It is the very nature of humanity to have relationships come and go throughout our lives. It is inevitable. Friends drift apart; lovers part ways. Our paths are not all aligned.
Over the past 20 years, I have had people who were inseparable companions meander away as their lives went in different directions. Some of these people I mourn the loss of more than others, some of them were much dearer to me than others. Some of them are the same person that I used to know while others have changed into unrecognizable people wearing a recognizable shell.
It is these, in the last category, that I find most unsettling and the hardest to resolve. The people who are absent because they have changed so much that the person I knew is no longer there inside.
One of the most difficult things to watch is someone following that path. Seeing who they are on the inside take a path that is changing them and distorting who they are all while they are unaware of it. Watching their identity slide away through currents of hypocrisy and rationalization as their ego tries to satisfy itself and preserve its self-identity is a painful process to witness.
It’s important for us all, especially those of us with complex interpersonal webs, to know that we cannot fix other people. We cannot stop their path when they refuse to acknowledge it themselves.
It’s equally important to know that we are allowed to let them go. YOU, yes you reading this, do NOT need to rescue other people from themselves. You have no responsibility to do that. A good friend will try to exert guidance; a good friend will try to point out the path. A good friend will, usually, contribute more energy than they should to prevent the self-destruction of someone they care about. But it is not the responsibility of the good friend to follow on the path. It’s ok to say “enough.” It’s ok to cut the cord and let the person follow their path into self-implosion. It’s ok to sever their access to you when their behavior becomes damaging to you and other people in your life.
It’s also ok to be there for them when their implosion is complete and they realize they have destroyed everything in their lives for nothing. It’s ok to reach out and say “I forgive you. Welcome back.”
What is not ok is to let them destroy you with them. It’s not ok to let them gaslight you or manipulate you. It’s not ok for them to project their own horrible behavior onto you and blame you. It’s not ok for them to take out their frustrations with others deciding that their behavior is horrible on you.
If someone turns toxic in your life it’s ok to let them go. You’ll feel guilty about it. But, I promise you, it’s ok to let them go.
If someone turns toxic… LET THEM GO. You cannot fix them; you can merely help those who are willing to accept it. If they are not willing to accept help: let them go.
Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Shattered Life - part III
Meniere's disease is a terrible fate to apply to anyone.
It's not fully understood but what it can do to people is. People who suffer from it have intense, disabling bouts of vertigo. It can limit their life and, at times, prevent them from even being able to tolerate being conscious. It can also evaporate into nothing for long periods of time. Conjecture around Van Gogh's mental illness issues exists and some of the experts believe that Meniere's was at the root of his inability to cope with the world.
My lady had most of the symptoms of this dreadful disease. Long before I met her the intense bouts of disabling vertigo and dizziness trashed her career path and diverted her from achieving a big-name disk-jockey role and pushed her into the periphery. After the initial flare up her ability to function returned but with great levels of hesitation. The bouts of dizziness would come and go and the anxiety over when she might have one permeating her very being. She could not hold a regular job because the dizziness could come at any moment and destroy her ability to be at work through forcing her to the floor in a fit of disorientation.
This, of course, led her to pursue the necessary knowledge to steal the web development business from one of her previous boyfriends; she needed that job to survive.
During the course of our relationship this disease prevented us from doing many things. Some of them were things she had planned and a bout of dizziness destroyed her ability, or her confidence, to go out and have a good time. Sometimes I found myself wondering if this was a crutch for her to rely on if she really did not want to go to do something she did not want to do. Other times, though, it was obvious that she couldn't partake. While she did a great deal of compensation for her concerns there were distinct times that she simply could not truly function. She could fake it and having a trustworthy person at her side made it seem that she was able to function but the reality was that she was a wreck on the inside. I respected this and I did my best to provide her with the support that she needed to make it through those times. This process changed, though, when it came to things I wanted to do; places I wanted to go; people I wanted to see. When it was something that I was planning it was almost certain that she would have a bout of the dizzies that would prevent it. On many occasions she proclaimed that I should go without her because it was important to me but I learned, early on, that this was a trap. If I took the offer to leave I was abandoning her and I would pay for it dearly later on. Thus, she was able to turn her disability into a leverage point to retain tight control over me for the entire time we were together. I did not dare go do the things I wished to do for fear of getting in trouble and I dared not speak up to outline my concerns because the situation could be twisted to make me look terrible for not supporting her when she needed it most. I was trapped and she knew it; and she used that to her advantage.
This was used to force me to miss a movie I wanted to see. This was used to make holiday arrangements difficult. This was used as leverage in planning the wedding. This was used in a great many ways to facilitate her getting what she wanted and preventing me from getting what she did not want me to have.
Even now I'm not sure she understood, on a conscious level, that she was playing this manipulation; but, rather, I suspect she was doing it at a slightly subconscious level. I believe that her subconscious would manifest the necessary symptoms that her conscious mind would use to force the situation.
Immediately preceding me in the chain of men that have moved through her life was a man named Todd.
Todd was not a good guy. Todd had boxes and boxes of horror novels and a personality that belonged in one (this was validated by sources other than my lady; although she was the first to outline it).
The two of them created a domestic dispute that resulting in police intervention and Todd being arrested (years later I discovered that she, too, had been arrested but she hid this from me).
The incident, and overall behavioral patterns led to a temporary restraining order being filed against Todd.
The process of temporary restraining orders is interesting. Anyone can file one against anyone at any time for absolutely no reason. The order is upheld until a court date is appointed to conduct a hearing on whether the order should be permanently enacted or dropped completely.
I met my lady in the intervening space between the issuance of the temporary order and the court date. She had told me about the situation and the court date so I knew it was approaching. I saw her anxiety grow as it approached.
I offered to take the day of the court date off on multiple occasions so I could be there for her and, each time, she declined and assured me that it was ok; she had it under control.
The date came closer and she got more and more anxious about the situation.
My memory informs me that the date itself fell on a Monday and the logical flow of the situation clearly makes that likely. I awoke on the day of the court hearing in her apartment, 3 hours from my office, to her asking me to stay. I called in to work and let them know I could not make it and I stayed. I stayed with her until it was time to go to the hearing at which point she told me to not go with her.
The short summary of the story is that I took a day off without notice to work, ended up being spoken to over it, to accompany her to a hearing which she, at the last minute, refused to let me attend.
In retrospect I believe that the hearing would have uncovered her arrest and her violent behavior of the evening in question and that is why she refused to let me go; for fear of losing me over it.
Every year I have a birthday. Another birthday that will quietly slipped into oblivion with minimal fuss and recognition from those whom I care most about. It passed almost the optimal way to my liking.
A bit more than a decade ago my birthday was not this.
HER birthday is supposed to be a big deal and she expects lavish gifts and social gatherings. HER birthday, which is in April, experienced this.
She refused to accept that, when I outlined my dislike of being the center of attention, that I meant it. I did not want to have a big deal of my birthday and, most especially, I did not want a surprise party.
As my birthday approached I could tell something was up. Things were just "off" in a way I could not specifically identify. I suspected that she was, against my wishes, arranging a surprise party for me. As far as I was concerned this was clearly confirmed when my brother phoned me to invite me to an afternoon showing of a movie that neither of us really cared about but which was the best option currently in theatres.
The night before she sat me down to confess. He confession started with an inquiry of "do you really mean it?" in reference to my dislike of being the center of attention and large birthday celebrations. I outlined that I did, in fact, mean it very much. She was surprised when I outlined that I knew exactly what she was planning and that there was no surprise. She offered to cancel it but I declined. At this point the party was for others and not for me.
As surprise parties go mine was not that bad. I did not feel too terribly uncomfortable.
But the principle matters. I had outlined for months that this is NOT what I liked and she did it anyway because it is what SHE liked.
Before we moved in together she had an apartment. It was a two bedroom apartment, one of whose bedrooms was turned into her home office. The home office had two desks.
Her previous boyfriend was a terrible, terrible person.... but that is another story. When they broke up many things were abandoned in her apartment, mostly books but some video games. Among them was Diablo II.
Diablo II is a point and click game. That is, pretty much, the ENTIRE game. There is a LOT of clicking.
One day when I was visiting she had to work. She wanted me in the room with her so she had me settle in to the other desk to play on my computer. I was playing Diablo II until she started screaming at me about the clicking.
I was moved to the living room where the clicking still bothered her.
I ended up watching a movie or reading - at this point I cannot recall.
In addition to the business she ran from home she was also an on-air DJ. I'm sure you've heard what is called a "bumper" on the air. Radio stations often get celebrities to record them when they have an interview and some stations also make them from listeners to help engage the audience and increase their station loyalty.
Her station had a bank of bumpers and she wanted me to record one. I made an attempt but it did not have enough excitement for her so I tried to show more excitement. After many attempts, none of which was good enough for her, she surrendered to the reality that creating a great "bumper" is not something I am good for.
And then put a barb on the end of her disappointment by highlighting how simple a task it is and how, if I really loved her, I would have been able to figure it out.
