’ve probably given you my soapbox on Ideal Parent Figure therapy and attachment theory. I am a little bit obsessed. I’ve been fascinated by the themes underlying different therapy treatments for a while, and I’ve been astounded at how much it feels like attachment theory explains.
I’ve also become just dramatically more secure from doing Ideal Parent Figure therapy. All my friends now do IPF therapy, and the emotional breakthroughs roll in every week.
I wanted to try and put all my amorphous soapbox thoughts on paper and share them here. This is partly a love letter to IPF therapy, and partly sketches of my current working model of effective psychotherapy.
A summary of attachment theory
A working model of effective psychotherapy
We learn beliefs that help us in an environment, and these beliefs influence how we navigate the world.
We can update beliefs with contradictory evidence
The process works better if it’s embodied
The process works better if it’s repeated
The process works better if it targets root beliefs
A case study: IPF therapy really worked for me
Other nice things about IPF
A summary of attachment theory
As I’ve learned more about attachment theory, I’ve been astonished at how much literature there is on it and how far-reaching the effects of attachment beliefs seem to be. I originally wrote a full summary of attachment theory, but then this post became like 5,000 words long. So here’s a quick summary:
Attachment beliefs are beliefs we learn early in our life about how to be in the world such that we get our needs met. In their first few years of life, children form internal working models (i.e. maps of what to expect from the world). From interacting with their caregivers, they learn what to expect from others (can they expect consistent care, or should they expect rejection?), how to view themselves and their self-worth (are they affirmed and delighted in, or viewed as an annoyance and burden?), and what protective strategies they need to survive (should they shut down their emotions to protect themselves, learn to display whatever emotion will get them the care they need, or learn to express themselves authentically?). These beliefs form clusters, called attachment styles, which persist into adulthood. In one study, 77% of adolescents who were given the Adult Attachment Interview (a measure of attachment style as an adult) had the same three-way attachment categorization (secure, avoidant, ambivalent) as they did at 12 months. (1) Which is kind of insane. Beliefs you learn when you’re a 1 year old are still a dominant force in your life at adolescence and beyond.
In adults, there are 4 main attachment styles, which fall into secure or insecure:
Secure: People with secure attachment styles value both attachment and exploration. They are comfortable depending on others and asking others for help, and also able to operate independently. They have a strong sense of personal identity.
Insecure:
Dismissing: People with dismissing attachment styles avoid getting close to people. They don’t often ask for help. They can often be aloof and contemptuous. They minimize emotional expression, have a hard time tapping into what they’re feeling, and use other strategies (like cognitive strategies) to cope.
Preoccupied: People with preoccupied attachment style worry a lot about relationships. They’re afraid of being abandoned, and need a lot of approval and reassurance. They can be clingy, resentful or frustrated if a partner is not available, easily upset, and have intensified emotions.
Disorganized. People with disorganized attachment style switch between both dismissing and preoccupied strategies.
Attachment styles are associated with basically every psychological disturbance (from eating disorders and substance abuse to borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression, and antisocial personality disorder). And, there are themes: disorders with an internalizing dimension (which are characterized by fear, e.g. anxiety, PTSD, or depression) are associated with preoccupied attachment style, while disorders with an externalizing dimension (which are characterized by outwardly observable behavior, e.g. substance abuse) are associated with dismissing and preoccupied attachment styles. (2)
The implication of all of this is an appealingly neat frame: Children form internal working models about themselves and others through their interactions with caregivers. They then carry those working models into adulthood. These working models contribute to relationship issues and mental illnesses.
It’s appealing in part because it gives a very specific mechanism for healing mental illnesses: target and change the attachment working models.
A working model of effective psychotherapy
One of the exciting things about attachment theory is its alignment with my previous working model of psychotherapy, which is based on the book Unlocking the Emotional Brain. The thesis of Unlocking the Emotional Brain is that effective psychotherapy is tapping into memory reconsolidation. When an event occurs, it gets consolidated into our long-term memory over a period of time. While we used to think that memory was static, there's now a lot of evidence that shows that when we retrieve the memory, we can reconsolidate it – i.e. we store the memory with additional learnings every time we retrieve it.
Psychotherapy can leverage this learning mechanism: Effective psychotherapy activates the memory to trigger the reconsolidation window (where the memory can be changed with new information), and then provides contradictory evidence to the original learning such that the memory is reconsolidated with new learnings. This means we can unlearn beliefs that we learned earlier on in our lives. Our brain does this precisely so that as our environment changes, we can adapt better to it.
There are several important components of what Unlocking the Emotional Brain talks about that are mirrored by attachment theory and Ideal Parent Figure therapy. My current model, which is mostly based on Unlocking the Emotional Brain and Attachment Disturbances: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair, but also has a bunch of personal learnings thrown in there, is:
We learn beliefs that help us in an environment, especially when we're young, and these beliefs influence how we navigate the world.
We can update those beliefs by activating them and then providing contradictory evidence.
The process is more effective if:
It’s embodied
It’s repeated
It targets root beliefs
We learn beliefs that help us in an environment, and these beliefs influence how we navigate the world
In attachment theory, these beliefs are our internal working models, formed between 12 and 18 months based on our interactions with caregivers. They’re beliefs like “My emotions are unacceptable”, “If I reach out for care I won’t get it”, and “I will be abandoned when I need care”.
