Monday, August 25, 2014

Want Ad: Wound to Your Knife

Want Ad:

Nutcracker Female Seeking Single White Male:

Only pretty faces need apply. Must think of self as akin to Jesus, walks on water, could be a pillar in the community, well respected, stands out in the crowd. exhibits a stroke of genius, might be erudite, a fount of knowledge. Once involved, must make diminishing comments about everyone, be hyper-evolved and above the crowd, employ vulgar honesty with an intent to reduce trust, be self effacing for effect, reveal self loathing tendencies, must not feel empathy or acknowledge anyone else’s emotions, be cruel with belittling comments but sweet so no one is really sure. Must instill fear and use passive aggressive, button pushing, tactics to elicit others to express the seething undercurrent of rage you feel. Must act oblivious to own deleterious effects.


I don’t want to be hard on myself, but I feel the need to process and reprocess here, now that I am seeing this little drama for it’s flip side, which is me. And perhaps I’ve been indulging a victim mentality about my tendency to attract crazy people into my life — my own inverted narcissism, which has kept me a little blind over the years. So I’ve read and read and read over the last few weeks, about narcissism, borderline, and bipolar disorders (all are represented in my relationship history), and I have come to one conclusion, I need to heal whatever it is in me that wants that guy. Not just wants him, craves him like a drug. If there is truly a deep chasm of a void in me that is so desperate to be filled, why do I keep trying to fill it with poison? 

Lately, I’ve been wondering why my choices in relationship almost always are that guy. I do see my dad in there, and I know that’s a hot potato. What it comes down to, I’m a rescuer. Not really, because I’ve never rescued anyone or anything and would do far better to rescue myself than to keep trying to rescue people who find rescuer types to be the wound for their knife, so to speak. But I see people that seem so great on the outside, but seem to need some kind of healing, and I am drawn in like a moth to flame. I hid it well over the last 6 years living way out in the middle of nowhere and dealing mainly with my dad. It helped me quite a bit, to live with my dad and see his issues for what they were, him, not me. And I learned to deal with him when he had a cruel or abusive streak, I would just get up and walk out of the room. So that helped.  

Imagine my surprise when the first guy I dated after all those years, turned out to be imbued with the very same flavors! And of course I saw it in the first few minutes of talking, we always see it… it’s that we see it, and although we don’t like it, we somehow think we can fix it, and we want to try. No, want is the wrong word, we feel utterly compelled to try. While normal, healthy individuals are walking away in the other direction, we are inviting these nuts into our lives and our homes.

And then we wonder why?

If you see yourself in this, please read this incredible article by Shari Shrieber, and remember, it’s time to focus all your nut cracking and empathic healing skills on YOU.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Things He Said

from desert flight
he descended upon her nest
on a Taurus moonlit night,
dragging his broken, golden wings behind,
warning he may not stay long
yet engulfing every moment
awake and asleep, with his presence.

he said she was a stepping stone
and so he stepped on her threshold

she said she didn’t really mind
(except she did sort of mind )
but looked for a deeper voice
she caught a glimpse of in a dream…

and she was hungry
his lips were sweet,
a flavor she had known

It was nectar
to be near him.

something told her to let him stay
and he stayed
though he said he didn’t know why…
and she offered him water
and he drank and drank and drank

and they would laugh, and play, and he flooded her with attention 

and as soon as she felt in love

he said he felt nothing


no thing at all

she dreamed of poison snakes in the gemini moon...

the surface is hard
but surface cracks
the stepping breaks the stones
under the stones is the water
he longed for water
she let him drink

as she longed for water
so drank his tears
listening, patiently
to long dead stories that filled the air
with sound and sorrow
and longing

she touched his scaly wings
his steel clad armor skin
and tried to reach inside
feeling moments of melted metal
she sang to break the barriers
to feel the soft inside spaces
and heal the broken pieces
or at least try to soften the edges.

He drank with desert thirst,
offering hollow words to her hope
that almost, maybe, he might want her
if she just kept offering her tenderness...

he wondered why he stayed,
arguing that it was


for him

that their arrangement 
was simply a business arrangement
and needs should be negotiated

except they never were discussed

and she excused it.
wrote it off,
because who was she
to have needs that mattered?

and his kisses felt guarded
unless she worked to open them
to soften them
as though afraid to push open
the gates he held so closed

and it drew her in, 
that he was so willing to receive

...the allure of healing, 
(with a sound like being sucked into the void)
seduced her into a twisted hall of mirrors.

and he said he didn’t find her beautiful
while he raved about women all around him 
who wanted him, or (he imagined) wanted to taste him,
women who appeared and circled and reappeared
and wrapped themselves around his world,

while he said he longed for a stepford wife
that had all the inner qualities he found in her
and she would never have the outer qualities
he ordered from the menu
and was confused because she wasn’t that
(because he was supposed to be omnipotent)

she wasn’t there for that character  
she was there for the water she dreamed of
behind the dam of his devices,
and patience began to grow wings
his stream of unconsciousness
denting her armor
her body aching in pain
from his boots…and she questioned her willingness 
to receive the mental blows
while she longed to reach the shores
of the deeper waters

she questioned his intentions
as they walked and mingled, her floating on his arm
the world saw her beauty
and he saw glimpses in their eyes,
she could see him seeing them seeing
what he wouldn’t see

and he defended, deflected, mirrored her weaknesses
got mean on a dime
pushed her buttons on purpose
and attempted to undermine her insights

they slept,
(wrapped up and entwined)
in a sea of self doubt
she dreamed... 

of wasps destroying trees
of bees threatening to swarm
of trying to garden in a vast wasteland...

In the cancer moon’s light 
she knew that he had to step 
on his own stepping stones
to see above the mask
break the armor
that kept him blind

only then
could he see her beauty
hear her insights
touch her with longing fingers
to find the waters
inside of himself
to offer nectar
to their union

she knew
he would need to protect
and give back what he was drinking
or she would fix his wings 
with the bloody needle of his own shadow,

the one he couldn't see
the one he tried to make hers,

and she would send him flying
into the lonely desert
of his superficial existence.

before the roar of the Leo moon, 
a hurricane smashed the glass
in the hall of mirrors.
where she saw the truth lying in the shards,
pieces of her scattered on the ground 
in a heap.
A glimmer of reality echoed in blue,

fogs of awakening...

there would be no great healing,
that was a mirror of her narcissistic hope...
she had simply been Carrion food,
picked apart methodically, 
(as a raptor knows the most delectable parts),

Be gone! she said as she released him to the sky,
his great dark wingspan casting shadows over the nest,
silhouetted as they ascended
and disappeared into the morning.