This, like everything else in the shattered life tale, should have been a red flag that was waiving bright and clear in front of my eyes.
The above anecdote of the "bumper" may, or may not, be the first chronological instance of the "prove you love me" game. But it was certainly not the last.
This is a game where no one wins and it is the signature of mental disorders that can be very dangerous. The proofs start small and escalate until the person burdened with the tasks encounters one they are unable to complete and then, the burdener, temporarily loses their grasp on their sanity because they feel unloved.
A typical progression will be something as simple as "if you love me you'll get me a glass of water" through an increasing set of steps until it is something like "if you love me you'll stop talking to everyone you've ever known because I am all you need." If ever you encounter someone who says "if you love me you'll do it" then you need to be VERY wary of them.
Oh, yes, there's more.....
It's not fully understood but what it can do to people is. People who suffer from it have intense, disabling bouts of vertigo. It can limit their life and, at times, prevent them from even being able to tolerate being conscious. It can also evaporate into nothing for long periods of time. Conjecture around Van Gogh's mental illness issues exists and some of the experts believe that Meniere's was at the root of his inability to cope with the world.
My lady had most of the symptoms of this dreadful disease. Long before I met her the intense bouts of disabling vertigo and dizziness trashed her career path and diverted her from achieving a big-name disk-jockey role and pushed her into the periphery. After the initial flare up her ability to function returned but with great levels of hesitation. The bouts of dizziness would come and go and the anxiety over when she might have one permeating her very being. She could not hold a regular job because the dizziness could come at any moment and destroy her ability to be at work through forcing her to the floor in a fit of disorientation.
This, of course, led her to pursue the necessary knowledge to steal the web development business from one of her previous boyfriends; she needed that job to survive.
During the course of our relationship this disease prevented us from doing many things. Some of them were things she had planned and a bout of dizziness destroyed her ability, or her confidence, to go out and have a good time. Sometimes I found myself wondering if this was a crutch for her to rely on if she really did not want to go to do something she did not want to do. Other times, though, it was obvious that she couldn't partake. While she did a great deal of compensation for her concerns there were distinct times that she simply could not truly function. She could fake it and having a trustworthy person at her side made it seem that she was able to function but the reality was that she was a wreck on the inside. I respected this and I did my best to provide her with the support that she needed to make it through those times. This process changed, though, when it came to things I wanted to do; places I wanted to go; people I wanted to see. When it was something that I was planning it was almost certain that she would have a bout of the dizzies that would prevent it. On many occasions she proclaimed that I should go without her because it was important to me but I learned, early on, that this was a trap. If I took the offer to leave I was abandoning her and I would pay for it dearly later on. Thus, she was able to turn her disability into a leverage point to retain tight control over me for the entire time we were together. I did not dare go do the things I wished to do for fear of getting in trouble and I dared not speak up to outline my concerns because the situation could be twisted to make me look terrible for not supporting her when she needed it most. I was trapped and she knew it; and she used that to her advantage.
This was used to force me to miss a movie I wanted to see. This was used to make holiday arrangements difficult. This was used as leverage in planning the wedding. This was used in a great many ways to facilitate her getting what she wanted and preventing me from getting what she did not want me to have.
Even now I'm not sure she understood, on a conscious level, that she was playing this manipulation; but, rather, I suspect she was doing it at a slightly subconscious level. I believe that her subconscious would manifest the necessary symptoms that her conscious mind would use to force the situation.
Immediately preceding me in the chain of men that have moved through her life was a man named Todd.
Todd was not a good guy. Todd had boxes and boxes of horror novels and a personality that belonged in one (this was validated by sources other than my lady; although she was the first to outline it).
The two of them created a domestic dispute that resulting in police intervention and Todd being arrested (years later I discovered that she, too, had been arrested but she hid this from me).
The incident, and overall behavioral patterns led to a temporary restraining order being filed against Todd.
The process of temporary restraining orders is interesting. Anyone can file one against anyone at any time for absolutely no reason. The order is upheld until a court date is appointed to conduct a hearing on whether the order should be permanently enacted or dropped completely.
I met my lady in the intervening space between the issuance of the temporary order and the court date. She had told me about the situation and the court date so I knew it was approaching. I saw her anxiety grow as it approached.
I offered to take the day of the court date off on multiple occasions so I could be there for her and, each time, she declined and assured me that it was ok; she had it under control.
The date came closer and she got more and more anxious about the situation.
My memory informs me that the date itself fell on a Monday and the logical flow of the situation clearly makes that likely. I awoke on the day of the court hearing in her apartment, 3 hours from my office, to her asking me to stay. I called in to work and let them know I could not make it and I stayed. I stayed with her until it was time to go to the hearing at which point she told me to not go with her.
The short summary of the story is that I took a day off without notice to work, ended up being spoken to over it, to accompany her to a hearing which she, at the last minute, refused to let me attend.
In retrospect I believe that the hearing would have uncovered her arrest and her violent behavior of the evening in question and that is why she refused to let me go; for fear of losing me over it.
Every year I have a birthday. Another birthday that will quietly slipped into oblivion with minimal fuss and recognition from those whom I care most about. It passed almost the optimal way to my liking.
A bit more than a decade ago my birthday was not this.
HER birthday is supposed to be a big deal and she expects lavish gifts and social gatherings. HER birthday, which is in April, experienced this.
She refused to accept that, when I outlined my dislike of being the center of attention, that I meant it. I did not want to have a big deal of my birthday and, most especially, I did not want a surprise party.
As my birthday approached I could tell something was up. Things were just "off" in a way I could not specifically identify. I suspected that she was, against my wishes, arranging a surprise party for me. As far as I was concerned this was clearly confirmed when my brother phoned me to invite me to an afternoon showing of a movie that neither of us really cared about but which was the best option currently in theatres.
The night before she sat me down to confess. He confession started with an inquiry of "do you really mean it?" in reference to my dislike of being the center of attention and large birthday celebrations. I outlined that I did, in fact, mean it very much. She was surprised when I outlined that I knew exactly what she was planning and that there was no surprise. She offered to cancel it but I declined. At this point the party was for others and not for me.
As surprise parties go mine was not that bad. I did not feel too terribly uncomfortable.
But the principle matters. I had outlined for months that this is NOT what I liked and she did it anyway because it is what SHE liked.
Before we moved in together she had an apartment. It was a two bedroom apartment, one of whose bedrooms was turned into her home office. The home office had two desks.
Her previous boyfriend was a terrible, terrible person.... but that is another story. When they broke up many things were abandoned in her apartment, mostly books but some video games. Among them was Diablo II.
Diablo II is a point and click game. That is, pretty much, the ENTIRE game. There is a LOT of clicking.
One day when I was visiting she had to work. She wanted me in the room with her so she had me settle in to the other desk to play on my computer. I was playing Diablo II until she started screaming at me about the clicking.
I was moved to the living room where the clicking still bothered her.
I ended up watching a movie or reading - at this point I cannot recall.
In addition to the business she ran from home she was also an on-air DJ. I'm sure you've heard what is called a "bumper" on the air. Radio stations often get celebrities to record them when they have an interview and some stations also make them from listeners to help engage the audience and increase their station loyalty.
Her station had a bank of bumpers and she wanted me to record one. I made an attempt but it did not have enough excitement for her so I tried to show more excitement. After many attempts, none of which was good enough for her, she surrendered to the reality that creating a great "bumper" is not something I am good for.
And then put a barb on the end of her disappointment by highlighting how simple a task it is and how, if I really loved her, I would have been able to figure it out.
This, like everything else in the shattered life tale, should have been a red flag that was waiving bright and clear in front of my eyes.
The above anecdote of the "bumper" may, or may not, be the first chronological instance of the "prove you love me" game. But it was certainly not the last.
This is a game where no one wins and it is the signature of mental disorders that can be very dangerous. The proofs start small and escalate until the person burdened with the tasks encounters one they are unable to complete and then, the burdener, temporarily loses their grasp on their sanity because they feel unloved.
A typical progression will be something as simple as "if you love me you'll get me a glass of water" through an increasing set of steps until it is something like "if you love me you'll stop talking to everyone you've ever known because I am all you need." If ever you encounter someone who says "if you love me you'll do it" then you need to be VERY wary of them.
Oh, yes, there's more.....
Friday, August 29, 2014
Maelstrom
When the dark wave overcomes the mind and the soul is chained, left to drown, in the sea of loneliness all hope might be lost.
But there lies, at the bottom of that ocean, a cauldron of fire. An ember of pure hatred; a well of fiery passion.
This ember, when uncovered, pours hot energy into the sea.
The waters will churn and currents will flow.
The surface will ripple and twirl as the hot explosion of rage wells forth.
The tranquility of the many ships set adrift on the infinite expanse can only be disrupted by the rage that pours from the heart.
The rage that can shred perception and bring fury to the brow.
The rage that seeps out of the windows to the soul and can be a beacon of alarm to those around the body.
The rage is all consuming.
