Autobiography

The Sweet Path Back To The Bakery By Rogério Silva

The Sweet Path Back to the Bakery

I met Rogério at the SAT in Brazil, where he worked alongside Claudio Naranjo. At the end of our first meeting, he approached me and said, "You and I have the same personality, it’s true." He recognized himself in the Social Eight. "We’re the best!"

I saw him on various occasions at the SAT and at the NGO Acuda, where I was invited to work with inmates who had been released from prison. These individuals would stay at Acuda all day to participate in a unique reeducation program alongside Rogério, Pedro, and Luis, the program's creator and founder, who dedicates himself daily with love and commitment. I know Rogério’s biography will be a very important contribution.

— Antonio Ferrara

When I was four years old, my parents, who were semi-illiterate and of humble means, made a decision that would alter our lives. We lived in northern Brazil—a place where poverty was a daily reality—and they decided to move to Goiás with their seven children in hopes of improving our financial situation. At that age, although I didn’t fully understand what moving meant, I could sense the impact of that change. I remember my parents speaking in hushed tones at night about their worries, while we, the children, wondered what awaited us in this new place. We lived in a mix of fear and excitement that was hard for someone as young as I was to comprehend. Moving to Goiás represented not only a change of location but also the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.

During the journey to Goiás, my childlike curiosity and fascination with the new surroundings, unfamiliar sounds, and unknown sights drove me to wander away from my family. I don’t remember how long I was alone, but fear and uncertainty began to grow within me. When they found me, my mother slapped me, something that deeply impacted me. At that moment, I was overwhelmed by surprise and physical pain, emotions accompanied by a strong sense of injustice and anger. I had been terrified and needed comfort and care, but what I received was punishment. That moment, which remains etched in my memory, made me realize that I wasn’t allowed to make mistakes.

When I was about seven or eight years old, my parents separated due to my father’s alcoholism. I remember feeling powerless as they argued whenever he came home drunk. During that period, my older sister took on a role that was more like a parental figure than our mother, who was focused on her nightclub and earning money. My sister took care of everything, from our school grades to our daily needs. Her strictness was overwhelming. Whenever I made mistakes, my parents would punish her physically, which instilled in me a deep fear of making errors. This led me to strive to be an example and avoid mistakes at all costs.

Over time, the family environment left me with lasting resentment toward the way my family handled errors and failures. About a year ago, I had a long, deep conversation with my mother about these childhood memories. Despite the years and changes, certain memories remain vivid and emotionally charged. My mother, usually caught in a semi-lethargy, seemed surprisingly animated. Talking about the past revitalized her in a way rarely seen in her daily life. During our conversation, I not only recalled the day I was punished for getting lost but also the separation of my parents and my father’s departure to the east—events that left an indelible mark. I felt abandoned, vulnerable, and unprotected. My father’s absence left a profound emotional void and a constant reminder of my fear of being alone during critical moments.

I shared all these things with my mother that day, and I realized how deeply these events had shaped my perception of family, security, and love. My mother didn’t say much, but I noticed her eyes seemed to understand, and she looked sad, as if she had realized the impact certain events had had on my life and how they had shaped my worldview.

Every time our parents punished my older sister, I was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions. Those moments were difficult to endure, not only because of the deep sadness caused by such unjust punishments but also because of the profound rebellion that arose within me each time my parents acted the way they did. Despite my youth, I had a clear understanding of the importance of parental responsibility toward their children. They, who were supposed to be our protectors and guides, often seemed unable to fulfill their roles and instead took out their frustrations on a young girl who was their own daughter. Each incident, every harsh word, and every unjust punishment she received fueled a burning desire for independence within me. I desperately wanted to free myself from the oppressive atmosphere of our home, from the constant feeling of instability and fear. I began to dream of a future where I could make my own decisions and live by my own rules, far from my parents’ influence and control.

I liked the countryside, but inside, I felt that the abandonment by my father and the anguish of my mother were slowly creating within me a strange sense of power rooted in vengeance. I would say to myself: "When I grow up, I’ll get revenge! Whoever wrongs me will suffer my retaliation." I now understand that my desire for revenge was tied to my difficulty forgiving, a difficulty rooted in my inner child—the part of me that felt abandoned and hurt. This inability to forgive didn’t manifest as a direct desire for revenge but rather as a justification for vengeful attitudes disguised as justice. Essentially, it was a way to protect that wounded inner child, who associated forgiveness with failure and vulnerability.

However, these feelings were a burden I carried in silence. The fear of facing retaliation—or becoming the target of punishment myself—kept me from sharing my thoughts and emotions. I kept these feelings deep inside, never sharing them with anyone. This weight of silence and solitude stayed with me for many years, creating an invisible but tangible barrier that separated me from the outside world. It wasn’t until much later, when I started therapy, that I finally found a safe space to unpack everything I felt and had been hiding. Understanding all of this was an important step toward healing deep wounds and learning to embrace forgiveness as a force for healing and personal growth.

But that happened much later, thanks to Claudio Naranjo, who wisely told me: "It’s important to forgive others and for others to forgive you, but true forgiveness is about forgiving yourself." That’s when I understood that forgiveness is about finding freedom within.

After my parents’ separation, my mother started working far from home, in a nightclub located within a mining area. My mother’s intense dedication to her work meant she had neither the time nor resources to care for her children, forcing us to change our family dynamic and follow different paths. This was a reality I understood, but it still weighed heavily on my heart. For this reason, I decided that living with my father was the most sensible option (though it wasn’t an easy decision), while my siblings chose to stay with our maternal grandmother at one of her houses.

Thus, the house that was once full of life and noise, where we had all lived together, suddenly became strangely empty and silent. The only things we left behind were a single bed and an old mattress, silent witnesses to the years lived there. Despite the sadness I felt about leaving our home, a part of me felt relieved and hopeful about the possibility of starting over. My father was not an affectionate man, but living together strengthened our bond while creating great tension between my mother and me, as she did not support my decision and felt that I was pulling away from her. During the three years I lived with him, I tried my best to show him that I was good, that I didn't cause trouble, and that I was a well-behaved child, because he drank a lot, and I feared he would find faults in me. Then, on weekends, I had the chance to visit my siblings and enjoy the freedom and carefree joy of playing in the streets. During those moments, I longed for the days when we all lived together under the same roof, in a proper family home. My mother, by the way, was almost never there, as she was deeply involved in her business and the responsibilities of her nightclub.

When I was ten years old, my paternal grandfather died in a car accident. His death left me with a profound emptiness. He was my idol, my symbol of stability and strength. At his house, there was a lighter that I had always wanted to be mine. Although I never dared to ask for it, that object represented a connection to him. I also wanted to keep his hunting rifle, which evoked stories and memories. The loss of my grandfather and the inability to have those two objects still affect me. During my grandfather's funeral, I was overwhelmed by immense sadness and a deep urge to cry, but shame prevented me from doing so in front of others. I felt a social pressure to maintain composure, as if crying was a sign of weakness. It hurt not to be able to express my feelings freely, especially because my grandfather had been such an important figure in my life, a role model. Finally, years later, as an adult, I mustered the courage to visit his grave and privately mourn his death.

