Emotionality and Fantasy

We are publishing the testimony of a colleague who identifies with the Self-Preservation 4 subtype and, with great self-awareness, describes how she experiences fantasy and its relationship with emotions.

Starting with the dictionary definition, "fantasy" comes from the Greek term phantazo, which means "to appear," derived from phaino, meaning "to shine." Fantasy is often described as "the faculty of the mind to represent things that do not exist," particularly "to invent beings and events and create literary and artistic works, producing things that have no real basis."

From my personal experience, I view my own self-concept as a form of fantasy. This fantasy stems from an internal sensation of discomfort, a sense of unworthiness. The idea of myself is rooted in a belief of not deserving.

In my daily life, this fantasy is often triggered by an emotion or state of being that I fail to confront. In response, I create a compensatory situation, one that dulls the discomfort while simultaneously numbing the feeling. In this mental escape, I transform into characters that I can visualize, as if on a screen within my mind, experiencing events that reflect a reality different from my own.

I believe the best way to explain this is by using examples from my own life.

Let me start with my family. I am the second of six siblings, and I inherited the name of my paternal grandmother. I was the family scapegoat, both in the eyes of my father and my mother. From the start, I was seen as the "bad one" in the family, a role that made me feel neither loved nor wanted. In my childhood games, I often played the character who died. I imagined my sister crying over my death, and when my mother scolded or punished me, I would leave the house in tears, filled with rage and frustration. I would say goodbye to my siblings, watching them suffer as I walked away.

What did I gain from all of this? I experienced the pain, discomfort, and inferiority of being misunderstood, unappreciated, and unloved. I started to think things like, "If I leave, my departure will show them that I am good, and they will regret how they treated me." But as hours passed and I grew tired of crying and hiding, I would return home, like a beaten dog, silent and unnoticed. This taught me to suffer alone and to craft fantastical stories about the warrior who returns, always with heroic intentions, ready to change and fight like Genoveva of Brabant or Joan of Arc. Through sacrifice, I believed I would earn love.

Today, in situations where I feel worried, disappointed, or lost, I fantasize about escaping—becoming a character in a movie, a novel, or a tragic play, like a desperate

woman gazing out the window, longing for a better world that seems distant. In these fantasies, I often dream of starting anew, abandoning everything to carve a new path alone, or leaning on a balcony, searching for some answer in the void, hoping for a welcoming space. In every scenario, the common thread is the idea of sacrifice, even of my life.

Another recurring fantasy stems from a childhood game I played with my cousin, who enjoyed being the prettiest in the family. In our games, she played an African princess, and I was the missionary who gave my life to save her. My kindness was meant to fill the sad heart of a kidnapped princess or the representative of a poor people. I gave myself, believing that by doing so, I would find my place in the relationship, assuming that she was happy because of her beauty, while I could only give myself to her care.

Today, when I admire someone, either personally or professionally, I emotionally dedicate myself to them. This creates a fantasy where I become part of a crusade, helping to discover this wonderful being who has the mission of awakening or changing the world.

I cannot talk about my relationship with fantasy without mentioning that there were moments with my cousin where the kind one became a monster. At times, I became the most evil witch or a murderer who would run to the kitchen to grab the largest knife, intending to kill her.

Even now, when I encounter people who seem to enjoy certain benefits—like my cousin's beauty—fantasy places me in a position of submission, or as someone fighting for what belongs to others, something I can never have. I resign myself and stop doing what I should because others seem to get everything. At times, when I am fed up, I have even resorted to pulling out the knives, as if in a fight to the death with the other. In these moments, the intensity of my actions makes me feel like I am committing an act of vandalism, leaving me with the impression that I am bad, while the other feels as though they haven’t earned what they have.

Dreams of Martyrdom and Heroism

As a child, I distinctly remember dreaming, before falling asleep, of earning good grades to please my father. He promised to enroll me in a swimming club, where a coach would discover my potential as an excellent swimmer, and I would make it to the Olympics and become a great champion. This fantasy gave me the drive to continue each day with enthusiasm. However, when it became clear that I neither received good grades consistently nor was I enrolled in a swimming club, my fantasy evolved. I began to dream of growing up to become the governor of my city, where I would fix the problems of the poor neighborhoods. This new fantasy replaced the earlier one. Since I wasn’t going to be

discovered, I would take care of those with fewer opportunities, saving them from their poverty.

