Member-only story
The term “Symptom Bearer” did not emerge on my radar until I was in my early sixties. Upon hearing the phrase, I explored the definition and learned it describes a person who strives to express feelings their family system actively represses. I donned the Symptom Bearer Cloak to see if it fit, and I found the garment’s weight settled easily on my shoulders. It makes sense for a Family Legacy Hacker might assume this profound role.
All of my life I’ve been aware of ever-resent darkness accessible through inner portals. At first, I accessed these portals through writing and sports. I wrote oddly satisfying stories that glorified predatory sex, a passion for knives, and bloodletting. I lifted weights and used my developing strength to pound on a punching bag, tapping into stockpiles of rage and unexpected fits of sobbing.
As I moved into my middle years, hacking family legacy became more difficult. I had to get in shape to descend into dark Inner Catacombs. The treks brought me to realms of abandonment and uncovered desperate habits for attention and acknowledgment. I learned the nature of shunning, a complex weather system of shame rain, and gale forces shredding my sense of self-worth. I lost sight of my purpose, and the Symptom Bearer Cloak dragged me down, no longer a comfortable fit.
I stuck with my tactical training, primarily visualizing emptying my thoughts and sending muscle organization signals that developed healing algorithms. Slowly story reset took place, but I couldn’t figure out how to completely shed the old, tired cloak, by now dirty and in disrepair. I have been able to hang it in the closet for periods of time, then inexplicably it calls to me, and I find myself slipping my arms into the familiar folds. Will this family legacy hacking ever end? And, if so, will I slip between dimensions and enter a parallel universe?
