Author: anna.w3eiss@gmail.com

🔴 I did something I’ve never done before.

I openly admitted that I’m not full of gratitude and acceptance after getting out of hell—

I’m full of hatred and grief:

✍️ https://www.facebook.com/anna.w3eiss/posts/pfbid0ye1sfs8deFnxSoJT3XVddKqT96Kerzi5RRC6jwQCR2hEVBVXkj2tr2AYawpZtbrXl
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It was—and still is—very liberating.

🔹 It’s good to suddenly embrace the parts of you that are often not appreciated in places associated with spiritual growth.

“Your karma,” “try to let it go,” and similar phrases don’t help. Raging, burning, screaming, and creating space for these feelings do. That’s why I’m writing about it. It is the way to eventually let it go. It’s the way to start working on the issue instead of avoiding it.

It’s very important to do this—especially if the community around you and your old beliefs don’t appreciate this kind of behavior.

❓ Why?

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Because it’s the way to avoid serious physical and mental health problems in future.

👉 When Norbunet still existed in Google services— the collaborative mailing list to share events and support each other in the Dzogchen Community—one feature of it spoke volumes all the time.

There was one type of request that kept coming up—saddening requests—about including ill people in lifelong practices. There were always a lot of people suffering from cancer.

It was even more saddening when someone asked to include a person in the Shitro practice after they had already passed away. I have a lot of sympathy for them and their loss.

The frequency of these requests was the saddest part.

☝️ It makes me wonder—how often does practicing Tantra put someone with a very particular type of personality at risk for cancer and similar illnesses?

Why were there so many requests about people suffering from cancer?

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🔶 I can’t help but think that this happens far more often than one would dare admit.

What if, all your life, you tried to be that good, very, very good, unproblematic person—avoiding the “poison” of anger, trying to be as kind as possible, never allowing yourself to be loud, aggressive, or even offensive sometimes? Never allowing yourself to feel uncomfortable around others? Always pushing your true self away?

It’s incredibly painful to see what’s happening to others in Tantric Buddhism—especially to people with a very particular personality type, prone to suppressing anything related to anger or “negative emotions.”

And then, for years, you practice the visualization of wrathful deities—fueling this aspect of rage and anger inside you—but never letting it out in any way, neither in a healthy manner nor as it is?

Then one day you find yourself sick with cancer, with no good prognosis, and someone asks to perform practices for you.

Because you can’t live without anger—anger protects you. This is why Dharma protectors are always depicted in such ways—among bones and skulls, surrounded by swirling fire and thunderstorms. You can’t face danger by smiling and hugging others.

It is very, very sad. And it’s very, very wrong.
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👉 I’m speaking from the perspective of someone who has been through tuberculosis, not just as a regular observer. I went through two rounds of chemo, and I saw a psychotherapist who worked specifically with tuberculosis patients. I had to change some basic traits of my personality in order to recover. And I did.

That was the core of the issue—tuberculosis patients (and cancer patients) often have deep problems with expressing anger in a healthy, open way. They’ll do anything—including self-destruction on a large scale—to avoid admitting and releasing their anger.

When combined with practices that fuel and expand wrathful aspects, it’s a recipe for catastrophe.

One day, your behavior could cost you your life. You’re not a regular person if you practice Tantra. You directly work with the fabric of your psyche, changing it swiftly. And without awareness, the result can be very, very tragic.
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💔 It’s incredibly painful to see what’s happening to others in Tantric Buddhism—especially to people with a very particular personality type, prone to suppressing anything related to anger or “negative emotions.”

They’re not your enemies. They’re your friends. Since you’ve landed in this very intellectual practice, you’ll definitely overcome and tame these emotions. But please, please, please—being “good” in the eyes of others may cost you your life.

If you have cancer, please seek out a psychotherapist who works with your specific disorder. And if you’re raising money to fight your illness, please include psychotherapy costs in your fundraising efforts.

🟠 “So, you’re into marriage, and it seems very important to you,” my consultant said, dissatisfied.

“I decided to live on my own, by the way.”

After that session, I decided to stop visiting her. No offense—I couldn’t expect perfectly qualified psychological assistance when I was paying only $5 per session. It was a good deal, considering that the average price for seeing a Russian psychotherapist starts at $35 per session. She did help me, and I took it as a sign that I no longer needed her support.

But it’s very interesting—I was criticized for valuing marriage, or, in general, for valuing long-term relationships.