An important theme across many therapy modalities is that these beliefs had what Unlocking the Emotional Brain calls a powerful purpose. At some point in time, they protected us and were very important for our survival. When we’re young, if we don’t get cared for we quite literally die; so what we learned to expect from our caregivers and how we got care from them were extremely helpful. Internal Family Systems therapy also taps into this: When you talk to different parts, a lot of the interaction is based around understanding why that part developed and what it’s trying to achieve, and being grateful to it for helping protect you.
These beliefs are a lens through which we view the world as an adult. We seek out what is familiar. We pay attention to only what our high level models tell us to expect. And, unfortunately, the beliefs are self-fulfilling. For example: If you grew up with a rejecting caregiver, as an adult, you hold onto the belief that you can't rely on people to give you the care you need. Because of this, you don’t let yourself get close to people, and so you never learn that actually you can rely on people.
When we’re an adult, we’re in a vastly different environment. We’re no longer in our family setting, and we have far more emotional and physical resources than we did as children. The original beliefs that we learned when we were a few months old are no longer helpful in our new environment. But they’ve become so core to our survival, identity, and way of orienting in the world that it’s hard to unlearn them. It’s hard to even notice that they’re our own beliefs and not inevitable facts about the world.
We can update beliefs with contradictory evidence
By tapping into the brain's mechanism for learning (memory reconsolidation), we can update the beliefs we formed when we were children. By default, our brain doesn't want to touch these core survival beliefs. Without specifically activating them (and having a safe environment to do so), our brain ignores the evidence we encounter as part of day-to-day life that these beliefs might no longer be true in our new environment. If we activate the beliefs and bring them into conscious awareness in an embodied, safe way, then they can update to match our current environment.
Each therapy has its own framing of how to update the beliefs with contradictory evidence.
Attachment therapies: Early attachment therapies emphasized the role of the therapist. The therapist is meant to become a surrogate parent and provide a secure base from which the patient can learn what secure support and care look like. It’s targeting beliefs around what to expect from other people, and the contradictory evidence is new experiential data about what to expect: “I have experience with an adult who delighted in my presence, held space for my emotions, was there beside me as I processed difficult feelings, and didn’t abandon me”.
IPF: Ideal Parent Figure therapy is similar, except the secure adults are imagined. You imagine your ideal parents, who delight in your presence, are attuned to you and know exactly what you need, and are capable of supporting you and holding space for you. Each memory with your biological parents gets updated with the imagined experience of having ideal parents there supporting you.
NLP: The NLP technique from a course I did involved you coaching your younger self, and looking for contradictory evidence from the world that the younger self would believe. For example, I would tell my younger self: “I know you’re scared that people will leave you, but what about your relationship with your friend who’s stayed by your side for years?” Importantly, you had to keep trying different angles until your younger self actually believed it – it wasn’t enough to just cognitively present the evidence.
Coherence therapy: Coherence therapy, which is the modality that the Unlocking the Emotional Brain authors advocate for, uses many different strategies for finding contradictory evidence. Some of these include going out into the world and looking for it. You bring a certain belief (like “If I speak up in groups I’ll be judged”) to the top of your mind, and then your brain starts to notice instances where, for example, other people speak up in groups and you notice that you’re not judging them.
IFS: In Internal Family Systems, you befriend your parts from a place of "Self" (a place of compassion, curiosity, clarity, creativity, calm, confidence, courage, and connectedness). Your parts learn that they can let go, it's safe now, and that you, as Self, can hold them.
There’s a really interesting distinction that Unlocking the Emotional Brain makes between transformational change, and incremental change (or symptom management). They say:
New learning always creates new neural circuits, but it is only when new learning also unwires old learning that transformational change occurs, and this is precisely what the therapeutic reconsolidation process achieves. The process fulfills the brain’s requirements for allowing a new learning to rewrite and erase an old, unwanted learning—and not merely suppress and compete against the old learning. The result is transformational change, as distinct from incremental change and ongoing symptom management. (3)
Basically, the idea is that transformational therapies are actually updating beliefs, whereas incremental therapies and symptom management just address the thought habits on top of the belief without unlearning the original belief. So, the important core of transformational therapies is that you’re actually unlearning the original belief.
The process works better if it’s embodied
I found this snippet from Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair fascinating:
Jeffrey Young served as the director in Aaron Beck’s research about the cognitive distortions typically found in depression and anxiety disorders. However, when Beck, Young, and others started applying the triple-column technique (Beck, Rush, Shaw, & Emery, 1979) to patients with personality disorders and addictions, Young found that these largely cognitive-focused techniques brought little benefit. Therefore, he developed a new treatment largely based on emotion-focused or experiential methods. (4)
This aligns strongly with my experiences with different types of therapy, and with how Unlocking the Emotional Brain talks about ‘activating the memory’. According to Unlocking the Emotional Brain, you only trigger the reconsolidation process if you actually activate the original memory. This works best if you pull up the memory in the same context it was first formed in. I’ve observed that therapies that focus on talking about memories or emotions create a feeling that you’re making progress, but don’t actually lead to change. In comparison, therapies like IPF and NLP focus primarily on feeling the emotion associated with the original memory (fear, sadness, etc) and take place in a somewhat hypnotic state. These modalities reliably lead me to a feeling of relief that persists.
