(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
Everything that is real takes time.
Every third – some say every seventh – generation comes one that cleans up and starts again. If inheritance sin exists, it is all the evil and lack of love that has accumulated generation after generation. Eventually, the community becomes a huge pile of snow in front of the plow, and both it and the brewing car collapse.
If you are about to take over the driver job right then, you either go down or start over.
Martinus, a sympathetic Danish mystery philosopher who lived in the latter half of the 1900 century, received a revelation as a young man. And wrote, literally, shelf meters of words. He believed that at the beginning of your thirties, you would start again where you died in your previous life. You simply do not let go of your cosmic burden and must continue the work. Whether you believe in reincarnation or not, it is a fact that many begin therapy at this age. Life might not be what you thought, and old soul waste is beginning to stink. The truth comes after you and takes you again. It may be an unmet need, or something you would not know. You have run away from the community, but have to face it sooner or later.
I will not argue that everyone needs therapy. But have you had a growing up environment that didn't match your own personality, you have
probably use to lay on the bench. For that kind of soul creates imbalance, and imbalance again creates a darkness full of gloomy energy. An inner hell, so to speak.
If you have many inner devils, there is only one thing that is more dangerous than meeting them, and that is not to do so. Then they put you out of play and you end up being sick, crazy, alcoholic or addict.
No dream position, exactly.
Some are afraid of therapy. They feel that it is like lying on a slaughter bench and losing the soul. But this is wrong. Yes, something within you dies, but what disappears is no longer necessary. It is dew meat that pulls you down into excitement and passivity.
On the contrary, going to therapy is a rebirth. To get a healthier soul.
In classic psychoanalysis, you lie on a couch and let your mind associate freely, too slowly, but surely to move toward healing. The interesting thing is that this is not at all a modern invention Freud invented, but a cunning development of ancient religious rituals, where a sacrifice is chosen, which is then placed on an altar and killed.
Something is sacrificed for a new life to be resurrected. Massage also has some of the same thing about it. You lie horizontally on a bench and sacrifice your tight muscles for better blood flow and new life.
If the individual has a single obligation in the relationship with himself, it is to seek his essence, the one you may have been as a child, but who disappeared along the way. And to the extent that others have an obligation in their relationship with the individual, it is to help them. It lies in being a good person, and a good society.
Any bird sing with his beak, it is called. And so it should be.
In the mid-thirties, most, not least the office slaves, also suffer from neck, shoulders and back pain. Genetically predisposed diseases appear. Here there is nothing else to do but to do something.
My masseur for 15 years, Pål Mabøl, says that there are two forms of movement. One goes to life, the other to death. The movement toward death is to do nothing, to be passive.
This decade, and the next, is at all the time in your life where those parts of yourself that have not got theirs join.
It makes me think of Åge W, with whom I attended junior high school. He was raised as a teenager of athletic and sexual confidence. I was jealous of him at that time, for his clear presence in the world, although I hardly admitted it. He was just a sympathetic but simple sports guy who played football. I was so wise, I meant.
18 years later – we had both been in our mid-thirties – we met on the night train between Trondheim and Oslo. Åge still looked good, and I could see eros burning in his eyes, like when he was 16. Not least when he occasionally glared furiously at a sexy lady down the compartment.
Åge and I started talking about secondary school.
Martinius believed that in the early thirties, you would start again where you died in your previous life.
"I was jealous of you at that time," he said to me suddenly. I looked at him in surprise.
- You jealous of me? Why?
- Because you were intellectually oriented.
At first I became speechless, then I began to laugh. And I had to answer him as true was that I had been jealous of him because he had not been intellectually oriented.
Already at that time, as teenagers, we had begun to miss what we had not developed in ourselves.
Later I found out that Åge had started working as a journalist in one of the leading debate papers, he even became an innovative writer. I myself became a knitter in the physical, not least to fuck.
I believe, as a convinced Platonist, that there is an ideal form of ourselves that we all strive for. This is not a specific object, but an ideal claim, a balance nature in us seeks against.
If you are too much in your head, you need to down. If you are too much in the body, you look upwards.
Maybe there is an ideal form of life itself? And that everything goes against it. Here, like on a planet across the globe.
I do not know.
At the age of thirty, I began a psychotherapeutic treatment that would take many years. On the way up the stairs to the psychologist's office, I met a devastated, crying face on the way out every time. She, a girl in her mid-twenties, had as usual a strenuous 45-minute journey in her own cosmos.
We never greeted. There was something embarrassing about this being revealed in all its helplessness. Maybe she was on her way to work? Psychologists are of the opinion that a patient should ideally work and earn money to pay for the treatment himself. Freud thought you are healthy when you can work and love another human being.
Inside the petty bourgeois office, psychologists always have something super-controlled about them, I lay down on the famous couch as the victim I was, to get new life. The psychologist sat behind me. Whether he got bored or fell asleep was impossible for me to see.
I always started talking about what I had been doing, thinking, feeling, or dreaming lately.
Slowly but surely I descended into a spiral that led me to a point. Something I would touch, or not delete. Something tender, painful. It was like something down there that wanted me to come to it.
It is this "something" that says when we get sick or everything stops. And getting in touch with it is the very starting point to begin the healing of oneself; it does not promise you gold and green forests, eternal happiness and a life without disease. But it tells you that you can start again.
Some mornings it was as if the journey to this point never started, at other times it hit its target immediately. I could feel great happiness or great sadness. There could be a violent aggression in me, an anger so bleak that it was pure hatred. All sides of "something" that were down there.
And this "something" is ... you, your little soul. I know it sounds pathetic and childish when I express it so directly. But then there is also a child. It's the little kid I wrote about in the previous chapter, the one you lost somewhere along the way. There is nothing more beautiful and frightening in the world than to meet again, its essence.
But that is the very foundation of healing – and freedom.
"I am a shadow for myself. Only God knows my name, "wrote Jorge Louis Borges. An incredibly beautiful statement, but it doesn't have to be completely true, forever.