After my grandfather's passing, my mother and aunt decided to move my grandmother from Goiás to Pará, where they lived. Taking advantage of the December holidays, my mother brought me along with the intention of having me spend a few days with my grandmother in her new home before returning to my father's house to start school. Although it was not openly discussed at home, I knew my mother had lied to both me and my father, and that’s why it didn’t surprise me when she didn’t let me leave when the time

came for me to return home. Telecommunications at the time weren’t what they are now, and I completely lost contact with my father, which created a great emotional void. I didn’t see him again until I was 16 years old. By that time, my life had already been marked by crime and violence. My mother would leave us alone at home while she worked at her nightclub in the gold mining area, where prostitution, murder, and drugs were commonplace. I visited that place for the first time at age 12 and soon normalized the criminal lifestyle, the presence of weapons and drugs, sex, and misery, not knowing how much damage it would do to me. There, I witnessed various forms of power that I soon wanted to obtain for my own benefit, which I pursued astutely, stealthily, meticulously, and silently. I began to feel powerful: every time I did something without being caught, I convinced myself that I was perfect and incapable of failing at anything I did.

When I was 15 years old, I made a decision that reflected the turbulent reality I was immersed in: together with my brother, we gathered the money needed to buy a gun. This decision, dangerous and full of meaning, was partly driven by the stories I constantly heard in my environment, where it was common for everyone to know someone who had killed someone else—for justice, out of spite, or for any other reason. Stories of murder and violence were widespread, and I had come to accept the raw and disturbing notion that to earn respect on the streets of that place, one had to be a killer (or at least be capable of acting like one). Although these ideas exerted some influence over me, my understanding of the inherent consequences of taking a life was partial and limited. I knew, in a rudimentary way, that it was a reprehensible act, subject to severe societal condemnation and punishment. However, a full understanding of the legal and ethical implications of this act eluded me. At that stage of my life, my attention was obsessively focused on the power and prestige that I mistakenly believed weapons granted me.

Reflecting on the past, I recognize the naivety and error in my former thoughts. Back then, my perspective was clouded by a mindset that prioritized brute force over logic and fear over genuine respect. Owning that gun became a symbol of my desire to be recognized, a means to reaffirm my position in a world I saw as hostile and threatening. The reality of what it meant to possess a weapon and the potential consequences of its use only became evident over time. As I matured and began to understand life from a broader perspective, I realized how wrong my vision had been.

This recognition came with its own obstacles and internal conflicts, marking the beginning of a long process of reflection and transformation. Once, a man assaulted a prostitute who worked with my mother. The assault awakened a protective instinct in me and led me to the extreme conclusion that killing the man would be a way to defend the honor of that woman. I was aware, of course, that homicide was a crime and that I needed to carry it out with absolute precision, leaving no evidence that could link either my brother or me to the

act. That night, we hid at a spot along his usual route, ambushed him, and shot him several times in the back, point-blank. Afterward, we hid and returned home.

That killing filled me with a false sense of pride, making me believe that by avenging the assault, I had delivered justice. I considered myself a vigilante. I had no idea yet that the cost of our actions would be enormous. That first experience with violence brought about a profound change in me. I lost control over my life and lost interest in education and school activities. Not long after, my mother decided to move closer to her club. I saw this move as an opportunity. The proximity to weapons and people who had committed murders began to exert a dark attraction over me, and I formed a group of friends—a gang—that worked for me in an illegal arms trade.

That period of my life was characterized by the repetition of violent acts, a spiral into which I fell without fully understanding its implications. Looking back, I find it difficult to recall with precision how many people were affected by my criminal actions. This lack of memory is not due to forgetting but to how desensitized I had become. The reality of those days remains a challenge I attempt to reconcile. At that time, violence and chaos represented a distorted search for belonging and identity in a world I perceived as hostile and incomprehensible. However, with time and reflection, I have come to understand the magnitude and seriousness of those decisions and actions, a crucial understanding in my journey toward change.

I vividly remember an incident when I was around 17 years old. During a dance, a young woman chose me as her partner—a harmless choice that triggered a series of tragic events. Her boyfriend, seeing her dance with me, misunderstood our intentions. Noticing I was carrying a weapon, he made a disdainful and provocative remark: “I see your new boyfriend carries a revolver, how interesting.” Those words struck me deeply, leaving me consumed by dark thoughts and vengeful desires. That young man met his end a few months later after a fit of rage I now regret.

Another memory that still resonates with me involves a man with whom I frequently shared drinks of cachaça in the mines. Our relationship was built on a strong bond and deep conversations. In a revealing moment, he told me that someone had tried to kill him with five shots that, fortunately, had only hit his car. Overcome with uncontrollable anger, we set out to find the person responsible. The day we found him, he opened fire from his motorcycle. With almost instinctive precision, I counted each of his shots and, driven by an irresistible impulse, chased him down. My companion intervened right after I shot him. The echo of that killing reverberated through the community, but no one dared testify against me—a silent testament to the fear we inspired and the influence we wielded in that environment. We were the power of the weapons, the power to decide life and death. That made me feel a pleasure very close to orgasm.

On another occasion, just before turning 18, a friend of mine, also immersed in acts of violence, was the victim of a robbery at his house. Our hunt for the thief led to the deaths of three innocent people before we identified the real culprit. When we captured him and took him to a river, the man confessed he had stolen to sustain his drug addiction. My friend shot first, then my brother, and finally I did. After that, we used a machete to dismember his body and threw it into the river. Every time I was on the verge of committing a murder, an intense surge of adrenaline overwhelmed me. That feeling—overwhelming in its intensity and the sense of power and control it gave me—was indescribable. My heart raced, my senses sharpened to the extreme, my entire being prepared for the imminent act. The adrenaline brought a fleeting certainty of absolute control over the situation.

Despite belonging to a circle of killers that included my cousin, brother, and friends, I often avoided their group activities and preferred to act independently, convinced that I alone possessed the skill needed to kill with precision—the only one capable of planning and executing without error, in meticulous order. “I never miss,” I told myself with pride. Yes, killing gave me pleasure. But in my conscience, before each murder, I heard a dissonant voice that filled me with doubts and warnings. It whispered that my actions weren’t necessary, that the killings didn’t define my true essence, and insisted that I didn’t belong in that dark world of violence and death. At the time, I believed that voice was a weakness. I only understood what it truly was when I met Claudio Naranjo, joined the SAT Program, and heard the words of mercy, pain, and forgiveness.

To silence any trace of doubt or remorse, I convinced myself that each victim was just another number, a necessary element to survive in a cruel world. Over time, as I distanced myself from those dark years, my perspective on these homicidal actions evolved significantly. Before, I was persuaded that my acts were a form of divine justice, a correction of injustices carried out by my own hands. I firmly believed that every murder I committed was justified. Now, reflecting on my past, I am aware of the gravity and profound error of my actions. I understand the complexity of the circumstances that pushed me onto that path of violence and how, in my quest for control and respect, I lost sight of my own humanity.