This also seems pretty intuitive, given that many of the most powerful beliefs that are influencing our lives were formed very early in life. At that age, cognitive faculties (and even our narrative memory system) haven’t developed yet, so the beliefs are mostly going to be emotional and visceral. This quote from Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair puts it nicely:
Because our first relational experiences are mainly lived outside the domain of language, our crucial internalizations of early relationships register as representations, rules, and models that cannot be linguistically retrieved. For these hard-to-reach representations to later be modified . . . they must be accessed, that is, experientially engaged. In therapy, such representations in the patient often become accessible only as they are communicated through other-than-verbal channels . . . [T]he foundations of our internal working models . . . are . . . nonverbal and unconscious . . . [W]e lack verbal access to many of the experiences that shape us most profoundly. (Wallin, 2007, pp. 113, 116, 117) (5)
Similar to how each therapy has different ways of getting contradictory evidence, each therapy has a different method for accessing and activating the beliefs in an embodied way:
IPF: You start with an emotion that’s difficult. Feel into that emotion, and let your mind take you back to a memory in childhood where you felt a similar way.
IFS: Start with an emotion that’s difficult, and give a shape and voice to the parts of yourself that are involved in the difficult feeling.
NLP: Lean into the difficult feeling you want to work with. Then, let your body tell you a number for how old you were when you first felt this feeling.
The process works better if it’s repeated
Many of the effective therapies I’ve done emphasized repetition. I often think back to my NLP coach comparing retraining your mind to training a dog: If you let the dog sit on the couch even once, it learns that it’s okay; if you want to train it not to sit on the couch, you have to change its behavior every single time. When I was doing the course, I would switch out negative thought patterns for positive ones hundreds of times a day. I’d be in the middle of a conversation, have a negative thought pattern come up, then run away and find a corner to mutter to myself in. Ideal Parent Figure therapy emphasizes re-running the sessions on your own – I have recordings of every session to replay each week. I’ve spent hours looping the same memory with my ideal parent figures. Some fear will come up, my ideal parent figures will soothe me until I feel relaxed, it’ll last a second, then the fear will come back up. After a long enough time just being soothed over and over, my brain starts to learn that it doesn’t need to be so afraid.
I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of thinking about emotional work like exercise. It’s like building a muscle. It’s hard at first. It requires you to look at emotions that feel terrifying and overwhelming. Before you do it, you always would kind of prefer to lie in bed and chill out, but after you do it you feel much more relaxed, calm, and happy. You have to do a bit every day to get stronger, and you can feel yourself getting better and better at it as you practice more. I think it intuitively makes sense as well – you’re learning new beliefs, and so the more you repeat the positive thought patterns and emotional experiences, the stronger your learning will be.
The process works better if it targets root beliefs
This section is mostly me theorizing (ok the whole post is me theorizing, but this section is especially theorizing-y). I suspect that what makes IPF so powerful is that it’s targeting the foundational beliefs that we learned before we even have narrative memories. While you can run the memory reconsolidation process on any belief, attachment theory says it’s these initial beliefs that define most of our insecure patterns as adults.
I think other beliefs then get layered on top of the foundational beliefs. You could spend a lot of time unwinding these higher level beliefs (like: trying to reduce anxiety about public speaking via targeting a belief that you'll be judged if you don't do well). The higher up you go, the more entangled the beliefs become – they're part of large belief complexes that rely on and are blocked by each other. But the root beliefs are often very simple: I am not loved just as I am; I will get rejected instead of getting the care I need. If you unwind these root beliefs, a lot of the higher order beliefs become the kinds of things you can work through as a well-resourced adult without being blocked by existential fear underneath.
A case study: IPF therapy really worked for me
Ideal Parent Figure therapy was developed by Daniel Brown and David Elliot in 2016, based on both the literature on attachment theory and the authors' experiences with Buddhism.
The basic strategy is:
Create a mental representation of ideal parents, who give you a sense of:
Felt safety and protection
Feeling seen and known
Felt comfort, soothing, and reassurance
Feeling valued and delighted in
Feeling supported and encouraged to be your best self
Go into a meditative state where you:
Embody the ‘mind state’ of an issue you're facing
Go back to a memory from childhood that's relevant to the issue
Imagine the ideal parents being part of that memory, and giving you exactly what you needed at the time
I've been doing this therapy for 8 months. In that time, I've had many moments of deep, felt senses of relief. I've tasted what it's like to actually have unconditional love and a true belief that I am safe and cared for. I feel like Mary in the colorless room: Before, I could describe what security would feel like and point to moments where I had felt more secure. But what I've felt since starting IPF is like a different qualia that I couldn't have imagined before. I didn't possess the experiential building blocks to be able to imagine this feeling of security.
I think this is one of the fascinating things about IPF therapy: If you grew up with parents who didn’t give you what you needed, you don’t actually have a conception of what it would feel like for it to be possible for someone to give you what you need. When we bumble through the world and meet people who have healthy relationship patterns, we may expand our boundaries of what we think is possible. But most of our beliefs just go unnoticed. When I first started doing IPF, I had to fight a lot of disbelief. My therapist would say something like “Your ideal parents are able to completely hold your emotions. They’re capable of handling their own emotions and boundaries, and have complete space to hold yours”, and I would basically just be like “No this is not possible”. After a while, my sense of what was possible expanded.