That feeling of fantasy—believing that I am worthless—drives me to fight for improvement. While I fight and work, I feel valuable.

How Fantasy Manifests in My Partner

The first fantasy is to position myself in front of him with the feeling that I am in debt, that he is not happy with me, or that I am not the person he needs. This fantasy leads to suffering, a sense of being inadequate, and a belief that I deserve punishment, which I seek out like a drug. The punishment is rejection, and in moments of fatigue or distress, I often find myself falling into this trap.

Acknowledging my masochistic tendencies, I am developing a stamina for enduring unpleasant things—whether it's hearing uncomfortable truths or witnessing the other person’s negative emotions. I learn to accept them.

Days go by, and this endurance leads to a pattern where I start asking questions that I know will result in disagreement, anger, pain, or even a breach in the relationship. Despite knowing that asking questions like, “How are we doing? What’s wrong with me? Do you love me?” will provoke a confrontation, I still ask. I am consumed by the desire to suffer and continue down this path. If I were to visualize it, it would feel as if I were walking toward the scaffold, offering my head for the other to slowly decapitate.

I make it easier for the other person to hurt me, creating a crisis where, once again, I feel destroyed. From there, the fantasy emerges: if I don’t suffer, I don’t feel; if I don’t feel, I don’t vibrate; if I don’t vibrate, I don’t live. So, I suffer for creating the situation, and in the suffering, I feel love. I feel that there is a connection, even though it’s broken, and little by little, I repair the damaged link with my kindness, sympathy, and dedication.

But as the days pass, I realize that nothing has changed, and that’s when my disgust sets in. This time, disgust transforms the fantasy into longing—a longing for a better partner. I imagine this person to be respectable, wise, famous, someone who will discover me and find the love they never had. I become Cinderella, with the prince falling in love with me.

This could be the compensatory fantasy that nurtures my longing and keeps me hopeful that one day, this sacrifice I’m making will be rewarded.

To love, I must endure and suffer. I suffer for not being what he deserves, and in that suffering, I feel love—a love that bursts forth in waves. My feelings of love tell me to be

spontaneous and loving, and that desire to break free from the role of the sufferer blinds me. In those moments, when he talks about retreat, I rush in, wanting to start again.

How is my fantasy in the professional field?

The first step is to live the competition. In this competition, the fantasy is to create in others someone for whom things always turn out well—someone who is more cunning and gifted, but not necessarily qualified. It’s simply that life favors them, and they know how to get the better end of it. They relate better and, in simple terms, they are doing better than me.

Those I admire are not necessarily doing better than me. I give them all the best that I have: the qualities I possess, and even many that I don't have but can acquire through dedication (and my day will come).

In practice, I live the fantasy that I am the best worker—the one who most efficiently accomplishes, understands, and does the job. It is true that being the best worker doesn’t mean being the nicest, the most social, or the one who creates the best relationships with colleagues. What stands out is the feeling of being misunderstood: I am the best, but others either don’t know or don’t want to see or recognize it. However, the bosses see me as the best representative of their ideology, or the one who achieves the best results, even though they never tell me. In front of authority, my fantasy is to see myself as small and defenseless. The other is someone great, who knows more than me. My attitude is servile, but I let it be known that I understand. Since they see potential in me, I dare to set limits and even comment on their work without being asked. But in the workplace, this is necessary for improvement. I oscillate between being the small one and, in the name of work, taking liberties with authority to ensure everything goes as best as possible.

To maintain this fantasy, I think about work all day, leading me to study, think, and work continuously. The desire to be the best is so great that the idea governing me is that everything at work must be serious and profound. This results in spending too many hours working, because it’s never enough, and there is always much to do, understand, and read. This way, everyone will see how committed and sacrificed I am. This fantasy makes me behave in a way that isolates me from others or, better yet, always makes my territory clear.

This need to differentiate myself from my colleagues brings out thoughts like, "I work and work, while others work half as much." In my desire to stand out, I always have a solution for everything and am ready to offer it, even if no one asks for it. Alternatively, I might withhold my solution, hoping the time will come when they will need my opinion, which will be the good one. They will then act as if the solution was theirs. This fuels the fantasy that they are my enemies, my rivals, and that I am the bearer of truth.