And, you know, for finding common ground even when my spouse and I are on different pages in some areas of our lives.

It’s very, very funny.

Because…

🔹 I once promised myself I would never get married again, after my divorce from my first husband. Not because my relationship was especially abusive or bad—he was as bad as any other partner from that “previous life”: diminishing, criticizing, not making any money, and taking advantage of a naïve, sheltered daughter of a somewhat influential man who paid no attention to her. A people-pleaser, not knowing her own worth.

But it wasn’t something catastrophic.

I just candidly hated the idea of marriage—it seemed so suffocating, full of rules, and commitment with no joy. Something that would definitely steal my freedom.

Ha. What I perceived as a craving for “independence” was actually abandonment trauma. I desperately wanted a true connection with someone, having been very alone all my life. Eventually, I convinced myself that I wanted to be solo, that I didn’t need anyone.

Only now, when I’m much closer to who I really am, do I understand that family is truly one of my biggest values in life. One of them. I value my career just as much as I value relationships. They are both very important to me.

❤️ I rely on sincere, deep connections. I always had this particular vision in my mind: I want my partner to be my best friend, the person I can be completely honest with. Not someone I would complain about to my girlfriends. No. A true connection, where your partner is your best friend.

I respect other choices, of course. But now, I realize how important it is for me to be in a long-term relationship.

Maybe someone was so overwhelmed by the constant presence of others that they now crave solitude. But me, on the contrary, I found happiness in no longer being alone—

in finally having the family I lacked all my life.

I’ve mastered the skill of escaping my own feelings.
If it’s not a matter of life and death—like it was with tuberculosis or depression causing tuberculosis—I’m so happy to escape from what’s inside.

I can still function, so why face what’s inside and figure out what to do with it?

🔴 But I still can’t avoid facing it. Again and again. We had quite a start to 2025—arriving in Batumi with only 5 dollars in the pocket, exactly the amount a taxi charged to drive us to the hotel we’d booked. No more money at all.

By some miracle—we found a good-hearted hostel owner. Again, we had only enough money to pay for the taxi to get us there. I sold some art supplies I no longer needed, having decided to end my art career—it just wasn’t me anymore.

Then the hostel owner trusted us, letting us stay and agreeing to let us pay later. I handed him my silver jewelry as collateral.

You know what happened next: I asked for help in the middle of an existential crisis, and the space—and you—supported me.

Then the Namkha Encyclopedia entered its new, full-capacity phase, and things started getting better.

Until.

🏔️🌨️ Until a severe, unexpected snowstorm hit Batumi for the first time in 40 years. Our Georgian neighbor, an old man named Aslan, said the last time it was this bad was in 1985.

How I managed to relocate to Batumi during the worst weather conditions is the theme of this post.

It wasn’t just the “snow.” Not just the “weather.” Everything got complicated again, but this time in a different way. The roads were cut off; we couldn’t get to the city to buy food. It became dangerous to go outside. Our only option was to stay without food for 7-10 days, waiting for the snow to melt.

Yesterday, we restored our food supplies, trudging through knee-deep—and sometimes hip-deep—snow, walking 3 kilometers to retrieve food the landlord had bought for us, and then returning the same distance.

It was incredibly difficult.
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🔹 When I became a Buddhist, everything around me started manifesting as it was. Whatever was inside immediately began to show itself outside.

And while I’m a “kind-hearted Buddhist with good intentions and a mission,” I found that I hate living life and feel deeply upset. I’m not depressed anymore. I’m not ill. But I hate it. I hate life very much.

With all the expectations of immediate ease, relief, and even enlightenment—when I’m ready to spread the light and knowledge of transforming life—I still hate life. I purely, candidly hate it.

That’s what these gigantic, 1.6-meter-wide snowdrifts are all about. That’s why I feel so suffocated, drowning in the landscape of these emotions, as I was drowning in the snowdrifts today.

No ease. No revelation. No rapture. Just hatred—in high concentrations, right there inside me.

It’s not very Buddhist, what I’m writing here. It’s definitely not “spiritual.”

But here I am—extremely pissed off instead of, you know, whatever you (or even I) expect from a person who’s managed to bring major changes into their life.

I’m full of hatred for everything I’ve been forced to go through. Full of aversion. Full of ultimate rage toward everything that’s happened in nearly 36 years of this life.

And the most important thing now is—I can’t pretend I’m not anymore.

The post about toxicity in the Buddhist community has become the most commented one on my FB blog ever.