The change in my life has been very obvious. When someone rejects me, instead of feeling hurt and lashing out, I feel calm and okay. When someone leaves, I feel a moment of fear and then remember that actually I’m okay and they’re not abandoning me. I’ve been able to say no to people without terror. I've felt the difference between what I thought was vulnerability before, and actual vulnerability of giving someone the power to really hurt me and trusting that they won't; and my friendships are so much healthier because of it.
IPF therapy has also made me a lot more attuned to what I need given an emotion I'm feeling. I've started to notice what I've been calling 'child emotions'. Child emotions are where there's some kind of unease (fear, anxiety, lack of safety), but when I imagine any of my friends or my partner soothing me, it doesn't feel satisfying. One clear red flag is if I try and verbalize it and it sounds something like "I want assurance that this person will never ever leave" or "I want to be able to just hand all of the responsibility I’m feeling over to someone else" (basically, things that are clearly not desirable for two independent adults). When I trace it back, it's because in that moment there's a one year old version of me screaming out and reaching out a hand to find their primary attachment figure to get care. If I try to get that care from the adults around me, I'll always feel dissatisfied; but if I imagine my ideal parents in that scene, I can get soothed within a few minutes and the feeling resolves.
Other nice things about IPF
Some other things I've been really impressed with about IPF that I've struggled to find in other therapies:
It makes predictions. Attachment theory says there are insecure attachment styles and secure attachment, both of which have clear behaviors associated with them such that they are externally recognizable. IPF says that you can go from insecure attachment styles to secure attachment, and you can do it in ~2 years. There's a goal (secure attachment); there are a set of behaviors associated with the goal that indicate that you've reached it (how you respond to a difficult situation, how you feel about yourself, etc); and there's a timeline for reaching it (2 years). In contrast, with most therapy, there's no indication of when you're 'done' because there isn't an algorithm that can reliably get you to the goal state.
It's an algorithm you can run on your own. My sessions with my IPF therapist are surprisingly algorithmic: I can often predict what he might say next. Part of the therapy is me running the process on my own in between sessions. It's become the most effective tool in my toolkit. When I'm feeling any kind of emotions that are difficult, I'll trace it back to a root memory and imagine my ideal parents there with me. I have sessions with myself where I do the same memory reconsolidation process over and over for an hour (imagining a memory, imagining my ideal parents soothing me, repeat). It's not cognitively intensive, and I feel so much relief afterwards. I'm really interested in therapy techniques that are algorithmic like this because:
It increases feelings of agency. One thing I think is really important about IPF and the NLP technique is that you learn not only local agency (resolving beliefs that might be limiting you in a particular area) but global agency (learning that you can actually resolve your issues on your own). This increases your overall feelings of emotional resilience: When faced with a difficult situation, rather than feeling helpless, you feel like you'll be able to process it.
It's a signal that we understand the mechanism. We're not relying on an amorphous concept of 'it works because the therapist is an expert'.
It's more amenable to automation from language models. It's much harder to automate a task done by someone who has trained for years to be able to make illegible judgment calls than it is to automate something that the average person can do. I'm really excited about LMs allowing this kind of emotional processing to become a lot more accessible and widespread.
It's highly embodied. In an hour-long session, I spend 30–45 minutes in a meditative state. Rather than spending a lot of time tracing the beliefs, understanding why they formed and understanding how they relate to each other (which, in my experience, doesn't actually lead to an internal sense of transformation or relief after a session), it's just about feeling the emotion, imagining getting soothed, and then feeling the relief.
It’s more complex than this
Yep that’s it. That’s my brain dump of what I think is going on with emotional healing. My actual model of it has become much more complex from the last month, especially regarding embodied somatic therapies, but I need to wait for all my embodied learnings to settle before I can integrate them into my cognitive mind. I’d love to hear what you think – whether these frames resonate or not, and what feels like it’s missing from this.
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Footnotes
(1) Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair, pg 27
(2) There’s a lot of ambiguity about causality, both for whether parents’ behavior actually causes attachment styles, and whether attachment styles cause mental illnesses. One of the main books on attachment theory, Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair, speaks as if both are causal, yet most of the evidence is correlational.
Some twin studies have been done showing that attachment style is affected by caregiver behavior and not just genetics, but it sounds inconclusive.
The main directional evidence that attachment styles cause mental illnesses is that attachment therapies (which work on changing insecure attachment to secure attachment) have been shown to reduce scores of mental illness on diagnostic tests.
(3) Unlocking the Emotional Brain, pg 26
(4) Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair, pg 137
(5) Attachment Disturbances in Adults: Treatment for Comprehensive Repair, pg 153
Monday, August 28, 2023
The clock would tick quietly, if there were a clock
The clock would tick quietly, if there were a clock. But there isn’t, so there’s just a buzzing sort of silence. An empty corkboard hangs on the wall. The light is bright, proclaiming some kind of triumphant discovery – but it’s late, the kind of hour that should be filled with a musty yellow. Nothing moves.
These, somehow, are the moments that fill the hallways of my memory. The bright ocean paintings and vibrant nights catch the eye, but it is the dust-covered frames filled with too-loud silence that catch my breath. I know that I am me in these pauses in between breaths.
