But to realise existentially what you know cannot but be true, ah, that is a different matter... there are hindrances. Hindrances? They tell a good story, go way back in time, are buttressed with all kinds of corroborations. But don't all of these rely on just the same sorts of hypothetical dirt as the flash metaphysics of the self? They are part of that onion thing in fact, at a certain level, and seem to be much stronger than what you expected since they are based on how things would appear to a neutral observer, a kind of generalised social 'they' whom you obey as a matter of course. Not just your imaginary, but the whole force of the social imaginary which decrees you your place, and for which you had better be grateful. It's more than that too, behind the mask of the social there are further masks hiding forbidden enjoyments. Your tales of woe are in place likely enough merely as a way of protecting these, a 'secret stash', what you are least likely to want to give up, a certain complicity with your internal other. Are the enjoyments the problem or only the way you have of sheltering them? What if the enjoyments are exactly the ways of sheltering them? And the hindrance nothing more than the imagining that there is something here that actually works, that is doing and accomplishing something?