The inability to fall asleep can prove to be quite an efficient way to ruin our days.
It is an unconscious program which keeps running and running again every night.
A pernicious and hardly noticeable self-sabotage, whose only point is to create the conditions for our own failures, to forbid the unfurling of our true potential.
At night, we plant the seeds of failure. And, as we have sown, we shall reap.
We are making real the impossibility to fill our own space in the world, and we get so good at it over the years that we become the craftsmen of our daily discomfort.
But what can be the origin of such a well-coded program?
It can stem from deepest layers of our (un)Consciousness, the essential matrix.
From within this womb, the foetus might not properly unwind and take all the place that he should, had he felt comfortable. He may be insufficiently nourished, he may feel unwanted.
Sometimes, the child to be born might even faint in the process, dying for help, resassurance, guidance to see the day. But he’s so weak that moving towards death seems a shorter path.
He has become the essence of failure and will bury in his deepest tissues, in the core of his cells this primary belief: « It fails », which over time will become « I have failed », then « I am failure », and « it’s my fault if it fails »… like an anti super power, tremendously destructive and convincing.
The immaturity at the heart of this self importance is shared by many failure syndrome victims.
Surprisingly it may take the form of over self-confidence, outrageous arrogance, profound shyness or any other manifestation of disproportionate self image.
But he is the very same foetus looking at others around him as they are ending their 20th lap around the track, not knowing why he is still wondering how to get started.
And yet, from the bottom of this unproductive well he may somehow succeed, find his way through flesh and bones, he can receive proper assistance and even be brought back to life…
From this passage, he will bear the carved-in memory of occupying a place he’s not supposed to, of being an eternal faker, a pretender wherever he goes.
Once this gut-guilt is unveiled, the automatic mistake would be find a new support for this feeling in the one who has not been able to let him stretch out within herself.
This would be totally ignoring the reality behind: she was herself running a destructive program over which she had no control at the moment, a mum-function inhibiting code.
Blow the guilt away
No culprit in the story
Just sad prisoners…