Inside the mind the rage grows in intensity; an ever-enlarging storm of passion.
The peaceful surface of the waters are gone and each lifeboat that was adrift before has shifted into a ship. The ships cease to represent individuals but, rather, the connections to those individuals.
The whirling waters strike forth and dash these connections into ruins.
The ships of the mind splinter and fracture; they creak and they groan. They explode under the pressures of the currents induced in the waters of self loathing by the engorged power of hatred.
The fires burn brightest when the skies are darkest.
When the sea of loneliness is a mirror in the dark, and the chains are pulling your lifeboat under: that is when the soul's coal will rupture the ocean floor.
The rage burns off the waters of sadness, leaving a dry abyss of cracked mud in the center of a whirlpool. A whirlpool with walls that go up forever. A whirlpool who, when the rage is gone, will crash back onto the weighted soul with a crushing blow, to tear at the soul in another cascade of ichor; another dark wave that will wash over it and baptize it in a sense of futility.
The rage is always there; it is always smoldering. It is always consuming the fuel that it is given. The rage is the antidote to the unbearable lack of purpose of existence.
But, the antidote is as bad as the poison it cures for the raging maelstrom of hate burns the soul. It brands it with each passing, leaves clear scars of all the angers it has faced. The brands tell the stories that the chains cannot and the chains; the chains, tell the stories that have quenched the fires.
As fire can, through its powerful conflagration, force water to steam and that steam can be harnessed as power so, too, can the waters flood out the embers.
The fire brings the currents, the currents whip and froth the surface of the polished ocean and rip the depressant tranquility out of existence. The rage burns its course and the seas once again extinguish it.
The cycle is forever repeating.
So long as the soul exists. So long as the focal point can perceive. So long as there is an "I" to feel the pain and anguish and rage. So long as there is a lone individual calling into the infinite night hoping someone in another life raft will answer.
So long as existence is so, too, will the cycle continue.
For now the ember glows quietly in the deep ocean of sadness. Lurking and waiting for the next spark to strike off an eruption.
But there lies, at the bottom of that ocean, a cauldron of fire. An ember of pure hatred; a well of fiery passion.
This ember, when uncovered, pours hot energy into the sea.
The waters will churn and currents will flow.
The surface will ripple and twirl as the hot explosion of rage wells forth.
The tranquility of the many ships set adrift on the infinite expanse can only be disrupted by the rage that pours from the heart.
The rage that can shred perception and bring fury to the brow.
The rage that seeps out of the windows to the soul and can be a beacon of alarm to those around the body.
The rage is all consuming.
Inside the mind the rage grows in intensity; an ever-enlarging storm of passion.
The peaceful surface of the waters are gone and each lifeboat that was adrift before has shifted into a ship. The ships cease to represent individuals but, rather, the connections to those individuals.
The whirling waters strike forth and dash these connections into ruins.
The ships of the mind splinter and fracture; they creak and they groan. They explode under the pressures of the currents induced in the waters of self loathing by the engorged power of hatred.
The fires burn brightest when the skies are darkest.
When the sea of loneliness is a mirror in the dark, and the chains are pulling your lifeboat under: that is when the soul's coal will rupture the ocean floor.
The rage burns off the waters of sadness, leaving a dry abyss of cracked mud in the center of a whirlpool. A whirlpool with walls that go up forever. A whirlpool who, when the rage is gone, will crash back onto the weighted soul with a crushing blow, to tear at the soul in another cascade of ichor; another dark wave that will wash over it and baptize it in a sense of futility.
The rage is always there; it is always smoldering. It is always consuming the fuel that it is given. The rage is the antidote to the unbearable lack of purpose of existence.
But, the antidote is as bad as the poison it cures for the raging maelstrom of hate burns the soul. It brands it with each passing, leaves clear scars of all the angers it has faced. The brands tell the stories that the chains cannot and the chains; the chains, tell the stories that have quenched the fires.
As fire can, through its powerful conflagration, force water to steam and that steam can be harnessed as power so, too, can the waters flood out the embers.
The fire brings the currents, the currents whip and froth the surface of the polished ocean and rip the depressant tranquility out of existence. The rage burns its course and the seas once again extinguish it.
The cycle is forever repeating.
So long as the soul exists. So long as the focal point can perceive. So long as there is an "I" to feel the pain and anguish and rage. So long as there is a lone individual calling into the infinite night hoping someone in another life raft will answer.
So long as existence is so, too, will the cycle continue.
For now the ember glows quietly in the deep ocean of sadness. Lurking and waiting for the next spark to strike off an eruption.
Loneliness
Loneliness has nothing to do with being alone.
It has to do with being unattached to anyone or anything; to be left adrift in the sea of humanity.
Loneliness, a feeling nearly everyone experiences at some point, is the lone survivor of a shipwreck being set adrift on an infinite ocean. Alone, in a life raft. With every other person in the world in their own liferafts all around you.
Each boat is its own little bubble and each person is in their own struggle for survival.
Some people lash their boats to others in an effort to lighten their solitude while others suffer in silence.
Some seek the warmth of their companions but are shunned and disbarred from any relief.
Others, still, experience the sounds of those around them as a driving force: pushing them into insanity.
We're all alone in the world, all alone together.
Despite the permanence of loneliness having the loneliness accentuated by others is never a pleasant experience.
Seeing those whom you recognize and choose to call out to shunning you is always painful.
Seeing them group and bond at your own exclusion exacerbates the isolation of your singular craft.
Groups come and go; friendships grow and fade.
Watching the waning of a friendship is never easy; realizing that it was false is harder still.
The world is an unfriendly place and the friendly people within it can be as unintentionally cruel as those who deliberately inflict harm.
The cascade of ships drifting on the infinite sea is the best that we can hope for and, yet, it amounts to nothing in the span of time that is our lives. Our lives, in turn, are nothing to the time of society.
Our loneliness, each of us, is a tiny morsel of pain in the vast ocean of feeling and, yet, it controls everything about our lives.
It has to do with being unattached to anyone or anything; to be left adrift in the sea of humanity.
Loneliness, a feeling nearly everyone experiences at some point, is the lone survivor of a shipwreck being set adrift on an infinite ocean. Alone, in a life raft. With every other person in the world in their own liferafts all around you.
Each boat is its own little bubble and each person is in their own struggle for survival.
Some people lash their boats to others in an effort to lighten their solitude while others suffer in silence.
Some seek the warmth of their companions but are shunned and disbarred from any relief.
Others, still, experience the sounds of those around them as a driving force: pushing them into insanity.
We're all alone in the world, all alone together.
Despite the permanence of loneliness having the loneliness accentuated by others is never a pleasant experience.
Seeing those whom you recognize and choose to call out to shunning you is always painful.
Seeing them group and bond at your own exclusion exacerbates the isolation of your singular craft.
Groups come and go; friendships grow and fade.
Watching the waning of a friendship is never easy; realizing that it was false is harder still.
The world is an unfriendly place and the friendly people within it can be as unintentionally cruel as those who deliberately inflict harm.
The cascade of ships drifting on the infinite sea is the best that we can hope for and, yet, it amounts to nothing in the span of time that is our lives. Our lives, in turn, are nothing to the time of society.
Our loneliness, each of us, is a tiny morsel of pain in the vast ocean of feeling and, yet, it controls everything about our lives.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Shattered Life - Part 2
When I decided to make the initial journey south I was at my mother's home. I was there doing my laundry so that I could make use of her hot tub while I waited. This was a not uncommon experience as, at that time, I was renting a trailer with two friends. They, as a couple, usurped much of the appliance time. Since I had the opportunity to utilize better appliances AND use a hot tub I was not shy about the half-hour journey to my mother's.
It was not far in the future from the initial meeting that this couple and I made a move into a full house. This, of course, required a lot of time and many trips hauling a great deal of stuff. This, of course, was best done when we were not at work; meaning evenings and into the weekend.
As I could not surrender my time to head southward she decided to surprise me and come northward.
We got to spend the weekend together and I got to work harder to free up my time for when she arrived.
It was a wonderful visit. Spock, her dog, came with her and we spent the weekend in my new home.
She and I ran out to the place I had just quitted and tried to recover the nice trash barrel that I owned but, we soon discovered, it was too stinky to transport in her nice car (or any space that was shared with a breathing entity) so it was left in the yard of the trailer that was being departed for the next individuals to utilize as they saw fit.
On Sunday we decided to breakfast with two of my closest friends; a couple whom I had introduced to one-another while I was dating the woman. Their attraction was immediate and unstoppable and, while I didn't like that I was edged out I understood that one's heart is not something one could control so I did not try to interfere with their relationship (Author's note: they are happily married with a seven year old). During the breakfast there was a great deal of pleasant conversation. I engaged in conversation with both of my friends and I felt that my new love was enjoying the meal as well. It was only afterward that her wrath rained down upon me.
