Angst

For most of my life, from childhood through two decades of running my own company in Switzerland (1997–2021), I pushed myself to do things that frightened me. I kept telling myself I could handle them, then forced myself forward. Once I was doing them, I often entered some kind of a flow state in which the fear faded into the background and I was "able to perform".

Yet despite countless successes throughout my life, that underlying fear never truly disappeared.

"Die Angst kommt ununterbrochen aus dem Dunkeln gekrochen." (Tone, Durch den Regen, Phantom)

There were periods when I genuinely believed I could do anything. During those times, the fear receded so far into the background that I almost forgot it existed.

Then, in 2021, after more than twenty years of running my business, I closed it and decided to focus on myself for a while.

That was when the fear returned with full force. At times it completely overwhelmed me. There were moments when I couldn't do anything at all, when I felt paralyzed and had to lie down, trembling, curled up into a ball.

Today, I am much better, but still, my state of self changes frequently.

Sometimes I experience hours, days, or even weeks of deep happiness and confidence, only for them to be undone by the slightest negative trigger.

I have even noticed that, whenever I begin to feel genuinely happy, my mind starts searching for something to worry about. It's almost as if it asks, "Do you really feel good?" and then sets out to prove that I shouldn't.

So even now, I spend a great deal of energy convincing myself to be confident, and courageous.

"Positive thinking as an extreme sport." (Amadeus Paulussen)

And all of this, even though I would say I am still mostly happy and, in another sense, even feel irrevocably protected.

Perhaps it's a kind of enduring hope that everything will eventually get better, a hope that has accompanied me for as long as I can remember, almost like a mantra.

"The Dawn of the age of enlightenment." (Maharishi Mahesh Yogi)

It's the belief that, while the present may be difficult, relief is just over the horizon.

Which is why, nowadays, I almost seem programmed to assume that situations will be difficult, push through them in distress, and only afterwards allow myself to cave in and relax.

Things do improve, though, at least in some areas. But perhaps not enough, or not often enough, for the hope of change to finally give way to a lasting sense of peace.

Perhaps things don't need to get better. Perhaps they need to be better. Perhaps I simply need to replace anticipation with presence. (Amadeus)

Anyway, currently I still spend a big chunk of my life in a state of high alert.

Living that way is exhausting, not only mentally but also physically. And with that exhaustion comes a longing to allow myself, just once, to give up. Not because I want to, but because I want to stop fighting.

I may be wrong, but I don't think I ever learned how to give up. Whenever I've started something, I've seen it through, no matter the cost.

"Gring abe u seckle" (Swiss German saying meaning roughly "head down and run")

I think that, by now, I know myself fairly well. I've spent a lot of time reflecting on my emotional world and on how I respond to life in general.

Much of it, I'm sure, goes back to how I grew up, caught between a longing for a gentle, loving, enlightened world on one side and violence, in many different forms, on the other.

For example, there were always animal welfare magazines lying around our home. Sometimes, I dared myself to read about the unimaginable cruelty that humans inflict on animals. As time went on, I found myself increasingly haunted by a single question: How can people be capable of doing such things—not only to animals but also to one another?

Violence wasn't something I encountered only in magazines. It was also present in our home.

For years, my father was violent toward my mother.

This shaped how we as a family viewed men. The prevailing message around me was that men were often simple-minded, emotionally incapable, and, in many contexts—including sexually—at best inadequate.

When I was thirteen, my parents separated. From that point on, I was the only "man" in the house. I felt as though I carried part of my mother's pain, as well as that of my three sisters, all of us trying to come to terms with a violent father and the emotional wounds this situation has left behind.

Gradually, it became a subconscious mission to prove that I was a loving man, someone no one would ever need to fear.

I think that remains one of the strongest subconscious drivers in my life to this day.

I don't hold a grudge against my father. I think I understand the circumstances he lived in and the struggles he faced.

In general, I find it relatively easy to put myself in other people's shoes. There are exceptions, of course. But when I can, I usually come to the same conclusion: we are all good, or were good to begin with, until life shaped us.

"Ultimately, we are all one." (John Hagelin)

Toward myself, however, I find compassion much harder.

I'm often angry with myself for being afraid of life, for failing to maintain lasting inner peace, and for spending so much energy trying to make everything right while so often forgetting myself in the process.

One more thing feels important to mention: The fear I'm describing here is only part of the picture. It's also shame. It's perhaps a deep sense of not being deserving.

I'm afraid of making people uncomfortable. I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of being exposed to violence in any form, or of witnessing violence inflicted on others. I'm afraid of cruelty and of the indifference. And I'm afraid of ultimately being found and punished, although that last fear is more a feeling, really, and I find it very difficult to put into words.

Today I find myself asking whether the way I've dealt with all of this thus far has really been good for me.

For as long as I can remember, my response has always been the same: force myself to overcome it.