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

It is deep into the night, 2:18 a.m., and my right knee has begun its familiar, needy throbbing; it’s a level of discomfort that sits right on the edge of being unbearable. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. The room is silent except for the distant sound of a motorbike that lingers on the edge of hearing. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. My mind immediately categorizes this as a problem to be solved.

The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
The term "Chanmyay pain" arises as a technical tag for the discomfort. I didn’t ask for it; it simply arrives. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."

Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? Or am I clinging to the sensation by paying it so much attention? The physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting it.

The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I attempt to stay with the raw sensation: heat, pressure, throbbing. Then, uncertainty arrives on silent feet, pretending to be a helpful technical question. Chanmyay doubt. Perhaps I am over-efforting. Perhaps I'm being too passive, or I've missed a fundamental step in the instructions.

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

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

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

The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
I read a passage on the dangers of over-striving, and my mind screamed, "See? This is you!" “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. I'm glad to have an answer, but terrified of how much work it will take to correct. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I release the check here clench, but it's back within a minute. It’s an automatic reflex.

The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I attempt to meet it with equanimity, but I cannot. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.

The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.

The clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small mercy. My leg is going numb around the edges. Pins and needles creep in. I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.

I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. I just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.