My poor little Ego

Me, in my essential habitat. Photo by R. Du Preez

Ego is a ghost who is afraid of dying.

                                                                          -Mooji

This quote made me smile, but also gave me the very best perspective I have ever had on this shifty concept.

Ego. What exactly is it? Where does it reside in me? The clearest idea I could get of it up till now, was that it is a part of self that develops rather early in life, taking all of life's knocks, first relationships and the environment we find ourselves in, and build a safety structure. An identity that has to keep us safe, by warning when to go into pout mode or when a full blown tantrum would have the desired effect. I had the trembling little bottom lip with hazel eyes brimful with tears down pat: no contest there.
      In working with the Enneagram it becomes even more clear that the ego's function to protect me from perceived harm, becomes the very thick wall surrounding my soul essence, keeping the potential in my core hidden, even from myself. We need to get past those walls if we want to tap into what we are meant to do with our lives.
      Ego work then, is some of the hardest inner work to do once we become conscious of its debilitating effect on our lives.

      My ego had been riding on the back of the horse called The Father Wound for many many years. I have been angry with my father for as long as I can remember: maybe since I had my very first spanking at three months (He told me of this himself!) Apparently I was a whiny baby refusing to sleep. But my first knowledge of anger with him had to do with feeling not as loved as my younger sister with whom he identified stronger with. Also he had a very short fuse, had had no role model of a father himself as a child and felt rather inferior to my intellectual mother. 

      Our childhood was spent mostly trying to get him not to fly of his rocker. The tension in our home was always tangible and emotionally draining. He wasn't violent, though we had our fair share of spankings, but emotionally, we could maybe make a case for abuse. 

      When my mother contracted a chronic form of cancer, I put the blame on him for causing the stressful circumstances she was living in, while also working full time and raising four children.  

      My ego built me a very competent and also touchy identity. I was not to be messed with. I had terrible screaming fights with my father as a teenager, and all through my adult years we were constantly at loggerheads even as my mother's health deteriorated along with their relationship. 

       She passed away ten years ago, with my father and I taking most of the responsibility of caring for her till the end. Not even this could bring us closer together. The rift was immense.

      Then I plunged into menopause coinciding with my eldest child leaving home and my inner turmoil started as my soul refused to be silenced any longer after years of self denial. My ego, screeched blue murder as I made drastic changes in my life. But it was if a deep inner compass had been set and I could not turn back. 

      It still took a good many years for me to be able to write this today. Along the way I have tried to explain to my father the wounds his insecurities had caused us. He didn't understand but asked to be forgiven, even though he didn't know what he had done wrong. That enraged me at the time, my ego demanding retribution, some form of payback. How or what I couldn't say. He couldn't just be left off the hook.

     But somewhere along the line something shifted. At first all I knew was that I no longer wanted to feel so angry with him. I didn't know how to stop. Then somehow I started forgetting that I was angry. And then the day came when I truly felt no anger towards him at all. 

     The following quote by Eckhart Tolle, explains why we hang on to our wounds and struggle to move on:
I don't want it to end, and so, as every therapist knows, the ego does not want an end to its “problems” because they are part of its identity.
If no one will listen to my sad story, I can tell it to myself in my head, over and over, and feel sorry for myself, and so have an identity as someone who is being treated unfairly by life or other people, fate or God.
It gives definition to my self-image, makes me into someone, and that is all that matters to the ego.
  

I now understand that I was so sold on having an excuse for the way I was that I couldn't let it go. Not until I have made peace with those things I was noticing in my own life which I had hated in my father's. 

      I seem to have gone all soft now. Even though my ego needs to constantly be kept in check. I have started to feel sympathy with men (a previously unthinkable notion!) and the burden they carry in trying to be all society demand them to be.

     Even more remarkable; I feel sympathy for my ego. The poor ghost who cannot rest and needs to be needed in my life. I find myself pacifying it like a little child. "There, there." I say. "All will be well." Look how far we've come. Why don't you write us a great piece to tell about it?"

Matilda

See also: True and false is true and How to spot the ego and soul.