Love as Terror, or Meet My Phunta.Part 1

As always, let’s start with a little backstory—when I was a child, I often spent my summer vacations at the country house of my dear Margusha and Naum, who have since passed away (they were my grandmother’s older sister and her husband). The house was in a picturesque spot near Kyiv, in Koncha-Zaspa. Those were unforgettable days; we swam in the Kozynka River, sunbathed, went on hikes, and in the evenings, we’d run off to dance or watch movies at the nearby Zhovten sanatorium.

But I’ve drifted off into joyful, carefree memories—let’s get back to Phunta.

Next door to us was the summer house of an elderly couple. I don’t remember their names anymore, but I vividly recall that their granddaughter would stay with them for the summer. Her grandmother called her "Phunta" because of her wild nature and disobedience. Back then, I didn’t know what the word meant, but judging by the girl’s behavior, I figured it had to be something like a terrorist group.

And I wasn’t far off.

A junta (from the Spanish junta—a council or assembly) is a political group that seizes power unconstitutionally and rules through dictatorship and terror.

The way her grandmother pronounced it sounded more like Phunta.

And then, four decades later, when my psychologist asked me about the "terrorist" inside me—the one who terrorizes me with "love and care"—I suddenly remembered Phunta. That’s what I decided to call my inner terrorist.

Jung would have called it the Super-Ego. Eric Berne would have labeled it the Inner Parent. But the essence remains the same—Phunta doesn’t mess around.

"Not slim enough.""Not successful enough.""You’re not that sick to skip a workout.""You’re not working hard enough if you still came to train while sick."

I think you get the picture—my inner terrorist, Phunta, keeps me in check.

To be continued in the next post.