When workers face authority, I adopt the role of the one who defends just causes—who sets limits for authority or tells it the truth. Afterward, I get angry for having played the role of the heroine who stands up, but this gives me a different place, where I fantasize about being brave, sincere, and honest. Meanwhile, the others—my colleagues—are comfortable and accommodating.

All of this comes from my dissatisfaction with who I am or what I do. My fantasy creates a two-headed being: on one side, I am indispensable, sacrificing myself for the good of the company, and I am the best. On the other, I am the one who does the dirty work and resents it, which makes me feel like the dumbest of them all. These two attitudes come together, overwhelming me to the point where the idea of work is often more tiring than the work itself. The burden I produce feels heavier than the work itself.

What I share with the other sections is the feeling of dissatisfaction with who I am, which unleashes my fantasy. I am different. I fight through effort at work to be the best, despite feeling the worst. In this effort, the sense of duty keeps me from ever having enough information or finishing the work. I need to keep going, which leads to isolation. In isolation, others sometimes become the beings I have neglected. This guilt fills my heart, and I feel the need to help. I either solve their problems or suggest solutions, even though I know they are struggling. Alternatively, if they don’t work as hard as I do, they become my enemy—someone to betray and defeat.

The heroine is someone who can be alone and, of course, never needs help or favors. I see favors as a sign of dependency. I neither ask for favors nor need the help of others, so I fantasize that I am independent. In my fantasy, it’s impossible to acknowledge that I do what I do because of how I compare myself to others and because of how much I depend on them. My dependence reveals a lack of affective bond within the workplace, and I suffer seeing others having such bonds. I depend on the greatness of what I admire. This figure moves me with affection. My fantasy leads me to rely on what I think authority wants and needs, demanding recognition for my great effort from both my colleagues and the authority. When I receive it, it feels like a mere tip, and I can’t truly hear it.

Conclusion

I can now talk about my fantasy because, through the SAT Program, I have learned to recognize its presence in my character and, from there, in my daily tasks and relationships.

Now, when this fantasy appears, I am not just the actress of my own story or the director planning the future film of my life, but also the critic. From this criticism begins the process

of becoming objective, which helps me detach from fiction and look at reality from a more grounded place.

Fantasy is, as far as I understand, a fiction in which I have created a fantastic identity that I live as if it were reality.

I am a being with an identity, one who knows somewhere that this identity is false, and yet I still don’t know who I truly am.

The heart gives meaning to my life, to my partner, to the desire to give the best of myself in all areas, and to contribute what I can at work.

Being this being who knows it is unknown, I recognize that the dreams I pursue and that mark my path are dictated by my heart.

Emotion is not my identity; emotion opens me to the experience of the heart. It shows me the way but is not the way, nor is it the real me. It helps me open up and be who I truly am, from the heart.

Note

It has been fifteen years since I wrote this chapter. Rereading it reminds me of the period I lived through with that neurotic frame and structure. My words reveal thoughts, emotions, situations, joys, and fears, all well articulated from that time. I am pleased with the sincerity of the story. The desire to search for the truth continues to guide me, just as it continues to illuminate the neurotic aspect of exhausting demands. My flame is made up of a sense of commitment, pain, delivery, pleasure, fear, rage, reality, and fantasy—along with a desire for recognition drowned in modesty.

Some of the neurotic traits I described in the chapter have become useful tools in my work. I’ve learned to study for pleasure, not just out of obligation, to sustain the chaos of the search in proposals, and to stop tormenting myself for not knowing the end. I go as deep as I can, balancing rigor with sweetness.

Other aspects, like the competition, continue to make me believe “there’s no one like me,” because it feels authentic. Though now, I can already hear the internal buffoon laughing at me for confusing singularity with uniqueness. Today, knowing and feeling loved, the games of “You still don’t love me enough” that fuel feelings of frustration and inferiority are less prevalent in my romantic life. However, they are more relevant in my work and social sphere, where I still hold a job. I am not striving to be the governor of the city to help the

poor, but I live surrounded by seventy different cultures, working to make theater accessible to all.

I am increasingly happy and grateful for the privilege of being part of Claudio’s team and recognizing him as a wise man of his time, a prophet for humanity.