This is nothing, the whole scene whispers. The nothingness is a relief from the loud proclamations of Something that clutter the day. Every moment wants to be A Moment, every figure huddled in an alley leaps up with a cry when a gaze brushes over them. The square is full of elbows and jostling, until it isn’t, and only a sheen of rain on the cobblestones is left.
This is aliveness. This breath, this moment, is no different from any other. This feeling of chest rising and the electric hum. Are you happy? Are you living a good life? My chest lifts and my ears ring with silence. Are you fulfilled? Have you lived up to your potential? The couch holds my indentation. I am cold. Does your life have meaning? Are you thriving? Have you achieved what you set out to do? The whiteness of the walls is different, if you really look – one is a little more grey than the other.
I cannot stay. The emptiness is too complete, and parts of me I cannot bear begin creeping out into the expanse. The humming becomes louder, insistent. My face twitches. It is the quietest showdown – me against silence, narrative against being, self defenses against the patient grey walls. The silence can wait far longer than I can. I close my journal and hang up the picture frame.
Wednesday, June 7, 2023
Mind Opiods
Later, the searing has burned through my throat. It escapes in moans that echo out into the hallway as my body twists itself in the sheets. A new nurse wheels a cart in. You don't look so good, he says, his voice cutting through the thick air. Out of 10, how much pain are you in? 6, maybe, I mutter, face scrunched. He eyes me suspiciously. It looks like a 9, he says. I sob.
He fumbles with my IV drip. Slowly, a coolness begins seeping up my arm. It radiates out like daylight over a senseless street brawl. The fighters slow, bewildered, blinking into the sunlight. I try to resist the honey moving through my veins, digging in my heels against the liquid happiness I know will be remembered by every cell in my body. It hasn't reached my heart yet. My limbs give in while my heart holds shields around my agency. Sometimes it is better not to know what something could feel like.
And then, suddenly, there is no pain. I have lost the fight. My breathing slows, a smile playing over my lips. I'm so happy, I whisper to myself. I sleep, for the first time.
My body begins to crave it. Another nurse comes to see me (she tells me I look beautiful, like her daughter back home). My cells perk up like magnets: happiness is coming, they murmur to each other. The nurse gives me pills. This will help, she says sympathetically. I act nonchalant: Mm, yes, thank you.
It's slower this time, like frosted golden syrup. A friend comes to visit, and I sit up, chatting enthusiastically for the first time in days. I'm not sure where this is coming from, I tell him. The pain is gone.
A doctor tells me I shouldn't be taking opioids. They're addictive, and I've had too many already. I nod mutely.
Darkness creeps into the room again. Someone is toying with my stomach lining with a pocket knife, drawing it out like an orchestra stretching over its final act. The nurse asks if I need something for the pain, and I do, but I shake my head. I need to make it through tonight on my own.
I make my own opioid. The stabbing comes, and I breathe relaxation into every muscle in my body. Thank you, body. We're okay. Stand down. I'm grateful for you. A micro-second of relief, like a cat purring and exposing its soft underbelly as it stretches, and then the searing of the pocket knife rips through. My eyes water against the burning need to escape, to run, to trip away from the fire inside. Breathe. Thank you, body. We're okay. Stand down. I'm grateful for you. Hours slip away, stretching and compressing into relief and agony.
Slowly, I am noticing the pain softening. The micro-seconds are becoming longer, the pocket knife less sharp. Delirious wonder bubbles up: How incredibly powerful are our minds? It is an ecstatic thread in a whirlwind of pain, to have mind and body so attuned that they merge together into one powerful consciousness that displaces the atoms around it. How much more is this consciousness capable of? There is a solidity to my movements, a rootedness stretching up from the earth's core. Dawn's light begins misting through the window, and there is nothing in this world I cannot breathe my way through.
The cars are too loud when I emerge, and the air is cool on my neck. I shuffle slowly towards the car, puffer jacket wrapped tightly around me and two people I love holding up my arms.
As I lower myself onto a familiar couch, looking out at the ocean, I am lighter than I have been in years. Searing pain has melted away layers of fear like butter. Mind and body are intertwined, and the entangled trunk stretching down into the earth is invincible. Looking in the eyes of raw, unfiltered pain, it was me, and my breath, and the searing. And as the searing faded, only my breath and I remained. I loved myself fiercely.
Wednesday, June 8, 2022
and I recognized you
from the moment I walked into you,
I have missed your warmth beside me
from the maple time we whiled away
as we shed our years like falling leaves,
sinking into earth under dappled sun.
and here you are again,
new eyes and
trembling hands;
cheeks flush from
breathing in the sky.
here, take my hand.
let us wander down this path,
tripping over words and
learning the shape of each other's skin again
until we find a place to sit and watch
the sunlight dip beneath the trees.
Monday, February 28, 2022
Phantom limb
falling in love with you I
didn't intend to.
I am sorry that
I cannot pull away from you –
ambrosia in my veins,
dancing lightly,
gentle, impish.
You are a thread I did not tug on
in a tapestry hanging on
the walls of another room;
another world.
Missing.
Phantom limb missing.
Cannot ask you to sacrifice missing.
Chimera passing across the moon missing.
You are the almost, almost of a reality
my atoms ache to fall into –
the cry in my chest
dissolves in my open mouth.