The accusation was concise and very terse. I was told that I was still in love with her and that I could no longer be friends with them. There was no discussion. There was no opportunity for debate. My new love had seen what she saw and come to the conclusion that my friend was the enemy. I had always said, and still say, that if anyone ever made me choose between someone else and them that the choice would be easy: I would choose "them" because they would be the party who did not make me choose. I was surprised, therefore, that my new lady was able to put forth this ultimatum without actually making the ultimatum. To this day I cannot recall HOW she did it but the end result was the same: I was coerced into severing my ties with my two friends so that I could keep my love.
I should have known then that I was in for trouble. But I was too blinded to see it.
Instead, I surrendered that part of my life and started to build relationships farther south. I had already ceased my fencing practices in the norther region because they happened on a weekend and I was choosing to go south to spend time with my lady. I was then forced to cease my normal Wednesday night outing, where I went to a local restaurant to socialize with a variety of people near my own age, because the female half of the couple we had dined with was the one who convinced me to join that crowd and she, sometimes, was there.
My life was, after this northward visit, more in her control than it had been to that point but I simply was unable to see it nor was I willing to believe it.
As I became more and more entrenched in her life, by surrendering my own, we began trying to socialize more and more with her friends. Two of these friends, a couple, lived in an apartment in Portland and they invited us over for awhile for dinner and a visit.
Something that, through a combination of latent anxiety concerns and reinforcement by external sources (e.g. my lady friend) that provided me with a great deal of troubles was navigating in a place I am not familiar with. I've always been a bit uncomfortable with it but, until I started spending time with her, it was manageable. Her reactions in the car greatly exacerbated the underlying issue and created a situation in which confusion of roads could become overwhelming to me.
This was a problem that she was aware of. This was a problem she "helped" me with when we drove about together.
When we went to visit her friends I drove and she navigated.
The highways were, and remain, roads that I know well through the Portland area. As such I needed only have direction as to what exit I was to take and all of the steps after that point in the journey. On the way to the residence of her friends she provided the information as to what exit to take and then went about not giving me advanced warning on when I would need to turn for the upcoming streets. She provided the information as the turn was approaching, making it difficult for me to anticipate the turn; increasing my anxiety over not knowing what was around me nor where I should be going.
Prior to this point I had prided myself on knowing how to return to a place after visiting it once. The process of getting TO it and then tracing the steps FROM it were enough to ingrain the path into my mind. She also knew this.
The path to the residence took one highway to a particular exit and then followed an fairly major road in until it crossed with the road that her friends lived on.
This, however, is not the path she allowed me to drive to leave.
I have since learned all of the roads that we took and I can recreate the entire path I was taken on that day. I can say, with total clarity, that the path was not the most efficient path to take: neither to nor from this residence. Taking two different routes, neither of which was efficient, served no purpose other than to increase my anxiety and prevent me from learning the roads in greater detail.
In short, her navigation choices reinforced my anxiety and my dependence on her to navigate around the metropolitan area that was to become my new home.
Once again, I was unable to see what was happening because I did not know the roads well enough to see what she had done; it was only years later, when I saw the apartment we had visited, that I put all of the pieces of that day into their true context.
Like most people I have an appreciation for sweet things.
So, too, did my new lady friend.
Particularly she enjoyed Rice Krispie treats with butterscotch in them.
So I made them.
Nearly every weekend I made a batch of Rice Krispie treats or some variant thereof (note: substituting Fruity Pebbles for Rice Krispies is also tasty) and we would eat some of them during the course of the weekend and she ate the rest during the week.
This addition to her dietary consumption yielded an expected, but undesirable, side effect. She gained a small amount of weight. To me she went from hot, sexy and beautiful to being hot, sexy and beautiful. To me there was not change. To her, however, this minor increase in weight was a HUGE catastrophe that was my fault. I was screamed at and I was scolded. I was told that all of the treats I made were the cause and that, because I made them, it was my fault.
That weekend we spent some considerably time talking. Her outburst seemed, to me, to be completely unfair and it seemed to have a readily-available solution.
That weekend we avoided making any treats.
By mid week she apologized and said she missed having the treats to snack on.
I was asked to make them again the following weekend.
During the next few months I have a vague recollection of this exact scenario playing out a few times. She would be unhappy with how she looked at it would become my fault for cooking for her.
She would have a minor outburst and we would talk about it and reach a reasonable decision on how we could improve the situation. This would be followed by an apology later in the week.
Had I known then what I know now I would have known that this pattern would continue and could never be broken. That this behavioral pattern would escalate in amplitude of response while having a decreasing severity of trigger and an increasing frequency overall.
But, I did not know then what I know now so I did not choose to walk away.
I'm not sure, had I known, that I would have been able to anyway. I loved her too much.
There was a point where she started sharing stories of her exes with me. She had several, including a previous fiance. In retrospect the tales I am about to relate probably should have been a warning sign to me of some sort; but I knew I was not a bad person. I knew that I didn't match the pattern. I didn't realize that the pattern was not the men: it was her. I am sure, now, I am included in the wave of terrible men who have mistreated her when she tells others her tales. I, too, am sure that the story of the men before me is exaggerated well beyond the facts of the situations. Take those as a disclaimer as to the nature of these events for I cannot relate many facts about them: only what she told me.
My lady had had a growing career as an on-air personality. She was doing well and her reputation was growing. Then she got sick (more on that later). After her sickness she decided to start a new life and moved out to Michigan.
While there she met a man. I don't have many details on the story of their meeting but it seems to closely mirror my experience thus far. He fell madly in love with her and they had a whirlwind romance. He proposed and she accepted. She then decided she missed home. They moved back to Maine and got established. From her telling the story it seems that she then broke it off with him due to lack of passion in their life. She claims she loved him deeply but there was no fire or passion, especially in the bedroom. She kept the ring.
In short, she seduced this man and uprooted him from all that he knew to move back to Maine with her where the relationship was severed and she kept the main asset that had been a manifestation of the importance of the relationship to him.
Later, one night that we had ordered take-out from the local Amato's, I was texted from my car. She was in my car and this man was standing next to me in line inside. She slinked down and hid in the car when he left. Again, I should have interpreted this as a sign.
After, what I am sure, was a string of dating, a new gentleman caller entered her life. This man actually cooccupied the very same apartment she had been living in when she and I met with her. This man was a brilliant graphics designer and web programmer. This man had built a business doing web design, construction and hosting. This man taught his business to his beloved girlfriend so that she could work with him from home. She learned programming and the graphic arts programs. She rapidly understood the business functions. This mad had a falling out with his business partner and reincorporated with his new girlfriend to make a new business.
Over the next couple of years, as she tells it, this man oscillated through phases of insanity. His brilliance in both design and coding was the result of some sort of schizm in his mind that made his an explosive personality. Through many events, as she tells the story, the relationship was ripped apart and she had to sever the ties with him for her own safety. In doing so she ran through a legal battle resulting in him being completely severed from the company that he had built, broken and reforged with her. When the ashes cooled on their relationship she had control of the apartment, the assets and the company. He was left with nothing, not even the business of his parents; whom had been customers of the company.
In short: she seduced this man and stole his livelihood from him, forcing him into a well of depression and financial ruin.
Again; this story should have been a warning for me. Instead it was a sympathetic narrative in which she was the victim of a boyfriend who went insane and tried to steal what she had contributed to his life.
I'm certain there were a variety of other men before she met the next man who was to be a steady boyfriend and, from some evidence, he was in the initial stages of moving in with her.
This man was bad news. I love books and so did he. After his departure there were many boxes of books left behind. As I loved books they were given to me as he was not allowed to come back for them due to a retraining order. The boxes reiterated what the restraining order told: this man celebrated violence. The books were filled with gritty fantasy centered around violence and dark horror volumes. Normally I will not judge a person solely by the books that they read and choose to own but the volume of books included, and the singular focus of them was a bit disarming. Coupled with the restraining order and, what I was informed, the upcoming court date I knew that this person was likely to be a bad person whom would be prone to explosive violence. As the court date approached she related the story to me.
During their relationship this man had been a forceful and dominant individual. There were arguments that escalated to pushing and shoving. There were many instances of yelling and screaming. The culmination of this tumultuous romance was a physical confrontation. As she tells it he was physically assaulting her directly and through pushing her all around the apartment. As she tells it she picked up the wall phone and dialed 911 to ask for help. As she tells it he then ripped the phone off the wall and threw it across the room; disconnecting the call. As she tells it he threw her across the room and proceeded to continue his assault when the police arrived and arrested him. As she tells it that is the end of the incident and the end of the relationship. As she tells it that it the origination of the restraining order and the subsequent need to go to court to push the order forward and, later, a repeat court appearance to have the order renewed.
Many years later, due to a "Criminal Records Check" advertisement that was fed to me via Google I discovered a hint that there was more to this story. The line in the ad, for criminal records, showed fragment of a paragraph of a police log. In that fragment, which contained no complete sentences but, rather, appeared to be a small photo of the corner of the police beat column of a paper, where three words. Her first name, her last name, and the word "arrested." The context of the words implied, quite heavily, that she had been arrested but the fragment did not contain enough information to verify it. I Googled the entire sentence fragment and was directed to a paywall for the local newspaper's archive. I paid the $3 fee for access to the article and obtained a revelation. During the incident that she imparted to me the man had, in fact, been arrested and the home's state was much as she described.
