pain, doubt, chanmyay, wrong practice, all looping through my sits instead of settling

The clock reads 2:18 a.m., and a persistent, dull ache in my right knee is competing for my attention—not enough to force a shift, but plenty to destroy my calm. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.

The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The raw data transforms into "pain-plus-narrative."

I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.

The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. Suddenly, doubt surfaces, cloaked in the language of a "reality check." Chanmyay doubt. Perhaps I am over-efforting. Or maybe I'm being lazy, or I've completely misinterpreted the entire method.

There is a fear that my entire meditative history is based on a tiny, uncorrected misunderstanding.

The fear of "wrong practice" is much sharper than any somatic sensation. I start to adjust my back, catch the movement, and then adjust again because I'm convinced I'm sitting crooked. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. There’s a tight ball in my chest—not exactly pain, but a dense unease.

Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
On retreat, the discomfort seemed easier to bear because it was shared with others. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. I can't stop the internal whisper that tells me I'm reinforcing the wrong habits. The fear is that I'm just hardening my ego rather than dissolving it.

The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
I read a passage on the dangers of over-striving, and my mind screamed, "See? This is you!" It felt like more info a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I consciously soften my face, only for the tension to return almost immediately.

The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The pain shifts slightly, which is more annoying than if it had stayed constant. I had hoped for a consistent sensation that I could systematically note. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I attempt to meet it with equanimity, but I cannot. I see my own reaction, and then I get lost in the thought: "Is noticing the reaction part of the path, or just more ego?"

“Chanmyay doubt” is not dramatic; it is a low, persistent hum asking, “Are you sure?” I remain silent in the face of the question, because "I don't know" is the only truth I have. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. I know from experience that any attempt to force "rightness" will only create more knots to undo.

I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I haven't moved yet, but I'm negotiating the exit in my mind. The clarity is gone. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.

There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I don't have a strategy for this mess. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.