One particular murder haunts me constantly, as it was a senseless response to brutal violence. A drug addict had killed a young man—whose life was already riddled with insurmountable difficulties—to steal his bicycle. Upon learning of this, a question consumed me: “How can God allow the death of a young man like that?” I felt a mix of anger and sadness, along with a profound sense of powerlessness in the face of such injustice. I couldn’t bear the thought that a life already so challenging had ended in such a cruel and pointless way.

Driven by these feelings, I planned my revenge in less than a day. My plan was meticulous: I bought marijuana and gave it to one of my men, instructing him to invite our target to have a good time smoking weed. While they shared and smoked, I arrived at the scene with a thug. Without hesitation, I ordered him to execute that poor guilty devil and left. The hitman shot him eight times, and I convinced myself that I had delivered justice in the name of God. I felt like I had restored balance, corrected a grave mistake of fate.

The notion of justice has been a central theme in my life, even in my current occupation. Somehow, it seemed I had assumed the role of administering the justice I believed was absent in the actions of the state. In my view at the time, legal justice was insufficient, and God wasn’t putting in much effort. Only I embodied an idea of real, authentic, active justice without delays. This perspective led me to act in ways that, over time, I began to seriously question. Looking back, I’m certain my understanding of justice was profoundly flawed.

Even though I was convinced at the time of the urgency of my actions, I now recognize the complexity and questionable morality of taking justice into my own hands. My actions were not motivated by money or material rewards. I never received compensation for the lives I took. The primary drive behind every killing was vengeance, a visceral desire for justice according to my own distorted moral code. That thirst for revenge was more than just a feeling; it had become an integral part of who I was—a driving force in my life.

In those days, the line between right and wrong had blurred. I justified my actions under the premise that I was correcting wrongs, delivering a justice I believed the legal system couldn’t or wouldn’t provide. Only over time did I begin to question this worldview, to see the complexity and ambiguity of my actions, and to understand how, in my quest for revenge, I had drifted away from any sense of morality and humanity.

When I was around 22, the urge for vengeance became almost uncontrollable. It was a fire burning inside me, constantly seeking fuel to keep it alive. I started consciously searching for motives and reasons to justify my thirst for revenge, almost as if I needed to feed that dark part of myself. The truth is, every act of violence provided me with a perverse pleasure, a rush of adrenaline that made me feel alive and powerful. It was an addictive sensation, a cycle of intense emotions that pushed me forward.

I have always had a strong aversion to recreational drugs. This stance wasn’t just a personal preference but a conscious choice based on my observations and experiences. I knew some of my companions secretly consumed drugs, but I intentionally distanced myself from any substances that could affect my mind or abilities. This decision stemmed from a deep desire to maintain control at all times, as I didn’t want anything or anyone to have power over me. Even my alcohol consumption was always moderate and controlled. I drank just enough to adapt to certain environments but never to the point of losing clarity.

The possibility of being caught off guard and losing control of my faculties was unacceptable to me.

The only exception to my rule against using drugs was the occasional consumption of pills that allowed me to drive for three or four days straight without rest. This practice was a necessity dictated by the demands of my lifestyle and activities—a means to stay operational and efficient over long periods. In my environment, being constantly alert was vital for survival.

I never felt drawn to parties or crowded places. These environments, where most people seek to escape reality or immerse themselves in momentary pleasure, never appealed to me. I always preferred the company of a carefully selected few or solitude. In my world, the noise and chaos of parties represented distractions and vulnerabilities I chose to avoid, so I sought settings where I could maintain a high level of control and predictability, where I could observe and analyze everything around me without interference from the chaos of crowds.

This way of living, staying away from drugs and noisy environments, was a conscious decision aimed at keeping me focused, alert, and always one step ahead of others. Over time, these choices became an integral part of my identity, a defining characteristic of who I was and how I chose to face the world.

I did have experiences with drugs like ayahuasca and LSD, but under entirely different circumstances. One could say that my drug of choice was firearms. Today, with the perspective that time provides, I’ve reached a disturbing yet enlightening conclusion: I am addicted to guns. This realization didn’t come suddenly but as the result of years of introspection and reflection.

I clearly remember an incident about eight or ten years ago that became a turning point in my understanding. I was visiting a place with multiple life-sized photos of firearms, and I experienced a moment where time seemed to stand still; I found myself utterly captivated, almost hypnotized, by the beauty of the guns. It was a very revealing moment, although at the time, I wasn’t fully able to grasp its significance.

Later, during therapy, I began uncovering the complex layers of my relationship with firearms. Therapy gave me the opportunity to delve deeper into my emotions and thoughts. It was in this context that I realized I needed to avoid using firearms at all costs if I wanted to free myself from my murderous impulses. This discovery, which I made in 2002, marked a fundamental shift in my life. Until that moment, I hadn’t fully understood that the core of my problem lay in my bond with guns, as I had never seen them as anything more than tools—when in reality, they were essential components of my lifestyle.

Therapy helped me recognize that my relationship with guns was much deeper. It wasn’t just about power or control; it was an addiction that had shaped my identity and actions in ways I hadn’t previously identified. Recognizing my addiction to guns marked the beginning of a deeper process of self-awareness. This process involved detaching from my past choices and making conscious decisions to change my life. I distanced myself from violence and began seeking new ways to define myself.

The journey toward recovery and change has been long and challenging, requiring constant commitment to personal growth and reflection. Though the temptation to return to old habits and patterns often lurks, my determination not to wield a firearm again has remained steadfast. It’s a constant reminder of where I’ve been and the direction I don’t want to return to.

I remember that her mother was against us seeing each other and that I wanted to run away with her, but I was afraid to do so. Since she had no father and lived in the perverse context of the mines, my masculine side wanted to protect her. When she abandoned me due to pressure from her mother, I felt completely devastated. I shed no tears, but internally, I was consumed with the desire to finish off that woman. Women from many different places were prostitutes in my mother's club. With one of them, at the age of 14, I had my first sexual relations, which were marked by overwhelming tension, since I was determined to keep them a secret, especially from my mother's eyes. Although for the woman with whom I shared those moments everything was very normal, I felt an imperative need to hide, an enormous fear of being caught in the act. So we reached an agreement: at night she would leave the bedroom door open and I would venture through it when everyone was asleep. Although the situation was most exciting, I was consumed by the fear of being caught in a committed offense. Each encounter was accompanied by a pulsating adrenaline, an intense sensation that coursed through my body.

