(A thought, a warning, a reckoning)
I used to think Freud was just outdated.
Now I believe he was speaking with things he didn’t understand.
And worse, he taught others to do the same.
He didn’t bring healing.
He brought language for bondage.
He gave pain new vocabulary,
called trauma fantasy,
and handed the mic to the subconscious
never asking who was actually speaking.
They say he was brilliant.
But brilliance without wisdom is still blindness.
And blind men who lead others into the dark
aren’t pioneers;
they’re hazards.
He dressed up spiritual sickness as theory.
He baptized chaos in academic ink.
And people still quote him
like he was a prophet.
I believe in serial desire.
I believe in obsession and in pattern.
But I do not believe it starts in the brain.
Some of it was born in silence.
Some of it passed down in blood.
Some of it entered through doors left open
by people who claimed to love us.
And some of it?
Some of it isn’t even ours.
It wears our face,
thinks in our voice,
and hijacks the wheel like it was always driving.
But it’s not us.
And it never was.
Freud didn’t expose that.
He entertained it.
He entertained spirits that feed on confusion
and called it self-discovery.
Crowley?
He just put fire to the gas.
This is not just about psychology.
This is about possession of narrative;
and the slow erasure of innocence
by people who smile as they dissect you.
This is not theory.
It’s trespass.
And if you don’t name it,
it names you.
I have felt things I never chose.
Desires that woke before my voice did.
A background throb like static in my spirit
never mine,
but always there.
Therapy didn’t touch it.
Freud didn’t explain it.
But Christ began to burn it clean.
Not politely.
Not softly.
But surgically.
With blood.
With truth.
With names.
So no
this doesn’t start in the 1900s.
This starts in the garden.
And it ends at the cross.
Freud just helped people decorate the in-between.
It goes deeper than addiction.
Deeper than desire.
Deeper than the lies that pretend to help.
Deeper than the mine,
the bloodline,
the dream journal,
the diagnosis.
And still…
truth goes deeper.
Carve that into stone.
Whisper that over water.
Let it sting.
Let it cleanse.
Let it unsettle those still trying to intellectualize their chains.
Because freedom?
It’s not comfortable.
It’s costly.
But it’s real.
Leave a Reply