Saturday, December 11, 2021
Hosting yourself with generous authority
The harsh but deeply loving suggestion to dispel grief with obligations struck me. I (and many of my friends) struggle with the freedom-obligation conflict. Obligations are all the things we know we should do. Work hard. Exercise. Go to that networking event. Get good grades. Be productive. Freedom is the shrugging off of all of that. Endless days with no commitments, and the ability to go anywhere at anytime doing anything.
The freedom story is tantalizing. There’s an entire therapy narrative around throwing out ‘shoulds’ and being gentle with yourself. Yet, despite how it appears, living without shoulds is a one-track road to unhappiness.
Amidst watching Downtown Abbey, I was in a bout of running away frantically from shoulds. I had been holding a gun to my head to force myself to fulfil obligations, and I resented it. I found any excuse to turn away from the gun, avoiding scheduling calls with friends and saying no to side projects. I pined for a feeling of vacation and endless days without commitments. Then, I read the Art of Gathering by Priya Parker.
It sounds like a strange source of emotional advice, but hear me out. Priya, with insight and captivating stories, breaks down types of hosts of gatherings:
The generously authoritative host exerts her power in the best interests of the guests. If everyone at a table is introducing themselves and one person has been talking for 10 mins, a generously authoritative host would step in and ask to move to the next person. They're authoritative, in guiding social behavior, and generous, as it protects the guests.
Ungenerous authority is exerting power that is not in the best interests of the guests. Priya gives an example of a dinner hosted by an alcohol company. Despite serving dinner at 10pm (i.e. famished-o-clock), they made everyone wait until a panel of experts had explained the dinner and how it paired with each of the alcoholic drinks. The organizers held the guests hostage for purely self-interested motives.
And then there's the dreaded Chill host. The chill host abdicates power because they don't want to impose; they think that leaving guests to their own devices is magnanimous. But, in the absence of the power of the host, someone else steps into power. You end up with that one loud guy monopolizing the conversation the entire night. In trying to create freedom, you instead create a space where anyone can step in and shape people's experience.
How does this relate, you ask? I realized that we're actually hosts of ourselves. We so often host ourselves with ungenerous authority – enforcing shoulds that are really societal expectations and not in our best interests. I should get coffee with this person. I should work an extra hour. Yet the opposite, being a chill host, is equally as bad. By giving ourselves freedom, we let anything step into the power vacuum that emerges. And, let me tell you, binge watching Netflix and browsing Twitter are powerful guests. Depression, in part, comes from learned helplessness. And if we don't impose structure on our lives, other forces will, leaving us feeling helpless.
What we really want is to be generously authoritative hosts towards ourselves.
Obligations can be in our best interests. If you want to write a novel, you need to write a little bit every day. If you want to build a community, you need to consistently call friends. Everything that is meaningful takes discipline and commitment. The danger comes from mixing up the obligations from social expectations (like I should work an extra hour) and obligations that are good for us (like going to sleep early).
Once you realize this distinction, you can throw out the ungenerous shoulds without throwing the baby out with the bathwater; you can start to be disciplined in a way that's kind to yourself.
I'm still thinking of Mary Crawley's friends looking her in the eye and saying: You're stronger than this. Get up, go outside, and take back your responsibilities, because you need to choose life. I'm working on developing that kind but firm voice for myself, giving up the fallacy of freedom and signing myself up for obligations that are good for me.
Saturday, November 13, 2021
A Treatise
The first tendrils of a treatise on being.
- Existence is a process of folding in on oneself. That is the light. The heavy is the magnetism of particles drawn into a steel ball that radiates all energy.
- The experience of I is a continuation of memories, this moment, and the next, drawn from a foundation of the last moment and the moment before. If you duplicated I, I would be I and I, ever diverging from the same thread of memories and self. I and self is memories and an experience of right now. Lost memories, and I begins again. New memories, and I begins anew.
- The expanse of possible actions is more vast than imaginable. We walk the railroad tracks of what has been laid before us, but there is life at the furthest outreaches of the imagination (a dewdrop forms at the edge of existence, and no one is there to experience it – no one but the phantom of you, eyes closed, pushing yourself to where the silver thread linking your existence to this moment becomes hazy).
- One cannot be ahistorical. All words must be grounded in the zeitgeist of every single conscious experience dancing right in this moment. Ahistorical is to be devoid of the life force animating every particle; all things are a spider-thin web. Touch me here and I ripple on the other side of the earth.
- The solidity is in the sacrifice. In the tear of losing a moment, a possible world, a possible self, the dust settles on the terrain of this self. This self – rugged, inhospitable – turns its shoulder to the wind to shelter its loved ones. This self can withstand tidal waves. The power is in the sacrifice.
- Pinpricks in a vase – we are all expressions of the same energy. At once the same, and all parts of a whole. Meeting another is like meeting yourself (a direction of energy not yet encountered). Loneliness is unfathomable in the vase, where my existence is given light from the same source as your existence. Unkindness is unfathomable when we are but shapes through which the light filters.
- I echo against the walls; I think, and particles draw to me. I move my hand and I create a reality that is an imprint of my mind. I close my eyes, concentrate, and the road bends underneath my foot. I build each stepping stone I step to. I color the walls I live in. My essence moulds the shape of reality around me, and the shape of reality moulds my essence. I am an infinite loop, modulated only by intention.
