Horror and the return to mommy

“Affliction in itself is not enough for the attainment of total detachment. Unconsoled affliction is necessary. There must be no consolation—no apparent consolation. Ineffable consolation then comes down.”   There is an assumption here with which I differ from Weil; it is a matter of dichotomies.  Weil understands that there is something which descends, assuming a transcendent, which I just know is incorrect.  I worry more about the behind and the ahead, not past and future, but the trek through the unfamiliar territory I find myself travailing, a sometimes psychological territory, though the flash that terrifies me is quite real and formidable. That there is no consolation seems clear enough, that is in the case of affliction which is in itself not enough for the attainment of total detachment.  It seems that total detachment is entirely possible, but is it desired or beneficial?  What does Lacan seem to say about desire in this respect? Let’s face it psychoanalysis and the treatment of the unconscious, or that about ourselves of which we are-not-knowing, found in things we say and do of which we are ignorant, is based in lack and desire for Lacan.  Enter desire and language; crying, of want, persuading the other, and the content of the action we use, language.   Our mother induces our desire (though we have to desire the Other in order to survive by way of suckle and dependence.  Our desire is first thwarted by another (Lacan calls this the Name-of-the-Father).  That interference we realize is significantly swaying us away from our symbiotic relationship with mOther; so the Name-of-the-Father is the object of foreclosure.  If I were to foreclose, I would retreat into my mOther and become psychotic.   If I were to face the beast behind me I might have some movement toward detachment and enlightenment; hence I continue to evade the Other, be it transcendent, I doubt, as I have said, and be mesmerized by thoughts of foreclosion.  I insist not to re-enter that symbiotic relationship and enjoy the certainties of psychosis. I would rather run, not knowing.