Over time, everyone in our circle – including my mother – found out about our relationship. To my surprise, my mother wasn't angry or said anything about it. I felt as if she was giving me her tacit support, as if she were giving me permission to continue. That's when I began to have relationships with other women from the club in a more natural way. When I was about 14, my mother's partner at the time attacked her with a knife one night, in an episode of violence fueled by alcohol. Years later, already involved in criminal activities, and although my mother was no longer with him, I decided to call him to confront him about his actions. I questioned him about the stabbing, and he confessed that he had been drunk. After a long and deep conversation, and despite the fact that he had been a negative influence in my life, something about him moved me. In an unexpected turn for me, I felt compassion and decided to forgive him, a reaction that was unusual for me. So, surprisingly, that man saved himself from becoming just another victim on my list of people I had eliminated. At 17, I was making money and spending it within hours. That was a time of

great confusion, where I thought people respected me, when in reality, they were afraid of me. We were arrogant and conceited, and we were always armed. Once, for example, at a nightclub called Inferninho, my brother pulled out his gun and ordered the waiters to close the club for us and a few friends. Soon we ran out of beer, and the owner, scared, went to get more. When the beer arrived, my brother was so angry that he kicked all the bottles to the ground. We did the same as him because we were convinced we deserved respect. When the police arrived, my brother gave them a bit of gold to calm them down. We kept drinking until the beer ran out again. It was already daytime. I was about to turn 18 when a chance encounter changed my life in a way I could never have imagined. I'm talking about the day I met the woman who would become my first wife in a meeting that happened unexpectedly thanks to one of my sisters. That day is clearly etched in my memory, and I can relive it as if it happened yesterday. I was packing my backpack to head to the mine, a daily routine filled with thoughts about the project ahead. In the middle of this preparation, I heard a voice that caught my attention. It was a simple but intriguing question, directed at my sister: "Regiane, who is this guy?" The curiosity in her voice and the way she said those words immediately piqued my interest.

Driven by a mix of curiosity and an inexplicable instinct, I approached my sister to ask her about the girl who had asked that question. With a smile, my sister revealed to me that she was a friend with whom she had spent a day at the beach. To my astonishment, she gave me a photo of the girl. When I looked at the photo, something inside me stirred deeply. It was an unfamiliar emotion, unlike anything I had ever felt before. The image in the photograph not only captured my interest but also sparked a deep admiration and a longing to know more about that girl. At that moment, I had no idea that this girl, who had casually entered my life, would become a fundamental pillar of my own personal journey and that this initial interaction, although brief and seemingly insignificant, would be the prelude to a relationship that would have a profound influence on my existence, the beginning of an adventure that, despite its fluctuations and challenges, would teach me deeply about love. Reflecting on that encounter, I realize the unpredictability of life, how a seemingly simple moment can trigger a chain of events that radically alters the course of our existence. That experience represented one of those unexpected turns, a turning point that led me down paths I had never foreseen. But that day, instead of speaking to her, I went to the mine, where I ended up spending two months. I fell in love with her through her photo, captivated by an attraction that grew in her absence. In this situation, I faced a significant moral dilemma. Before we started dating, everyone warned me that I wouldn't have a chance with her because of her father's strong opposition. I told myself, "When I ask her out, I will first seek her father's permission. If he refuses, I will have to kill him." When I gathered the courage to propose, her warm acceptance left me speechless. That expression of love completely bewildered me; I didn't know what to say, and from that moment on, I avoided talking about it. The affection I received from her parents was so great that I genuinely felt

happy in their presence. My intention was always for us to marry, but the tedium of the prenuptial course with the priest led us to make a drastic decision: Edésia moved into my mother's house with the blessing of her parents. I stayed at the mine, unable to give up weapons and violence, despite Edésia's pleas. The dynamic of our life was simple: I was at the mine and she was taking care of the home. At that time, my mother had already quit her job and moved back to the city. When my wife got pregnant, I was twenty-one. That period marked a significant moment in my life, but my involvement in the pregnancy was limited, as I had many commitments. The nature of my work and the circumstances I found myself in made it difficult to be by her side during those crucial months. The separation became a source of internal conflict, as I was torn between my work responsibilities and the desire to be present at such an important time. When I heard on the radio that my son had been born, I was filled with a mix of happiness and guilt. The happiness came from knowing that a new life, a being that was part of me, had come into the world. On the other hand, the guilt arose from not having been present during the pregnancy and birth of my wife. These emotions led me to decide to temporarily leave my job at the mines to reunite with my new family. The days I spent at home after the birth of my son were few but emotionally intense. Then, I had to leave my wife, son, and mother and return to the mines. I felt nothing extraordinary at that moment, nor did I reflect on potential changes in my life. At twenty, my only concern was survival. Over time, I lost interest in the mines and began trafficking drugs with some friends. Everything went well until my second daughter was born, and I had to leave my home permanently due to some legal issues that threatened to land me in prison. I hid at a farm for 45 days and waited six months before returning home because I didn't want to be arrested. Although I kept in regular contact with my mother, I always hid my location. The need to stay hidden was crucial. My family lived with my mother, and I visited them with extreme caution, hiding at a friend's property for weeks. This clandestine life was burdensome, but it was essential. During one of these hidden visits, my third daughter was born. My reaction to her birth was unexpectedly distant. I didn't experience the sense of fatherhood I had expected. My mind and emotions were consumed by the urgency of staying alive and the responsibility of sending money home for my family's support. The fear and tension of my daily life had emotionally drained me, even in moments that should have been deeply connective. About a month after my daughter's birth, my world collapsed. One day, I noticed that the buyers I was waiting for passed by without stopping at my house. One of the men with me went out to investigate, and the police caught him instantly. Instinctively, I ran to the mountains. Despite my familiarity with the terrain and having access to an arsenal at my disposal, that crucial moment found me unarmed and vulnerable. I decided to flee, but after about two hours of hiding, they found me. The image of the police officer pointing his gun at me triggered a whirlwind of memories and emotions. Images of my childhood, the events that had marked my life, and every decision and moment that had led me to that critical point flashed through my mind. At that moment, I felt a complete dissociation between my mind and body, a surreal and

terrifying sensation as if I were observing my life from the outside. The gun that pointed at me symbolized the inevitable end of a path I had always known would lead to either death or prison. I had lived my entire life under the shadow of these two possibilities, and I had come to accept that my lifestyle would lead to one of those two destinations. However, facing that moment in reality was a transformative experience, a raw confrontation with the consequences of my actions and decisions.