It seems I hit the target—this is a big problem. The main reason, I think, that many people who land in spiritual communities have deep neuroses related to anger expression, is because they are told repeatedly that their feelings are not legitimate—this time because they’re not “spiritual.”

Initially, it has nothing to do with “being a good person,” in my opinion. It’s just that we are damaged, sensitive, and frightened to face these feelings.

Don’t get me wrong—there are people with anger issues. But I, and the people I’m referring to, are on the opposite end of the spectrum. We aren’t angry enough to navigate daily life. We lack healthy anger. Anger to protect ourselves. Anger to be. Anger to manifest. Anger to express who we are.

Anger is a way of saying, “I’m here. I exist. I’m important. My feelings matter.”

It’s a way of saying, “Do not abuse me. This is not right.”

How many chances did we have to express our anger when we were children in abusive households? Tiny humans in need of care, love, and a helping hand while we were growing up?

Zero.

The adults around us—deeply upset with their own existence, desperately trying to maintain a facade, dissatisfied, furious—could only vent their anger toward their children. These little fuckers aren’t going anywhere, right? So practically, adults could do anything to us. Whatever was on the table—just throw it at the kids. They’re clumsy, they’re unwise, they make mistakes—no problem finding a reason to puke all over them and project whatever is inside.

Parenting is challenging, but is it an excuse for traumatizing your own children with lifelong consequences? I highly doubt it.

Everything inside me screams, “You were not right. You were offensive. You ruined my physical and mental health.”

Suddenly realizing that my life matters makes me very furious. It brings a lot of pain.

That’s why, I think, it may be so disturbing for others to witness someone repairing their relationship with anger.

What if your feelings and experiences really matter?

What would you do then?

“Move faster, you potato sack!” she growled, her brows furrowed in a single line, disgust frozen on her face.

This is how my mother followed me to the hospital. I had been diagnosed with lung tuberculosis a month earlier, and this was the day my inpatient treatment was set to begin.
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I could barely move my legs. Intoxicated by weakness.

If only I had the energy to talk Grandma out of this. She insisted that my mother needed to follow me. In her mind, it would strengthen our relationship. So, my mother followed me from the railway station to the hospital entrance—800 meters of hell.

So stupid. So infuriating. And so helpless. I could barely walk, let alone argue with Grandma or make the journey to the hospital on my own terms. I could’ve just called a taxi, even carried my suitcase. Just leave me alone, as you always have. Please don’t make this worse than it already is.

It would have been so much better. But here we are — my mother furious that she’s wasting time with me. She was deeply irritated that I was walking too slowly and that she’d waste even more time. She had planned to organize another martial arts event in the park near our home that morning. Much more important than taking care of her very sick daughter.

She lacked the guts to say “no” to Grandma — to openly admit that she didn’t care what happened to me. The truth was, she didn’t. But my family was always good at putting on a show when it was needed. Why show how you really feel?

My mother stopped trusting regular doctors a long time ago. This was my third lung issue.

During the second one, about a liter of fluid was found between my lung tissues, and I was immediately hospitalized. She came to the hospital soon after.

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But she didn’t go to the floor where my ward was. She told me to meet her downstairs in the entrance hall. There, I was forced to listen to a 25-minute lecture on how doctors would kill me with antibiotics and how I needed to leave the hospital with her. She promised she would treat me with wet salted sheets, and that all the liquid in my lungs would disappear.

I went back to my ward, exhausted, and fell asleep immediately. Mother never came back. Not for that lung issue, nor for any of the others. I was a lost cause—a heretic, a mad girl who didn’t listen to her own mother.

Now, she was furious that she had followed her daughter to a place where the doctors would certainly kill her with chemo.

Whatever my mother said or did, Grandma always justified it.

Grandma, an educated doctor herself, a renowned neurologist and scientist, even defended the salted wet sheets:

“Oh, you know, pumpkin, it actually makes sense. Before antibiotics were invented, this is how people treated the lung condition you had.”

No matter how sick or traumatizing my mother’s actions were, they were always excused. Whether it was beating me, my sister, or Grandma; suggesting alternative treatments that could have killed me; or any number of other things.

Now, when thousands of kilometers separate me from my family, I begin to think that my mother was mentally deranged. I’ve read books with similar stories of abuse, and the authors don’t hesitate to point out that their relatives were mentally ill.

Thanks to everything I’ve been through, I can now say it openly:

My mother was very sick. Mentally ill.