We are born with a drive to connect meaningfully with our caregivers. When that is thwarted by fate, deprivation, or hostility, our psyche rallies, it redirects our instincts to the imaginal world where archetypal forces can care for us, and our intolerable feelings can be hidden in a cast of inner characters. We still long for compassionate connection, but the inner figures of our caregivers are intolerable, so sometimes the archetypal mother hides in food—and we follow.  In the recent film “The Whale” starring Brendon Frasier, we meet his character Charlie, an English teacher trying to motivate his online students. With his camera off, his disembodied voice admonishes them to communicate clearly with him. This foreshadows his great struggle to make contact. When the class finishes, the scene expands, and we slowly see Charlie, a 600-pound man struggling to meet the last few needs he permits himself.  Unresolved relational trauma is like a slowly shrinking room. Year by year, in tiny increments, without noticing it, we give up choice after choice until we are boxed in. The few thin channels of life that can reach Charlie are his friend Liz and his online students. The remaining totally unobstructed channel to take in goodness is food, his lifeline beyond the shrinking room.  Unlike his troubled caregivers, food can be controlled and so rendered harmless; it’s allowed in and brings relief and pleasure. All of us cornered by trauma find a secret tunnel through which some small goodness can touch us. Throughout the movie, life tries to rescue Charlie, walking through his front door despite his frightened protests. Characters storm in, demanding acknowledgment. Through these encounters, Charlie is forced out of his shrinking life.  Obesity is never a choice; it is a sign that other paths to receive have been ruined. Many fight their way free, some are rescued by love, and some seek promising new medications. Charlie fights for love and finally resurfaces, drawn by his daughter’s fierce eyes demanding engagement.  “The Whale” depicts a real-world problem and is also an allegory, a contemporary retelling of an epic story. When we learn to see beyond the surface of people’s specific struggles, we can recognize the great human endeavor we all share-- to love and be loved, to know and be known.  HERE’S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:  “I just moved to my childhood neighborhood with my best friend, and I wake up before dawn. As I walk home to school, my legs melt, and I fall to the floor. A classmate finds me lying on the floor and takes his chance to try and have sex with me. I beg him to please carry me home. Inside, my ex-boyfriend and family became concerned about my state. I need to rest; everything is fine. This new house is big and has a beautiful light, yet it seems old and dusty. There are several pieces of wood of unfinished furniture that I cannot work on now. I leave the house again; everything seems nice, but on my way home, my legs stop working, and I desperately start to crawl. Now I seem not to find the door to the house; luckily, a cleaning worker comes up to help me, then she hands me a caterpillar having babies. She tells me had I been lying on my bed for more time, I would have woken up surrounded by them.”  REFERENCES: THE WHALE (film, 2022)  BECOME A DREAM INTERPRETER We’ve created DREAM SCHOOL to teach others how to work with their dreams. A vibrant community has constellated around this mission, and we think you’ll love it. Check it out.  PLEASE GIVE US A HAND Hey folks -- We need your help. So please BECOME OUR PATRON and keep This Jungian Life podcast up and running.  SHARE YOUR DREAM WITH US SUBMIT YOUR DREAM HERE FOR A POSSIBLE PODCAST INTERPRETATION.  FOLLOW US ON SOCIAL MEDIA FACEBOOK, INSTAGRAM, LINKEDIN, TWITTER, YOUTUBE  INTERESTED IN BECOMING A JUNGIAN ANALYST? Enroll in the PHILADELPHIA JUNGIAN SEMINAR and start your journey to become an analyst.