I was arrested for drug trafficking. The transfer to the police station was an experience marked by a deep sense of defeat and helplessness. These feelings intensified during the eight long months I spent locked up, during which I could not see the sunlight or feel its warmth. The loss of control over my life and the slow passage of time in prison tormented me internally. The world kept turning while I was trapped in a dark and stagnant limbo. During my confinement, despite the distance and challenging circumstances, my family remained fully informed about my situation. Of course, the fact that I was still married to my wife added even more worry and sadness to my emotional state. In the Urso Branco prison, I witnessed a violent rebellion, one of the most traumatic chapters of my life, as I suddenly found myself immersed—unarmed, vulnerable, and without the protection of any group—in an atmosphere of fear and confusion. I was assigned to a confinement section of no more than four square meters, where I had to live with nine other inmates and face, for about two weeks, the most inhuman and cruel conditions. Our already limited space was further reduced with the arrival of new prisoners, who were thieves with obvious signs of abuse. The sound of the guards’ keys mixed with the shouts and moans of the detainees, creating an atmosphere of deep psychological terror. The daily routine in prison included a constant struggle to peek through a small hole in the wall, our only window to the outside world. That hole allowed us to see the sky and enjoy a bit of fresh air, even if only for a brief moment. Through this limited connection, I began to appreciate the small details, from the vastness of the sky to the insects that occasionally landed in my cell. I felt a deep envy for the vultures that flew freely over the prison, envy that led me to reflect on the meaning of freedom and life and about my place in the world. Thus, prison, with all its horrors and challenges, gave me an unexpected opportunity: to observe myself from a new perspective. It was a period of breaking away from what I had known and lived up until then, a space where I could confront my mistakes and learn to value the small things in life—those that I had once taken for granted. The nights were moments of insomnia, not only because of the oppressive atmosphere of the prison but also due to deep and disturbing internal conflicts. Lying on my cot, I would stare at the ceiling in the dark and dive into whirlwinds of thoughts. It wasn’t the physical place that kept me awake, but the turbulent spiritual and emotional process I went through while confronting my criminal past. The nights became times of deep reflection and self-confrontation, in which I reviewed over and over again the cycles of crime and violence I had been immersed in and registered each memory and each face that returned to me with unsettling clarity. The awareness of the lives I had destroyed

tormented me, weighing me down with the growing burden of my actions. And I no longer only questioned my past actions but also the values and beliefs that had led me down that dark path. Thus, I was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, regret, and a deep sense of loss, accompanied by existential questions about the meaning and purpose of my life. Each night was an internal struggle, an effort to find some meaning, some redemption, amidst the chaos of memories. The periods of wakefulness became a painful purification, as I had to face many uncomfortable truths in the solitude of my cell. I began to understand the damage I had caused, not only to my victims and their families but also to myself and my soul. Those moments of nocturnal introspection turned out to be crucial in my journey towards change. Although they were painful and difficult, they gave me the opportunity to face the past and begin to outline a different future, a path of peace and reconciliation with myself. It took me quite a long time to distance myself from the criminal world. For this, although I did not know it at the time, I needed to change, remodel, and reinvent my life, establish a connection with my ego and spirituality, and give up the idea that the criminal environment was a natural setting, my own environment. Achieving that was as complex as it would have been for a doctor to leave their job, home, and wealth to live on the streets. To illustrate the life of violence and revenge I was immersed in, I want to refer to one of those loyalty pacts formed in prison. I made a dark and obligatory pact with someone in prison, which stipulated that if one of us was killed, the other would seek revenge for their death. When he was killed, I received the news of his death by phone. I was in the SAT, and my first reaction was to go get my things to fulfill our revenge pact. But at that crucial moment, Suzi grabbed me by the shirt and stopped me. Despite my screams full of hate and fury, she managed to hold me back. That moment was a turning point, a departure from the path of violence I had followed until then. From that moment on, I began to undergo numerous therapeutic treatments. Although I don’t remember each one in detail, they all played a role in my transformation and self-awareness. Therapy was a long and difficult road, but it proved essential in facing and dismantling the harmful patterns of my past. Before my imprisonment, the painful reality of my criminal life had already impacted my family. I had advised my wife to find another man, aware of the uncertainty of my future and not wanting her to live worried about my well-being or overwhelmed by the fear that I might not return. Despite my advice, she chose to stay with my mother and ensure the stability and care of our children during my absence. But throughout my years in prison, the distance between us grew, and it took almost eight years before I had the opportunity to see my first wife or my children again. During my time in prison, I would often wake up with an intense and painful desire to go out and buy a loaf of bread. At first, this longing seemed trivial, but its deeper meaning was revealed in therapy when I remembered that during my childhood, my mother would often send me to buy bread. I understood that what I really missed wasn’t the bread itself, but the normality and simplicity of those times, a connection to a more innocent past. Years later, I decided to contact my mother. I searched for her, found her, and stayed at her house; then, I was fortunate enough that the next morning, she

gave me a deeply emotional moment, as she simply asked me to go buy bread at the bakery. I accepted my mother’s request with joy and went to make the purchase. On the way, I reflected on the beauty and simplicity of that moment, something I had desperately longed for for years. I lived that act (so ordinary for so many people) as a valuable gift, a moment of deep connection and return to my roots. I felt that, at last, a circle had closed, and I had returned to a place I had once thought I would never come back to. Freed from the bars of prison, my life took an unexpected turn after an accident that plunged me into a state of vulnerability, exposing me to circumstances radically different from any previous experience. At that crossroads of fate, I met the woman who would become my second wife, a light in the dark path of my existence. As a nurse in charge of my recovery, she was the one who wove bonds of care and understanding during those dark days. Her presence and support were not only the balm in my journey toward healing but also the beginning of a unique and deep connection that marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. After thinking it over, I decided to call my first wife. I knew we owed each other a necessary conversation, although I also knew it wouldn’t be easy. I told her that I had met someone else and that I planned to start a new life with that person. To my relief, the conversation went in a friendly and serene manner. Despite the years and situations that had separated us, there was still mutual understanding and respect between us, which was reflected in our conversation. The transformation of my personal life was the beginning of a new chapter, full of hope for a new beginning, but also with the complexity of leaving behind a past full of memories, relationships, and experiences.

Reintegrating into society and forming a new relationship was an adaptation process in which I reflected a lot on my past and the decisions I had made. Finding love and connection in such different situations became both a challenge and a positive surprise. Life often brings new beginnings, even after the most difficult moments. Two years after I started living with my second wife, we decided to travel to Pará. This trip was an important step in rebuilding my family relationships. During our stay, we had the opportunity to meet my former in-laws. It filled me with relief and happiness to see how they welcomed my current wife with affection and openness. The conversation was calm, and the atmosphere was surprisingly serene. This meeting became a valuable moment of connection and reconciliation. To this day, I greatly value the acceptance and affection my previous family showed towards my new life partner. Over time, my daughters decided to move in with us. Integrating my previous family with my current life was a challenge, but the Family Constellations therapy we participated in played a crucial role. This therapy helped us understand and heal past wounds. Because of it, we have been able to build healthier and more harmonious relationships.

My relationship with my son is a bit more complicated, as over the years, we have not been able to form a meaningful bond or a true father-son relationship, which has caused me guilt and regret. He confessed to me once how difficult it was for him to accept the idea of

having a father, given our distant relationship. This confession impacted me greatly and made me reflect on the negative effect my absence had on his life. It also made me think about the responsibility I have to try to repair and strengthen our bond. I have always admired my son's talent as a hydraulic mechanic, a skill he seems to have inherited from his maternal grandfather. Despite his skill, I noticed that he wasn't completely satisfied with his work. With the desire to improve our relationship and offer him new opportunities, I suggested that we work together. However, he rejected my offer. I respect his decision, and this has led me to reflect on how we can improve our relationship and how I can support him in finding his own path and the professional satisfaction he seeks. The challenges and circumstances I have faced have been crucial in my process of reconstruction and rediscovery as a father and husband. Although it has been a complex journey, each difficulty has become an opportunity to learn and grow, both personally and for my family.