The part she had omitted from her story, though, was equally important. The fact she omitted was that she, too, had been arrested. Both parties had been arrested for their part in the domestic violence. This means that the police did not believe that she was innocently being beaten nor that she was merely defending herself. The officers on the scene believed that she had been an active participant in the situation and had been committing as much assault as she had been receiving. This, had it been imparted at the time, MIGHT have made me reconsider the relationship. It certainly would have alerted me to the dangers of this woman and made me more aware of what I was about to go through as it happened rather than allowing me to be self-deluded into thinking that she was not insane.
This, as you will see later, would have been good foreshadowing had my story been a movie and the audience, without me knowing, been made aware of her arrest.
Then, of course, there was me. This is my tale and I am sure, from her perspective, it differs greatly. I'm sure that there is a chapter in her previous relationships narrative in which I am a villain and in which I was a terrible individual that abused her trust, tried to take her life away and threatened to destroy her in some way. because of what I went through, including the parts that have yet to be revealed, I am sure that my appearance in her tale is greatly exaggerated much as the appearances of these men has likely been warped and twisted to benefit her the most.
I feel sorry for the man who was uprooted from Michigan and forced to Maine to be abandoned.
I feel bad for the man whose livelihood was stolen from him.
I even feel bad for the misogynistic asshole who was prone to fits of assault; maybe I don't feel bad for him. His life deserved to be shredded.
It was not far in the future from the initial meeting that this couple and I made a move into a full house. This, of course, required a lot of time and many trips hauling a great deal of stuff. This, of course, was best done when we were not at work; meaning evenings and into the weekend.
As I could not surrender my time to head southward she decided to surprise me and come northward.
We got to spend the weekend together and I got to work harder to free up my time for when she arrived.
It was a wonderful visit. Spock, her dog, came with her and we spent the weekend in my new home.
She and I ran out to the place I had just quitted and tried to recover the nice trash barrel that I owned but, we soon discovered, it was too stinky to transport in her nice car (or any space that was shared with a breathing entity) so it was left in the yard of the trailer that was being departed for the next individuals to utilize as they saw fit.
On Sunday we decided to breakfast with two of my closest friends; a couple whom I had introduced to one-another while I was dating the woman. Their attraction was immediate and unstoppable and, while I didn't like that I was edged out I understood that one's heart is not something one could control so I did not try to interfere with their relationship (Author's note: they are happily married with a seven year old). During the breakfast there was a great deal of pleasant conversation. I engaged in conversation with both of my friends and I felt that my new love was enjoying the meal as well. It was only afterward that her wrath rained down upon me.
The accusation was concise and very terse. I was told that I was still in love with her and that I could no longer be friends with them. There was no discussion. There was no opportunity for debate. My new love had seen what she saw and come to the conclusion that my friend was the enemy. I had always said, and still say, that if anyone ever made me choose between someone else and them that the choice would be easy: I would choose "them" because they would be the party who did not make me choose. I was surprised, therefore, that my new lady was able to put forth this ultimatum without actually making the ultimatum. To this day I cannot recall HOW she did it but the end result was the same: I was coerced into severing my ties with my two friends so that I could keep my love.
I should have known then that I was in for trouble. But I was too blinded to see it.
Instead, I surrendered that part of my life and started to build relationships farther south. I had already ceased my fencing practices in the norther region because they happened on a weekend and I was choosing to go south to spend time with my lady. I was then forced to cease my normal Wednesday night outing, where I went to a local restaurant to socialize with a variety of people near my own age, because the female half of the couple we had dined with was the one who convinced me to join that crowd and she, sometimes, was there.
My life was, after this northward visit, more in her control than it had been to that point but I simply was unable to see it nor was I willing to believe it.
As I became more and more entrenched in her life, by surrendering my own, we began trying to socialize more and more with her friends. Two of these friends, a couple, lived in an apartment in Portland and they invited us over for awhile for dinner and a visit.
Something that, through a combination of latent anxiety concerns and reinforcement by external sources (e.g. my lady friend) that provided me with a great deal of troubles was navigating in a place I am not familiar with. I've always been a bit uncomfortable with it but, until I started spending time with her, it was manageable. Her reactions in the car greatly exacerbated the underlying issue and created a situation in which confusion of roads could become overwhelming to me.
This was a problem that she was aware of. This was a problem she "helped" me with when we drove about together.
When we went to visit her friends I drove and she navigated.
The highways were, and remain, roads that I know well through the Portland area. As such I needed only have direction as to what exit I was to take and all of the steps after that point in the journey. On the way to the residence of her friends she provided the information as to what exit to take and then went about not giving me advanced warning on when I would need to turn for the upcoming streets. She provided the information as the turn was approaching, making it difficult for me to anticipate the turn; increasing my anxiety over not knowing what was around me nor where I should be going.
Prior to this point I had prided myself on knowing how to return to a place after visiting it once. The process of getting TO it and then tracing the steps FROM it were enough to ingrain the path into my mind. She also knew this.
The path to the residence took one highway to a particular exit and then followed an fairly major road in until it crossed with the road that her friends lived on.
This, however, is not the path she allowed me to drive to leave.
I have since learned all of the roads that we took and I can recreate the entire path I was taken on that day. I can say, with total clarity, that the path was not the most efficient path to take: neither to nor from this residence. Taking two different routes, neither of which was efficient, served no purpose other than to increase my anxiety and prevent me from learning the roads in greater detail.
In short, her navigation choices reinforced my anxiety and my dependence on her to navigate around the metropolitan area that was to become my new home.
Once again, I was unable to see what was happening because I did not know the roads well enough to see what she had done; it was only years later, when I saw the apartment we had visited, that I put all of the pieces of that day into their true context.
Like most people I have an appreciation for sweet things.
So, too, did my new lady friend.
Particularly she enjoyed Rice Krispie treats with butterscotch in them.
So I made them.
Nearly every weekend I made a batch of Rice Krispie treats or some variant thereof (note: substituting Fruity Pebbles for Rice Krispies is also tasty) and we would eat some of them during the course of the weekend and she ate the rest during the week.
This addition to her dietary consumption yielded an expected, but undesirable, side effect. She gained a small amount of weight. To me she went from hot, sexy and beautiful to being hot, sexy and beautiful. To me there was not change. To her, however, this minor increase in weight was a HUGE catastrophe that was my fault. I was screamed at and I was scolded. I was told that all of the treats I made were the cause and that, because I made them, it was my fault.
That weekend we spent some considerably time talking. Her outburst seemed, to me, to be completely unfair and it seemed to have a readily-available solution.
That weekend we avoided making any treats.
By mid week she apologized and said she missed having the treats to snack on.
I was asked to make them again the following weekend.
During the next few months I have a vague recollection of this exact scenario playing out a few times. She would be unhappy with how she looked at it would become my fault for cooking for her.
She would have a minor outburst and we would talk about it and reach a reasonable decision on how we could improve the situation. This would be followed by an apology later in the week.
Had I known then what I know now I would have known that this pattern would continue and could never be broken. That this behavioral pattern would escalate in amplitude of response while having a decreasing severity of trigger and an increasing frequency overall.
But, I did not know then what I know now so I did not choose to walk away.
I'm not sure, had I known, that I would have been able to anyway. I loved her too much.
There was a point where she started sharing stories of her exes with me. She had several, including a previous fiance. In retrospect the tales I am about to relate probably should have been a warning sign to me of some sort; but I knew I was not a bad person. I knew that I didn't match the pattern. I didn't realize that the pattern was not the men: it was her. I am sure, now, I am included in the wave of terrible men who have mistreated her when she tells others her tales. I, too, am sure that the story of the men before me is exaggerated well beyond the facts of the situations. Take those as a disclaimer as to the nature of these events for I cannot relate many facts about them: only what she told me.
My lady had had a growing career as an on-air personality. She was doing well and her reputation was growing. Then she got sick (more on that later). After her sickness she decided to start a new life and moved out to Michigan.
While there she met a man. I don't have many details on the story of their meeting but it seems to closely mirror my experience thus far. He fell madly in love with her and they had a whirlwind romance. He proposed and she accepted. She then decided she missed home. They moved back to Maine and got established. From her telling the story it seems that she then broke it off with him due to lack of passion in their life. She claims she loved him deeply but there was no fire or passion, especially in the bedroom. She kept the ring.
In short, she seduced this man and uprooted him from all that he knew to move back to Maine with her where the relationship was severed and she kept the main asset that had been a manifestation of the importance of the relationship to him.
Later, one night that we had ordered take-out from the local Amato's, I was texted from my car. She was in my car and this man was standing next to me in line inside. She slinked down and hid in the car when he left. Again, I should have interpreted this as a sign.
