i sit down and chanmyay pain, doubt, wrong practice start circling all over again

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. There is a strange hardness to the floor tonight that wasn't there before; it makes no sense, yet it feels like an absolute truth. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. 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. I didn’t ask for it; it simply arrives. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."

The doubt begins: is my awareness penetrative enough, or am I just thinking about the pain? Or am I clinging to the sensation by paying it so much attention? The physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting it.

The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. Then, uncertainty arrives on silent feet, pretending to be a helpful technical question. Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. Perhaps I'm being too passive, or I've missed a fundamental step in the instructions.

I worry that I missed a key point in the teachings years ago, and I've been building my practice on a foundation of error ever since.

That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. I catch myself subtly adjusting my posture, then freezing, then adjusting again because it feels uneven. My muscles seize up, reacting to the forced adjustments with a sense of protest. A ball of tension sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.

Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." Like a test I am failing in private. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. The fear is that I'm just hardening my ego rather than dissolving it.

The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
Earlier today I read something about wrong effort, and my mind seized it like proof. It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. I'm glad to have an answer, but terrified of how much work it will take to correct. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. I release the clench, but it's back within a minute. It’s an automatic reflex.

The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The ache moves to a different spot, which is far more irritating than a steady sensation. I wanted it to be predictable; I wanted something solid to work with. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I attempt to meet it with equanimity, but I cannot. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just click here more thinking.

The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I remain silent in the face of the question, because "I don't know" is the only truth I have. The air is barely moving in my chest, but I leave it alone. I’ve learned that forcing anything right now just adds another layer of tension to untangle later.

The clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small mercy. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I stay. Or I hesitate. Or I stay while planning to move. It’s all blurry. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.

I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. I just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.