E1 Equivalences In The Academic World: Conservation, Sexual and Social Subtypes

In his presentation of the Enneatypes, Claudio Naranjo offers a theory of personality development within a psycho-spiritual framework and does not treat the Enneatypes with exclusively psychopathological connotations. However, it is useful to refer to some correlations between the theory of the Enneatypes and the description of neurotic personality types or personality disorders described in academic literature. In psychological literature, the character traits attributable to Enneatype I have been the subject of various etiopathological hypotheses. Naranjo, in Character and Neurosis, introduced the concept of "anankastic personality" in 1987 and provides a global view of the evolution of the obsessive neurosis construct. Below, we will describe some concepts from different authors that can provide useful information to understand the etiopathogenetic dynamics of this personality model.

Psychology of the Enneatypes

Freud, in his model of the five stages of psychosexual development in children, speaks of the anal phase. This phase, which lasts from 18 months to 3 years, refers to the child’s acquisition of competence in controlling sphincter functions. During this period, control over excrement has an implicit relational correlation, expressed through the dynamics of holding and expelling parts of oneself. The child becomes interested in their own excrement; expulsion is often accompanied by fear of loss and a sense of incompleteness. The libidinal energy of evacuatory pleasure and sphincter regulation is contextualized in a relational dynamic of autonomy/adaptation. The decision to urinate or defecate represents the first symbolic act, on a relational level, of denial or acquiescence with respect to the need for

self-control imposed by parental figures and—by extension—by social institutions, which demand adaptation to shared norms and self-control.

If the passage through the anal phase results in partial failure, adulthood will produce a lack of integration of this competence, defined by Freud as anal fixation. The adult who exhibits anal fixation develops an anal character, with personality traits such as an excessive tendency toward order or disorder, and opposing behaviors in the give/receive axis, such as saving and greed, excessive collecting or a lack of possessions. Traits like procrastination, perfectionism, inability to adapt to contexts, and anger can also be observed. Emotionally, the anal character manifests difficulty fully expressing their own emotions. According to Claudio Naranjo in Character and Neurosis, Freud states that in the obsessive neurosis typical of the anal character, three traits are particularly pronounced: love of order (which often becomes pedantic), stealing (which easily turns into greed), and obstinacy, which can become distrust. All three are compatible with E1.

The transition from failure in the anal phase to the anal character itself involves the emergence of a peculiar defensive mechanism, reaction formation, already identified by Freud and deepened by Anna Freud. Sigmund Freud defines reaction formation as the mechanism by which "opposing psychic forces emerge to repress unpleasant sensations, mobilizing disgust, shame, and morality" (Naranjo, op. cit.). Reaction formation is the defensive process through which the flow of libidinal energy is interrupted and directed toward a totally different object, of a compensatory nature. In the specific case of EI, through reaction formation, the instinct is channeled into a form of idealizing rationalization. The instinctive aggressive motivation is directed toward a destructive unconscious hatred of imperfection (waste, excrement, disorder), and is channeled into upright, honest, and morally re-hygienized behavior. In this sense, Naranjo defines E1 as the result of interference with instinct, in terms of the "anti-instinctive orientation of this puritanical style." According to Naranjo, reaction training acts radically, not only by compensatorily directing aggressive motivation but by denying access to the aggressive drive itself.

In the Enneagram, Enneatype I is positioned as an instinctive character, though it actually operates in the existential plane with coercively virtuous behavior and a moralistic attitude toward the world, as well as an intellectualizing stance. The manifest plane of its deficiency motivation actually deviates toward actions aimed at building a worldview fully adhered to idealistic and moralistic principles: the EI child moves through the world as if endowed with the power of truth and justice, in order to create, in contrast to this currently unsatisfactory, petty, and frustrating world, a world perfectly governed by laws that reward him. This neurotic mode of functioning implies the repetition of a colicky frustration that will endlessly multiply the existential condemnation of Es and lead him to feed his own passionate rage according to moral and virtuous principles of pretense.

To better understand this vicious circle between anger and perfectionism, we find it useful to refer to the internal psychodynamics. Using the topic of the Ego, Id, and Superego in Freud's interpretation of obsessive neurosis, we see how the internal dynamics between the different instances is completely imbalanced in the internal relationship between Id and Superego, with evident weakening of the ego’s function of adaptation and the relevant reading of intrapsychic and interpersonal reality.

The interpretative lens of the Enneatype 1's reality is a superegoic lens, even more energetically inverted in the compensation and partial denial of the instinctual drives of the Id (aggressiveness and pleasure). The superegoic identification is linked to the more sadistically persecutory parts, active internally in the form of stringent repressive self-discipline, and on an interpersonal level with clear authoritarian tendencies. In this harshly conflicted dynamic, the egoic space is a space of neurotic hypercontrol behavior, with different nuances within the various subtypes, of inability to access a space of spontaneity and naturalness. Control behaviors are, therefore, more than ever, the result and symptom of an internal conflict. In this exasperated dynamic and ruthless distancing of the E1 from its instinctual root, the aspect closest to the psychopathological descriptions offered in the literature is captured.

C. Naranjo also finds correlations within the work of Carl Jung in Psychological Types (vol. 6, pp. 351-352), where the extraverted thinking type is defined as follows: "He will be a man who tends—naturally, only to the extent that he is a pure type—to base all manifestations of his life on conclusions of an intellectual nature, ultimately oriented toward his objective actions or universally valid ideas. Such a man gives himself a decisive power not only for himself but also in relation to his environment, to objective reality, that is, with his formula oriented toward the object. From this formula, he evaluates what is good and what is bad, that is, defines what is right and what is wrong. Everything that corresponds to the formula is just, everything that opposes it is unjust, and everything that is indifferent to it is contingent..."

Just as the extraverted thinking type submits to his formula, so too must his environment submit to it, for its own good, because those who do not do so are mistaken, contradict a universal principle, and are therefore unreasonable, immoral, and without conscience. In any case, his ideal must become reality, for it is, according to him, the purest formulation of objective reality and therefore must also be a universally valid truth, indispensable for the good of humanity. And this not out of love for others, but based on the highest point of view of justice and truth.

Karen Horney also addresses obsessive neurosis: "The feeling of superiority of this neurotic type derives from the arrogance of his moral and intellectual ideals, and on this basis, he despises others. His arrogant contempt for others, however, is hidden behind the curtain of

a suitable benevolence because his ideals prevent him from harboring such 'irregular' feelings." Confirming his opinion of himself, this neurotic type demands the respect of others, rather than "limitless admiration," which he tends to despise. "His feats are based on a kind of modus vivendi that he has secretly negotiated with his own life. Being himself a loyal and upright observer of duty, he has the right to fair treatment from others and from existence in general."