After, what I am sure, was a string of dating, a new gentleman caller entered her life. This man actually cooccupied the very same apartment she had been living in when she and I met with her. This man was a brilliant graphics designer and web programmer. This man had built a business doing web design, construction and hosting. This man taught his business to his beloved girlfriend so that she could work with him from home. She learned programming and the graphic arts programs. She rapidly understood the business functions. This mad had a falling out with his business partner and reincorporated with his new girlfriend to make a new business.
Over the next couple of years, as she tells it, this man oscillated through phases of insanity. His brilliance in both design and coding was the result of some sort of schizm in his mind that made his an explosive personality. Through many events, as she tells the story, the relationship was ripped apart and she had to sever the ties with him for her own safety. In doing so she ran through a legal battle resulting in him being completely severed from the company that he had built, broken and reforged with her. When the ashes cooled on their relationship she had control of the apartment, the assets and the company. He was left with nothing, not even the business of his parents; whom had been customers of the company.
In short: she seduced this man and stole his livelihood from him, forcing him into a well of depression and financial ruin.
Again; this story should have been a warning for me. Instead it was a sympathetic narrative in which she was the victim of a boyfriend who went insane and tried to steal what she had contributed to his life.
I'm certain there were a variety of other men before she met the next man who was to be a steady boyfriend and, from some evidence, he was in the initial stages of moving in with her.
This man was bad news. I love books and so did he. After his departure there were many boxes of books left behind. As I loved books they were given to me as he was not allowed to come back for them due to a retraining order. The boxes reiterated what the restraining order told: this man celebrated violence. The books were filled with gritty fantasy centered around violence and dark horror volumes. Normally I will not judge a person solely by the books that they read and choose to own but the volume of books included, and the singular focus of them was a bit disarming. Coupled with the restraining order and, what I was informed, the upcoming court date I knew that this person was likely to be a bad person whom would be prone to explosive violence. As the court date approached she related the story to me.
During their relationship this man had been a forceful and dominant individual. There were arguments that escalated to pushing and shoving. There were many instances of yelling and screaming. The culmination of this tumultuous romance was a physical confrontation. As she tells it he was physically assaulting her directly and through pushing her all around the apartment. As she tells it she picked up the wall phone and dialed 911 to ask for help. As she tells it he then ripped the phone off the wall and threw it across the room; disconnecting the call. As she tells it he threw her across the room and proceeded to continue his assault when the police arrived and arrested him. As she tells it that is the end of the incident and the end of the relationship. As she tells it that it the origination of the restraining order and the subsequent need to go to court to push the order forward and, later, a repeat court appearance to have the order renewed.
Many years later, due to a "Criminal Records Check" advertisement that was fed to me via Google I discovered a hint that there was more to this story. The line in the ad, for criminal records, showed fragment of a paragraph of a police log. In that fragment, which contained no complete sentences but, rather, appeared to be a small photo of the corner of the police beat column of a paper, where three words. Her first name, her last name, and the word "arrested." The context of the words implied, quite heavily, that she had been arrested but the fragment did not contain enough information to verify it. I Googled the entire sentence fragment and was directed to a paywall for the local newspaper's archive. I paid the $3 fee for access to the article and obtained a revelation. During the incident that she imparted to me the man had, in fact, been arrested and the home's state was much as she described.
The part she had omitted from her story, though, was equally important. The fact she omitted was that she, too, had been arrested. Both parties had been arrested for their part in the domestic violence. This means that the police did not believe that she was innocently being beaten nor that she was merely defending herself. The officers on the scene believed that she had been an active participant in the situation and had been committing as much assault as she had been receiving. This, had it been imparted at the time, MIGHT have made me reconsider the relationship. It certainly would have alerted me to the dangers of this woman and made me more aware of what I was about to go through as it happened rather than allowing me to be self-deluded into thinking that she was not insane.
This, as you will see later, would have been good foreshadowing had my story been a movie and the audience, without me knowing, been made aware of her arrest.
Then, of course, there was me. This is my tale and I am sure, from her perspective, it differs greatly. I'm sure that there is a chapter in her previous relationships narrative in which I am a villain and in which I was a terrible individual that abused her trust, tried to take her life away and threatened to destroy her in some way. because of what I went through, including the parts that have yet to be revealed, I am sure that my appearance in her tale is greatly exaggerated much as the appearances of these men has likely been warped and twisted to benefit her the most.
I feel sorry for the man who was uprooted from Michigan and forced to Maine to be abandoned.
I feel bad for the man whose livelihood was stolen from him.
I even feel bad for the misogynistic asshole who was prone to fits of assault; maybe I don't feel bad for him. His life deserved to be shredded.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Chains and Weights
The chains are wrapped tightly; links coiling around and around like a venomous snake.
There are many chains, each intertwined with the others to make the roiling mass of cold, hard steel.
The links clink and clack as they layer over one-another to shield the interior from any light.
Their protection is perfect; light never reaches what is inside.
What is inside is the soul; my soul.
The chains constrict it and keep it safe in the darkness but enforce a penalty upon it in exchange for their physical protection. The penalty is that the light of happiness simply cannot penetrate to the depths of cold and impersonal metal that bind it in place. Even the brightest lights only generate the lightest flickers of illumination into the center of the mottled mass of steel.
On the best of days the chains are all there is.
But those days are few in number; those days are wonderful in comparison to the other days.
The days when weights are attached to the chains.
Weights pulling on the chains, forcing them to compress my soul and weigh me down.
Chains that make the slightest effort a challenge of endurance of my will.
Weights that can grow or shrink in mass without warning; weights that fall into the endless oblivion or nothingness. Weights that try to pull my soul out of my body and into that same oblivion.
The pain of such a weight is immense. It is crushing. It is tiring. It is constant.
There is no freedom or release from the weights, at least not within the mortal realm.
There is, however, one potential escape. Death might bring the release that allows the crushing oblivion to be silenced but, on the other hand, it might simply free the soul from the mortal realm to be dragged farther into the bottomless chasm of pain over which it is currently suspended.
The average day is merely tiring: the bad days exhausting.
There, too, are the worst days. The days where the weights are heaviest and the freedom to move about in the world restricted by the complete lack of motivation that arises from such a burden. Those days are nearly unbearable.... and then, sometimes, the misery begins to condense out of the air and dripping into an ever-rising tide from which the weights make escape impossible.
The misery flows from everyone to pool at my feet, and grow deeper and deeper.
Deeper until it threatens to drown me where I stand. Deep enough that the panic of the impending immersion sets in much the way one panics under water without an escape. The panic could lead one to a desperate act, an act that is an attempt to save the soul from the crushing depth of the misery that is flowing higher and higher above it.
A chance for continued existence at the expense of the body that is confined by the chains of misery.
When the misery level climbs the fear of unending pain can influence even the most rational of minds and force them to take a chance on swimming from the bottomless chasm of pain through the river of misery. Perhaps, if they are freed from the chains they will find the peace they need someone on the shoreline.
This far the waters have not reached that high for me, but I can easily imagine the level of panic that the sea of misery will one day bring.
I can imagine that level of panic and fear for what I might do when it is there.
And fear for what lies in the sea and in the chasm..... and what lies on the shores of that vast ocean of suffering.
There are many chains, each intertwined with the others to make the roiling mass of cold, hard steel.
The links clink and clack as they layer over one-another to shield the interior from any light.
Their protection is perfect; light never reaches what is inside.
What is inside is the soul; my soul.
The chains constrict it and keep it safe in the darkness but enforce a penalty upon it in exchange for their physical protection. The penalty is that the light of happiness simply cannot penetrate to the depths of cold and impersonal metal that bind it in place. Even the brightest lights only generate the lightest flickers of illumination into the center of the mottled mass of steel.
On the best of days the chains are all there is.
But those days are few in number; those days are wonderful in comparison to the other days.
The days when weights are attached to the chains.
Weights pulling on the chains, forcing them to compress my soul and weigh me down.
Chains that make the slightest effort a challenge of endurance of my will.
Weights that can grow or shrink in mass without warning; weights that fall into the endless oblivion or nothingness. Weights that try to pull my soul out of my body and into that same oblivion.
The pain of such a weight is immense. It is crushing. It is tiring. It is constant.
There is no freedom or release from the weights, at least not within the mortal realm.
There is, however, one potential escape. Death might bring the release that allows the crushing oblivion to be silenced but, on the other hand, it might simply free the soul from the mortal realm to be dragged farther into the bottomless chasm of pain over which it is currently suspended.
The average day is merely tiring: the bad days exhausting.
There, too, are the worst days. The days where the weights are heaviest and the freedom to move about in the world restricted by the complete lack of motivation that arises from such a burden. Those days are nearly unbearable.... and then, sometimes, the misery begins to condense out of the air and dripping into an ever-rising tide from which the weights make escape impossible.
The misery flows from everyone to pool at my feet, and grow deeper and deeper.