- Thoughts bend the fabric of the universe. Ideas are physically present. One darting thought falls like a droplet on spacetime; one thousand years from now, the world is on an entirely different trajectory.
- The bounds of my consciousness and yours are pulses that radiate as waves. Here, the edge of a wave, here the point where waves overlap. Here the point where waves merge into each other and one cannot tell one vibration from the other.
- My quarks, too, feel I-ness. Experience, with a quiet dullness pulses (here, here, there) of light. Movement. Warmth. Drawn, repulsed, dissipating, existing suddenly. I am an emergence of pulsing experience.
Re-architecting our mind
Every second, we rewrite reality. Every time we recall memories, we give them a new tint (the colors we’re feeling when we recall them are woven in). Instantly, our narrative of the past is different. And our self-identity, premised on the past, shifts.
A few months ago, I signed up for a course offering “complete healing in 4 days”. Part of me thought it was a scam, but most of me was extremely curious. In the lead-up to the course, we were told to make a vision board and meditate in front of it every day. “You’re going to be that person in a week,” the soothing voice of the instructor told us over a guided meditation. “Get ready to get your life back”.
Getting one’s life back is not an easy task. Many years of my life had been shadowed by what one might call perfectionist-overoptimization-neuroticism, manifesting as anxiety and depression. I had tried the litany of therapists: CBT when I was 14 with a therapist who told me to sit on the floor but refused to join me cause her skirt was too tight; talk therapy for 4 years in a warm room with potted plants and a ticking clock; couple’s therapy with a doctor of religion and psychoanalysis (yes, it was deep, intense, and really weird). Over the years, I became more and more fluent in the world of emotions. I learned how anxiety is a response to emotions I’m blocking, how dissociating from emotions causes memory loss, and how my relationship with men is defined by patterns I learned from my mother and brother and father.
Yet at the end of all of this, I still had anxiety. I still ignored my friends for weeks because texting them back was too stressful, and I still had debilitating breakdowns over the wording of an email.
Enter the crazy healing course. What intrigued me was how much it promised so quickly. The internet is awash in articles proclaiming that doing ‘this one quick trick’ will solve your problems. We’re drawn to easy, magic pill solutions. But, of course, we must be very skeptical of such claims. In the efficient world, there is no free money on the table. If it were really that easy, people would already have done it.
So my curiosity was piqued by the videos on the course website of real people standing up from wheelchairs and walking for the first time, or talking about their first meal they enjoyed in years because they had conquered their eating disorder. What was I missing?
What this course was promising wasn’t a magic pill, it was a leverage point: a part of a system where a small amount of effort has outsized effects. The leverage point this course had discovered was beliefs.
Ok. So here’s where I freak out about the power of beliefs. Sometimes you come across something that feels like the key to everything – beliefs are one of those things.
Beliefs are the architecture of our mind. In the physical world, the structure of a house subconsciously affects our behavior and emotions. If the hallway is narrow, we’ll feel suffocated. If the windows are small, we’ll feel gloomy. If the living room is large and beautiful, we’ll spend more time hanging out with our family. Similarly, beliefs are the pillars and walls and roofs that we mentally inhabit every single waking moment.
Beliefs moderate our perception. We perceive the world through two streams: bottom-up processing, which is the sensory data we get from our environment, and top-down processing, which is our context and models of the world. To make sense of the jumbled mess of sensory data, our brain is constantly predicting what it *expects* to see based on all the prior knowledge we have. As Scott Alexander says in this great review, “You’re not seeing the world as it is, exactly. You’re seeing your predictions about the world, cashed out as expected sensations, then shaped/constrained by the actual sense data.”
Let me just say that again. Your brain *predicts what it expects* based on your beliefs, and this determines *what you actually perceive*. This is why beliefs are so powerful – we can predict experiences into existence. When we develop beliefs like “I am not good enough”, we throw blankets over our mind and it contorts the data to fit them. We stop noticing times we were good enough, and fixate on times we thought we weren’t. We stop interpreting events as “maybe it was just an accident” and start interpreting them as “it was because I wasn’t good enough”. Our brains are habit-machines, and we run the same thought patterns over and over. Eventually, we forget that we were the ones who created the beliefs. This is how we trap ourselves: by forgetting our fundamental utter freedom, and by forgetting that we constructed the beliefs we feel trapped by.
Beliefs can develop in a second. You forget your books at school and a teacher tells you off. “I must be forgetful,” you tell yourself. Then, we experience what we expect. The next time you forget something, it reinforces your belief. “I forgot my books again. That just proves it.” This particularly happens when we’re young, because we don’t have much evidence either way. Our brain over-updates on a few events, and forms beliefs that become so strongly reinforced we forget there was ever an alternative.
Okay, so beliefs are important. But theories like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy have focused on beliefs for decades. Why haven’t we solved all our problems already?
Beliefs are extremely sticky. They develop for a reason, and become so familiar that we can’t imagine a different reality. To knock them down, we need to both hit them hard, and expand our sense of agency dramatically. When changing beliefs, you can operate on a local level or a global level. The local level says things like: “You don’t need to believe that people will abandon you”, and people gradually infer that they have agency over other beliefs too. This is what therapy often does. You dismantle beliefs with the help of the therapist, but you still need the therapist to help you through it. You learn agency on the specific issues you’re working on, but it takes years to build up to feeling agency about your entire life.