Karen Horney, in Neurosis and Human Development, defines the perfectionist character as one who approaches life through supremacy, which E1 adopts early in life to resolve conflicts, as a "movement against." This detail is particularly useful in differential diagnosis with E3, who is also perfectionistic in some aspects, moving through life "towards," while E1’s movement is, generally, "against," opposing the status quo, not in the form of rebellion but in an impulse to improve the reality, implicitly despised.

"This type feels superior due to his high moral and intellectual standards, and therefore treats others with superiority. He harbors an arrogant contempt for others, although he hides it even from himself, as his norms forbid such 'irregular feelings.'" The resulting self-deception is hidden even more because, regarding others, he can insist that they truly live up to his standards of perfection and despise them for it.

In Neurosis and Human Development, Horney describes three types of character that differ in the way they approach life through domination, that is, through a strategy of opposition to others. One of these three forms of the domination solution is perfectionism, which can be equated with EI. Horney believes that the perfectionist tries to shape himself into a superior being who fulfills his ideals, creating an image of perfection. He tells himself: "Forget the horrible creature you are now, this is how you should be." These are the internal dictates that Horney calls "the tyranny of the ought-to-be," which tells the person how they should not be and what they should not do to reach the ideal they aspire to (which only exists in their imagination).

In the field of body psychotherapy, we can find other contributions related to this personality framework: Wilhelm Reich (in Character Analysis, pp. 229-230) presents the case of a 33-year-old man who suffered from a profound inability to make decisions but, with remarkable perception and skill, devoted himself to analytical work.

It also highlights the presence of circumstantial and ruminative thoughts, indecision, doubt, and distrust, hidden behind a strongly reserved and controlled appearance. The following description accurately represents the Social 1, who tends to turn anger inward rather than direct it outward. The patient had a pleasant exterior appearance, was of medium height, reserved, serious, and somewhat arrogant. His noble and measured pace caught attention: he took a long time to pass through the door and head to the couch. It was evident that he avoided, or disguised, any excitement or haste. His speech was well-connected, balanced,

fluid, and eloquent. Occasionally, he inserted a firm "yes" while stretching his arms forward and passing his hand over his forehead. He lay on the couch with crossed legs, very comfortable. Even when discussing very delicate and narcissistically difficult subjects, his composure and elegance changed little or not at all. After many days of analysis, talking about his relationship with his beloved mother, he clearly emphasized his noble posture in an attempt to control the excitement that overwhelmed him. I told him he had nothing to be ashamed of and suggested that he express his feelings freely, but it was in vain. One day, when tears were welling up in his eyes and his voice was clearly subdued, he lifted his handkerchief to dry his eyes with the same dignity. It was already very clear: his behavior, regardless of its origin, protected him from violent emotions in analysis, shielding him from emotional outbursts. His character prevented the free development of the analytical experience; it had already become resistance. Reich defines this coercive character: "The neurotic compulsion for order may be absent, but the meticulous sense of order is a typical characteristic of the coercive character. His entire life generally unfolds according to a predetermined and indissoluble program." He has a "tendency to meditate circumstantially," to "indecision, doubt, and distrust," hiding behind "pronounced behavior and strong self-control." It is the most rigid of rigid characters, and this rigidity leads, in Reich's words, to "the entirety of his life, in all its main and secondary aspects, developing according to a preconceived and inviolable program. Any change is experienced with displeasure, and in the most pronounced cases, it provokes distress. The meticulousness that accompanies this character trait can help the individual accomplish many things; however, it considerably reduces work capacity because it prevents rapid change and adaptation to new situations. The more rigid and pathological this trait, the more the thinking and attention concentrate on non-essential matters, and the more rationally important issues are excluded from thought." Reich agrees with the interpretation of this character as a formation resulting from anal eroticism, and extends the perspective by emphasizing another aspect of self-control: emotional blocking. "The compulsive character avoids affections and is little accessible to them, almost always in a uniform manner; it is 'lukewarm' both when loving and when hating, which in some cases can turn into complete emotional blocking." For Reich, the functioning of this type is such that energy flows directly from the pelvis to the head, producing an overload in the frontal lobe, which contaminates and distorts cognitive perceptions and emotional expressions, leading to obsessive ideas that, in turn, will prevent pelvic discharge. Since the pelvis remains very rigid and loaded, as it almost never discharges completely, a state of genital over-excitation is maintained. As a result, they live with an urgent need to discharge, coupled with guilt—conflicting with their rigid moral code—since their sexual activity, poorly connected to feelings of tenderness, tends toward compulsion. To avoid experiencing this energetic ecstasy as distress, they resort to the mechanism of intellectualizing it in a defensive function through obsessive moral judgment; thus, they remain partially contained, although leading to a psycho-emotional structure of lack of contact, as these are impulses of the

same nature but antithetical. The consequence is, on one hand, that sexuality is experienced almost exclusively as the discharge of an excess of excitation, and for this reason, it is scarcely gratifying; on the other hand, there is puritanism as a reactive formation.

In the same line of body psychotherapy, Lowen also isolates obsessive character as a subtype of the rigid character, whose typical traits include rigidity, including physical rigidity, excessive conformity with norms, repetitive behavioral patterns, and perfectionism. The cognitive style marked by judgment and criticism, moralism, lack of flexibility and adaptation to unforeseen situations, attention to detail, lack of spontaneity, fear of making mistakes... Excessive attachment to behavioral norms, marked by perfectionism, can trigger anxiety in case of discrepancies between procedures and reality, and it is particularly hostile in relational contexts due to its characteristics of pedantry, fastidiousness, and control. Thus, in Lowen, we have a description consistent with what Freud already expressed about obsessive neurosis, although it differs in etiopathogenic hypotheses. In the bioenergetic reading, the formation of the rigid character, of which the obsessive is precisely a subtype, occurs in the phallic stage and is, therefore, later than the anal stage. In this reading, the formation of this character structure would result from a conflict regarding the possibility of expressing sexualized behavior and would lead to a sexophobic approach (not only in the genital sense, but also libidinal). However, what the readings have in common is the repressive attitude towards one's own pulsional world. Following our historical course, we see how Shapiro, in later years, dealt with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. He detailed the impulses of this disorder, which seem to motivate the individual beyond their own interest. There is often a kind of inner voice dictating what one must or has to do, due to a hypertrophic Superego that demands perfection and can lead to depression if not satisfied for a long time. The complex personality structure of these people involves three aspects: a public sense of self, a private sense of self, and an unconscious sense of self. Publicly, they present themselves as responsible and kind to their superiors and as attentive guides or constructive critics to their subordinates. However, in private, they feel they are not appreciated enough and torture and doubt themselves for lack of approval. They believe in their own moral superiority over their subordinates and try to disguise it to avoid appearing pretentious and hyper-critical, although they activate sadistic control.