Deeper until it threatens to drown me where I stand. Deep enough that the panic of the impending immersion sets in much the way one panics under water without an escape. The panic could lead one to a desperate act, an act that is an attempt to save the soul from the crushing depth of the misery that is flowing higher and higher above it.
A chance for continued existence at the expense of the body that is confined by the chains of misery.
When the misery level climbs the fear of unending pain can influence even the most rational of minds and force them to take a chance on swimming from the bottomless chasm of pain through the river of misery. Perhaps, if they are freed from the chains they will find the peace they need someone on the shoreline.
This far the waters have not reached that high for me, but I can easily imagine the level of panic that the sea of misery will one day bring.
I can imagine that level of panic and fear for what I might do when it is there.
And fear for what lies in the sea and in the chasm..... and what lies on the shores of that vast ocean of suffering.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
A Shattered Life - Part 1
Author's note: I'm far from perfect. These stories are all from my point of view and, as such, they highlight the faults of the other party. I am endeavoring with these stories to include, and acknowledge, my own faults in the situations; but, they are still from my point of view and, therefore, inherently biased. They are, to the extent I can make them, true stories.
The picture was black and white yet it conveyed everything it needed to. Beauty of features and solidity of stature. Long, flowing blonde hair and bright crimson lips. The black top, coupled with the jeweled pendant enhanced the fairness of her skin as it dangled just above a tasteful display of impressive cleavage. The photographer's technique had captured her beauty at its fullest and the lack of color only enhanced the reality of her appearance.
She was perfect. Gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, independent, and geeky.
The information on the screen was unbelievable.
What lonely man wouldn't click on the button to indicate interest in this woman?
The person I used to be had no idea that this would lead to his destruction.
After a lengthy online interaction we met for the first time on August 8th. I was doing my laundry and she outlined that I should come down and go out with her and her friends that evening. I did some quick mental mathematics and realized it was possible to complete my laundry and hit the road for the three-hour drive to arrive about the time she was heading out. So I did.
The drive was arduous with anticipation and yet, I don't remember any specific moment of it.
I remember speaking on the phone with her as I exited the highway and we crossed paths in the middle of downtown Saco. She turned around and I pulled over in front of a small brick building that was a dance school and studio. Her red RX7 pulled up to the curb and she stepped out, wearing shorts that showed her legs with the same gorgeous blonde hair reflecting the orange tinted street lights and the same crimson color to her lips that the her photo so clearly showed, despite the lack of coloring. All of this was, somehow, enhanced by the red wind breaker she was wearing.
We embraced, a friendly hug that was a prelude to a much greater adventure.
After the introduction was completed and the awkwardness of that first "meatspace" meeting was shaken I followed her to her apartment so that we could leave my car there. We went together to meet her friends.
For me it was an awkward evening. I have never been good with new people and I was much more interested in spending time with her to enhance the relationship we had already begun laying the foundation for.
After dinner, at which she had had a couple of drinks, she let me drive her baby home. This, I was assured, was not something she did lightly (later evidence fully verified that as I never drove that car again). She invited me inside and showed me her apartment, her dog named Spock, and her stuff. As an independent web designer she showed me her other baby, her computer, last. It was a marvel to behold. She rattled off the specifications and fired it up to show off the blue light that lit the interior while it was on.
I was lovestruck. I was luststruck. I had never experienced anything quite like what I was experiencing in that moment.
"I really want to kiss you" I said.
I don't remember the next few minutes; but, I do know that my plans to go stay with my brother that evening were canceled and I stayed with her.
Our relationship promised to be a thing of beauty that would complete both of our lives with a passion that I did not believe could exist. But that promise, and the person I used to be, were shattered by insanity; HER insanity. My body survived the experience but who I am today is very different from the man who met her on that August evening. The time we spent together destroyed that person, and consumed itself in the horror of what he endured.
There remain fragments of the time we spent together. These fragments are the worst of the stories that were burned into my brain. These fragments are the things I cannot forget; the scars that my resurrection into who I am today cannot leave behind. These fragments highly the sadness as much by their own stories as by the reality that they persist when tales of the good times are lost.
Part of the damage that was inflicted has forced these fragments to exist as independent entities. The continuum upon which they all hang has been shattered, along with the life that lived through that experience. These fragments remain as scattered memories. The me that I am now has tried, probably in vain, to order them in the sequence that they happened. The very reality of the situation has, likely, made an accurate ordering of events quite impossible; especially since some of the related components are interrupted by isolated events.
The distance between us limited our time together. Shortly after our meeting a routine began to emerge into our world. As five o'clock rolled into view on Fridays I departed my office and began the intellectually laborious journey southward. The vast stretches of highway became my familiar Friday evening companions and remained so for nearly ten months. Ten months of counting off the mile markers on the way to her apartment, through the dreary desertion of space between Bangor and Augusta and continuing through the ever-increasing landmarks from Augusta southward.
Each Sunday we debated my return and each Sunday the idea of staying together defeated the desire to sleep close to work. Each Monday the reverse trek was initiated; starting with the densely packed southern region of the state and progressing ever farther into the rural landscapes of central Maine. Each Monday morning I watched the Sun climb into the sky through my own dreary sleepless mind as I contemplated the upcoming day and my eventual return to the south on the following Friday. Each early morning commute I relished the idea of being with my love full time, without the need for the weekly pilgrimage. Each Monday morning I lamented the reality that was the ever-more-boring northward progression as things other than trees became less and less frequent the farther I went.
We had the opportunity, and the technology, to remain in contact nearly all day long. We had broken conversations over the computer while we both worked and we followed them up with the obligatory ultra-cute couples phone calls in the evenings. Aside from our being apart everything was perfect.
Each successive weekend strengthened our bond and forced our desire to spend the remainder of our lives together to grow stronger. She was perfect and, as far as I could tell, she felt that I was, too. Even her dog, whom had been judgmental of boyfriends in the past, approved of me.
This pattern continued, as I outlined before, for nearly ten months. In that time a future home for both of us was sought and purchased (more on that later) and I continued my relationship commuting. The fuel cost grew and the toll on my endurance was taxed. At one point, in an effort to alleviate some of my burden, she came to me rather than forcing me to join her at home. This effort; however, proved to be a singular event for a variety of reasons that varied in ultimate legitimacy and was never repeated.
The picture was black and white yet it conveyed everything it needed to. Beauty of features and solidity of stature. Long, flowing blonde hair and bright crimson lips. The black top, coupled with the jeweled pendant enhanced the fairness of her skin as it dangled just above a tasteful display of impressive cleavage. The photographer's technique had captured her beauty at its fullest and the lack of color only enhanced the reality of her appearance.
She was perfect. Gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, independent, and geeky.
The information on the screen was unbelievable.
What lonely man wouldn't click on the button to indicate interest in this woman?
The person I used to be had no idea that this would lead to his destruction.
After a lengthy online interaction we met for the first time on August 8th. I was doing my laundry and she outlined that I should come down and go out with her and her friends that evening. I did some quick mental mathematics and realized it was possible to complete my laundry and hit the road for the three-hour drive to arrive about the time she was heading out. So I did.
The drive was arduous with anticipation and yet, I don't remember any specific moment of it.
I remember speaking on the phone with her as I exited the highway and we crossed paths in the middle of downtown Saco. She turned around and I pulled over in front of a small brick building that was a dance school and studio. Her red RX7 pulled up to the curb and she stepped out, wearing shorts that showed her legs with the same gorgeous blonde hair reflecting the orange tinted street lights and the same crimson color to her lips that the her photo so clearly showed, despite the lack of coloring. All of this was, somehow, enhanced by the red wind breaker she was wearing.
We embraced, a friendly hug that was a prelude to a much greater adventure.
After the introduction was completed and the awkwardness of that first "meatspace" meeting was shaken I followed her to her apartment so that we could leave my car there. We went together to meet her friends.
For me it was an awkward evening. I have never been good with new people and I was much more interested in spending time with her to enhance the relationship we had already begun laying the foundation for.
After dinner, at which she had had a couple of drinks, she let me drive her baby home. This, I was assured, was not something she did lightly (later evidence fully verified that as I never drove that car again). She invited me inside and showed me her apartment, her dog named Spock, and her stuff. As an independent web designer she showed me her other baby, her computer, last. It was a marvel to behold. She rattled off the specifications and fired it up to show off the blue light that lit the interior while it was on.
I was lovestruck. I was luststruck. I had never experienced anything quite like what I was experiencing in that moment.
"I really want to kiss you" I said.
I don't remember the next few minutes; but, I do know that my plans to go stay with my brother that evening were canceled and I stayed with her.
Our relationship promised to be a thing of beauty that would complete both of our lives with a passion that I did not believe could exist. But that promise, and the person I used to be, were shattered by insanity; HER insanity. My body survived the experience but who I am today is very different from the man who met her on that August evening. The time we spent together destroyed that person, and consumed itself in the horror of what he endured.
There remain fragments of the time we spent together. These fragments are the worst of the stories that were burned into my brain. These fragments are the things I cannot forget; the scars that my resurrection into who I am today cannot leave behind. These fragments highly the sadness as much by their own stories as by the reality that they persist when tales of the good times are lost.
