every sit turns into chanmyay pain and doubt, wondering if i’m practicing wrong again

It is 2:18 a.m., and the right knee is screaming in that dull, needy way that is not quite sharp enough to justify moving but loud enough to dismantle any illusion of serenity. 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. A thin layer of perspiration is forming, though the room temperature is quite cool. My consciousness instantly labels these sensations as "incorrect."

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 raw data transforms into "pain-plus-narrative."

I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Or am I clinging to the sensation by paying it so much attention? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.

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

Maybe I misunderstood the instructions years ago and everything since then has been built on a slight misalignment that no one warned me about.

That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. 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 recall how much simpler it was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. Pain felt like a shared experience then. Now it feels personal, isolated. Like a test I am failing in private. “Chanmyay wrong practice” echoes in my head—not as a statement, but as a fear. I worry that I am just practicing my own neuroses instead of the Dhamma.

The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
Earlier today I read something about wrong effort, and my mind seized it like proof. The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. I am sitting here in the grip of both emotions, my teeth grinding together. I release the 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 wanted it to be predictable; I wanted something solid to work with. Rather, it ebbs and flows, feeling like a dynamic enemy that is playing games with my focus. I try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. I note my lack of equanimity, and then I start an intellectual debate about whether that noting was "correct."

This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. I don’t answer it, mostly because I don’t have an honest answer. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. I know from experience that any attempt to force "rightness" will only create more knots to undo.

The sound of the get more info clock continues, but I resist the urge to check the time. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.

There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I don’t know exactly what to do with it yet. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. That, at least, is the truth of the moment.