In their unconscious sense of self, they exhibit a servile masochism towards superiors. They fear the humiliation of being dependent and desirous of love in authority relationships and masochistically submit to their rigid moral models, which free them from control, domination, and the sadistic humiliation of others. However, the unconscious desire to inflict suffering on those who do not submit to their control is unacceptable to them and must be eliminated. Another expansion of psychodynamic theories is provided by G.O. Gabbard, who, in his work Psychodynamic Psychiatry (Gabbard, 1985; Gabbard, Menninger, 1988; Horowitz, 1988; Joseph, 1992; McCullough, Maltsberger, 1995; Salzman, 1968,

1980, 1983; Shapiro, 1965), more specifically referring to obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, also emphasized interpersonal elements, self-esteem, anger management, and dependency, cognitive style, and issues related to the balance between work and emotional relationships. Individuals with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder suffer from a significant lack of self-confidence. As children, these patients experienced the feeling of not being sufficiently appreciated or loved by their parents. This perception may be related to a real distancing or emotional coldness from parental figures, or in other cases, children may have excessively sought comfort and affection to feel their parents' approval. As a result, a strong nostalgic desire for dependency develops, along with a dose of anger towards the parents, who are seen as responsible for not being emotionally available. These individuals consider both anger and dependency unacceptable, which leads them to defend themselves from these feelings by forming defensive reactions and denying affection. To deny their dependency, they make great efforts to demonstrate their autonomy and individualism. Intimacy leads to the possibility of being overwhelmed by intense desires to be loved, with the potential for frustration inherent in these desires, which may lead to feelings of hatred, resentment, and revenge. The cognitive style is marked by rationality; thinking is logical only in certain narrow areas, and thought patterns can be described as rigid and dogmatic. When the demands of the hypertrophied Superego are not met over a long period of time, depression may arise. This psychodynamic link between obsessive-compulsive character and depression has been observed by clinicians for many years. Gabbard's contribution seems most appropriate for describing the Sexual 1 subtype. Let us now examine the description of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder as expressed in current psychiatric literature. The DSM V distinguishes obsessive-compulsive disorder from obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by "obsessions, which are recurrent and persistent thoughts, impulses, or images that are experienced as unwanted, and by compulsions, which are repetitive behaviors or mental actions that a person feels driven to perform in response to an obsession or according to rigid rules." While it is a cross-sectional disorder that can appear at different times in life beyond personality type, we can recognize in the Self-Preservation and Social 1 subtypes a frequency of this symptomatology that characterizes the character structure. Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder is characterized by "a pervasive pattern of preoccupation with orderliness, perfectionism, and mental control, at the expense of flexibility, openness, and efficiency, which begins in early adulthood and is present in a variety of contexts." Claudio Naranjo associates this type of disorder with the sexual subtype of Enneagram type One. The criteria from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th edition (DSM-5-TR) are as follows: A persistent pattern of preoccupation with order; perfectionism; and control of oneself, others, and situations. This pattern is evidenced by the presence of ≥4 of the following behaviors:

• Preoccupation with details, rules, schedules, organization, and lists. • Striving for perfection, which interferes with task completion. • Excessive devotion to work and productivity (not due to economic need), resulting in neglect of leisure activities and friendships. • Excessive scrupulousness, meticulousness, and inflexibility regarding ethical and moral issues and values. • Reluctance to discard used or worthless items, even those with no sentimental value. • Unwillingness to delegate or work with others unless they do things exactly as the individual wants. • A miserly approach to spending on themselves and others, seeing money as something to be saved for future disasters. • Rigidity and stubbornness. Symptoms must begin in early adulthood. In the ICD-10 classification, another taxonomic system, this constellation of traits is defined as obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (F60.5). "Obsessive-compulsive personality - A personality disorder characterized by feelings of doubt, perfectionism, scrupulosity, control, and concern for details, stubbornness, excessive prudence, and rigidity. The disorder may be accompanied by repetitive and intrusive impulses, which do not reach the severity of obsessive-compulsive disorder." It requires the presence of at least four of the following symptoms: • Excessive indecision and caution. • Preoccupation with details, rules, lists, order, and organization at the expense of the overall purpose of the activity. • Perfectionism that interferes with the success of a task. • Excessive scrupulousness and responsibility. • Dedication to work and productivity, resulting in the neglect of recreational activities and interpersonal relationships. • Excessive pedantry and adherence to social conventions. • Rigidity and stubbornness. • Need for constant supervision and for others to act exactly according to the subject's instructions. People with OCPD tend to have strong emotional control. More or less consciously, they consider affectivity and emotions as a loss of self-control. Repressed emotions accumulate without the possibility of being released or openly experienced, leading to states of distress. The most common negative emotions in obsessive-compulsive individuals are: • Anxiety about lack of order, control, or "approved" environment. • Anger may follow frequent self-criticism and disapproval due to their rigid interpersonal approach. • Frustration from not completing tasks or meeting self-imposed standards.

• Envy towards people who, without following the "correct" method, achieve better results and recognition. These individuals have difficulty expressing their anger publicly and, therefore, tend to repress it more and more, creating a vicious emotional cycle. Their behavior may be excessively servile and enthusiastic towards superiors, while overly critical and controlling towards subordinates. Although they believe they have a higher moral standing than others, unlike those with narcissistic personality disorder, they always try to appear elegant and modest, avoiding showing pride or arrogance. This is due to their fear of making mistakes and being reprimanded. The Self-Preservation subtype of EI is specifically the type of character affected by a hypochondriacal attitude. This subtype needs to contain their distress through strict self-control, and control over the people to whom they direct their affection. Through reactive training, they replace distress with concern for the safety of their loved ones. Hypochondria arises from the displacement of distress transformed into concern for a specific organ, developing the delusional idea of having an illness, which is experienced as an intellectualized concern and not as an emotional experience of distress. Individuals with this type of disorder are stingy with their emotions and material possessions; for example, they rarely give compliments or gifts. Everyday relationships have a conventional, formal, and serious quality. Others perceive these individuals as hard or rigid. Concern for rules, efficiency, trivial details, procedures, or form interferes with their ability to have a broader view of things.

Time is organized in the form of 632 Equivalencies of the inadequate E1, often leaving important tasks for the last moment. Although efficiency and perfection are idealized, in reality, they are rarely achieved. These individuals are always concerned about their relative status in domination-submission relationships. While they tend to resist the authority of others, they stubbornly insist that people conform to their customs. They are unaware of the feelings of resentment or offense that this behavior evokes in others. Work and productivity are paid for with the exclusion of pleasure and the improvement of interpersonal relationships. When pleasure is considered, it is something that must be planned and worked for. However, the individual typically tends to postpone pleasurable activities, like vacations, so that they never happen. Decision-making is avoided, delayed, prolonged, out of fear of making mistakes. For example, tasks may not be completed on time because the individual tends to reflect on priorities. People with this disorder may complain about difficulty expressing tender feelings. These individuals tend to be overly conscientious, moralistic, scrupulous, and critical of themselves and others. When they cannot control others, a situation, or their environment, they often reflect on the situation and get angry, although the anger is not usually expressed directly. They often show extreme sensitivity or susceptibility to social criticism, especially if it comes from someone with high status or authority.

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