The global level says: “You can change literally any belief. Here’s a tool for you to do this yourself”. Your sense of agency radically increases, since you realize you can change *literally any belief-based behavior*, on your own, with practice. Therapy chips away at beliefs for years. By targeting beliefs globally, this course bulldozes them in a few days. Improving my mental health became like HIIT: gritty, intense, and quick.
The key idea was to talk to myself to re-route my negative thought patterns every single time I had them. For weeks, I muttered to myself in my bedroom every day, every 10 minutes. At first, my inner voice was petulant. “But why should I believe this will work?” she pouted at me. I cajoled with soothing affirmations (“You’re already feeling better, aren’t you? Doesn’t that tell you it works at least a little bit?”) and undeniable evidence (“This works for 80% of people who go on this course”). I coached, listened to the voice inside, reoriented and coached again. Sometimes I had to reframe: “You don’t have to be scared of this not working. If you start to be anxious again, just do this process again!”, or “Unwinding your anxiety is just about not giving up, and you *know* you’re capable of that”. Always it was with kindness – the way a wise and loving friend would talk to you. And always with persistence, continuing to coach until my inner voice settled back comfortably and my whole body relaxed with the belief change.
Sometimes I had to go further back. My inner voice was speaking under the weight of years of reinforced patterns. I spoke to my 3-year-old self about her fear of my mum leaving for work and never coming back. “She’ll come back in the evening,” I promised, and “People come and go all the time, you don’t need to worry”. Children are remarkably easy to persuade. After a few back and forths and a suggestion to play with her toys while she waited, 3-year old me laughed happily and let go of the belief. My entire body unwound, 20 years of fear of abandonment dissipating within me.
A few days after my conversation with 3-year-old me, I was sitting on a quiet balcony looking up at the stars, musing on our insignificant and fleeting existence. For years, I had felt sadness when I looked at the night sky because of all of the possibilities and worlds I wasn’t going to get to experience. I waited for the sadness and fear of death to well up.
It wasn’t there. I dug around in surprise, looking for it. Instead, all I found was a quiet, sparkling enthrallment at the lives my kids would live. In a rush, I could hear my children laughing as they traversed worlds and expanded consciousness. I could feel their small sparks of energy amongst the stretching, spinning, ever-shifting web of human existence. It was like opening eyes that had been clenched shut for 23 years, and discovering *light*, *color*, perception beyond what I had imagined.
The next day I was driving down an empty road as the sky became pink from the sunrise. Looking out at the dawn blush, I realized how long life was. I could wander into the woods and mark art, or spend years doing a PhD just for fun.
All of these beliefs (fear of abandonment, of not being good enough) were intricately woven together, reinforced by years of prediction and confirmation. Dissipating one belief rippled through my entire network, in a moment unwinding old beliefs and rethreading new ones.
Since then, I’ve sent many an email without fear, called my friends a lot, and hosted big events; I’ve gone on long, carefree walks and found myself genuinely telling people: “I don’t actually have deep fears anymore”. I’ve knocked down walls, rebuilt windows, and created warm, open rooms with beanbags and flowers. And, the light has been streaming into my house.
Sunday, May 2, 2021
Memories I never lived
Carl Jung, when he was 15, had two people living inside him. Growing up was a tumultuous reconciliation between the wise aristocrat who lived hundreds of years before, fighting for control over this new body, and the naive, arrogant youth.
The multiple selves theory of mind says that there is no singular self: Our psyche is in constant battle between selves with different wants, beliefs, memories, experiences. And if so, why not name them? Why not give them a form and a story?
Sometimes a phrase or an image passes by, pauses, and then nestles inside you. Memories and imagination are made of the same thing: hazy images that slip on the edge of awareness but pulse with familiarity. I overflow with memories that others lived but I imagined, aching for experiences that no longer exist; the same way the tree I spent days in as a child is only a stump now.
Sometimes I am Itsuki, a woodcarver, whittling and honing in the farmhouse I have lived inside for 40 years. I wake up and watch the trees change color. My hands trace the outline of perfection with every stroke.
Sometimes I am Francis, a 22-year-old-turned-soldier in the resistance in France, 1940. The snow flurries against my face as I carry canons through the night, footsteps muffled by mountains that keep me safe and hold me hostage.
Sometimes I am Kai, a pottery maker, in a forest by a tinkering stream. Rows of clay pots - gradients of blues and greys - sit quietly on the wooden shelves. Every few months someone slips in, wanders slowly, buys a small pot, then slips away.
Sometimes I am Geneviève, an avant-garde in 1910. I am smoking a cigarette and leaning back in a chair in a salon in Paris, musing on the potential of futurism and the futility of perspective.
Sometimes I am the child of a Neaderthal and Denisovan, hunched against the cold, carving stones behind the rocks we have settled between to protect us from the wind.
Sometimes, I am a never-ending foetus, curled up in the warmth of the womb, deeply asleep, breathing to the rhythm of my mother's heart.
Sometimes these selves are quiet; sometimes they whisper to me incessantly until I am lost amongst threads of consciousness. That I will never again see the snow falling in the Alps in 1944, fall asleep between the 50,000-year rocks, or watch the Japanese farmland change day after day for decades, is more heart-wrenching than all the photo frame memories I can accumulate in one lifetime.