Part of the damage that was inflicted has forced these fragments to exist as independent entities. The continuum upon which they all hang has been shattered, along with the life that lived through that experience. These fragments remain as scattered memories. The me that I am now has tried, probably in vain, to order them in the sequence that they happened. The very reality of the situation has, likely, made an accurate ordering of events quite impossible; especially since some of the related components are interrupted by isolated events.
The distance between us limited our time together. Shortly after our meeting a routine began to emerge into our world. As five o'clock rolled into view on Fridays I departed my office and began the intellectually laborious journey southward. The vast stretches of highway became my familiar Friday evening companions and remained so for nearly ten months. Ten months of counting off the mile markers on the way to her apartment, through the dreary desertion of space between Bangor and Augusta and continuing through the ever-increasing landmarks from Augusta southward.
Each Sunday we debated my return and each Sunday the idea of staying together defeated the desire to sleep close to work. Each Monday the reverse trek was initiated; starting with the densely packed southern region of the state and progressing ever farther into the rural landscapes of central Maine. Each Monday morning I watched the Sun climb into the sky through my own dreary sleepless mind as I contemplated the upcoming day and my eventual return to the south on the following Friday. Each early morning commute I relished the idea of being with my love full time, without the need for the weekly pilgrimage. Each Monday morning I lamented the reality that was the ever-more-boring northward progression as things other than trees became less and less frequent the farther I went.
We had the opportunity, and the technology, to remain in contact nearly all day long. We had broken conversations over the computer while we both worked and we followed them up with the obligatory ultra-cute couples phone calls in the evenings. Aside from our being apart everything was perfect.
Each successive weekend strengthened our bond and forced our desire to spend the remainder of our lives together to grow stronger. She was perfect and, as far as I could tell, she felt that I was, too. Even her dog, whom had been judgmental of boyfriends in the past, approved of me.
This pattern continued, as I outlined before, for nearly ten months. In that time a future home for both of us was sought and purchased (more on that later) and I continued my relationship commuting. The fuel cost grew and the toll on my endurance was taxed. At one point, in an effort to alleviate some of my burden, she came to me rather than forcing me to join her at home. This effort; however, proved to be a singular event for a variety of reasons that varied in ultimate legitimacy and was never repeated.
Monday, July 21, 2014
A poem of mourning
The vessel has passed
The sea of humanity
Knows only the wake
Note: I wrote this the day I knew my dog's time had come and lost it among the drafts of works in progress. When I can remember the specific date of his departure from this world I will alter the publication date to match.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
The Cauldron
Note: this one is not, exactly, a story but it is a narrative form so it is labeled as such.
The surface is sometimes calm and placid but at others times it is a roiling mass of colors and viscosity churning into a vortex.
There are some things that can induce one behavior or another from the surface, but sometimes the contents act out as if of their own accord.
This level of independence makes it hard to predict what shape the fluidic surface will take at any given moment. It could be a green mass as smooth as polished granite or a black and oily whirlpool that threatens to pull anything into it. It could emit a warm and friendly glow with tantalizing and relaxing waves rippling the surface or it could be a cold and hard reflective surface of deep blue and silver; shunning any perception of what lies below.
The colors and densities change without pattern in an ever circulating representation of what it is to be human; what it is to feel; what it is to emote.
What it is to be.
The tempests sometimes bring great frustration and pain to any daring to brave the surface waters but they can also bring great rewards of contentment and peace.
Only the cauldron of one's heart knows the secrets of what it will pour onto its owner at any given moment.
The surface is sometimes calm and placid but at others times it is a roiling mass of colors and viscosity churning into a vortex.
There are some things that can induce one behavior or another from the surface, but sometimes the contents act out as if of their own accord.
This level of independence makes it hard to predict what shape the fluidic surface will take at any given moment. It could be a green mass as smooth as polished granite or a black and oily whirlpool that threatens to pull anything into it. It could emit a warm and friendly glow with tantalizing and relaxing waves rippling the surface or it could be a cold and hard reflective surface of deep blue and silver; shunning any perception of what lies below.
The colors and densities change without pattern in an ever circulating representation of what it is to be human; what it is to feel; what it is to emote.
What it is to be.
The tempests sometimes bring great frustration and pain to any daring to brave the surface waters but they can also bring great rewards of contentment and peace.
Only the cauldron of one's heart knows the secrets of what it will pour onto its owner at any given moment.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Weary Sadness
The sadness grows inside me; ever hungry. Ever devouring any hope of happiness.
The sadness grows. It is all consuming.
Only to be shadowed by the weariness that tires the core of my ancient bones and seeps forth from the center of my soul.
Sleep might be the answer, but it may also hold greater sorrow.
Sleep may be the answer, but waking might burn the mind.
The ultimate sleep might be the answer; but if it is - what is the question?
Sometimes life is hard.
Sometimes living is harder.
Sometimes knowing is harder still.
Always questioning: that is the hardest.
The sadness grows. It is all consuming.
Only to be shadowed by the weariness that tires the core of my ancient bones and seeps forth from the center of my soul.
Sleep might be the answer, but it may also hold greater sorrow.
Sleep may be the answer, but waking might burn the mind.
The ultimate sleep might be the answer; but if it is - what is the question?
Sometimes life is hard.
Sometimes living is harder.
Sometimes knowing is harder still.
Always questioning: that is the hardest.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Religion and the Love/Hate Emotion
A college friend of mine pointed out once that love and hate are not opposites. She pointed out that they are the same and that apathy is their opposite.
My experience since then has found this to have been, and to still be, profoundly true.
Both love and hate can drive a person insane. Both can induce irrationality in a person otherwise completely rational. Both can alter the courses of lives. Both can be powerful motivators.
Love and hate are the opposite faces of the same coin. The coin of passion.
The coin of passion is much like The Force in Star Wars. It has a light side and a dark side.
The light side is used construct, build and help while the dark side is used to destroy and aggregate power and for revenge.
Obviously the difference is the direction of the passion and not the passion itself.
Love is much like the Jedi path while hate is the path of the Sith.
The Star Wars analogy, of course, is not a new one for any fans of the series (nor people who have even heard of it) and I am not claiming any originality in making it.
What interests me more than the Star Wars analogy to love/hate is the realization that religion is just an application of this emotional coin. Religious fervor is much like the irrational motivations people have when they are deeply in love or when they are deeply motivated by hatred.
Those affected by such devotion to a religion have the same level of responses to their faith and the doctrines of it that people have toward the object of their love/hate.
When people let this emotion warp and twist their lives they turn into hate machines that are willing to apply that hate toward everything and anything that opposes their faith. They will kill. They will torture. They will maim. They will steal. They will do all of the evil and bad things that people do when they hate something.
When people have a religious indoctrination based on the emotionally less-mature path that is easier to manage through destruction they are a detriment to ALL of mankind. They become examples of why humanity shouldn't be allowed to survive and become examples of why religion is bad. They make me glad that I lack any and all faith in anything because I never want to experience the level of darkness that their faith brings into their heart. There are far too many people like this in the news because they can do such a disproportionate amount of damage to others and that is scary to everyone else.
Conversely, though, are the people who find religion enhances their lives in positive ways.
I have many friends of faith. Many friends whose faith enriches their lives. Many friends whose faith brings them peace and comfort. Many friends whose faith is absolute and drives them to love their fellow man with the same heart-wrenching level of compassion as they have for the people they know in person. Many people who make me want to be a better person. Many people whose faith in their deity makes me angry that the gift of faith was never bestowed on me. These people are some of the best people I know and their love and tolerance makes the world a better place. There people, when they make the news, generate heart-warming stories that restore a small portion of my humanity. Unfortunately we do not have enough examples and stories of people helping others. We don;t have these stories because they are boring. Fear sells because it is actionable. Happiness does not sell because it is not.
Religious faith, therefore, must be the same emotion.
I find this revelation interesting that religion is just an extension of the love/hate emotion.
Which leads me to wonder if people who lack emotion or have trouble parsing love or hate or whose love/hate baseline is set at a different "neutral" position have vastly different (this is a relative term) brain structures or chemistries in a certain structure of their brains.
Just another idle ponderance that infected my mind and would not leave until I wrote it down. Feel free to comment, discuss, add links to relevant scientific articles, etc.
My experience since then has found this to have been, and to still be, profoundly true.
Both love and hate can drive a person insane. Both can induce irrationality in a person otherwise completely rational. Both can alter the courses of lives. Both can be powerful motivators.
Love and hate are the opposite faces of the same coin. The coin of passion.
The coin of passion is much like The Force in Star Wars. It has a light side and a dark side.
The light side is used construct, build and help while the dark side is used to destroy and aggregate power and for revenge.
Obviously the difference is the direction of the passion and not the passion itself.
Love is much like the Jedi path while hate is the path of the Sith.
The Star Wars analogy, of course, is not a new one for any fans of the series (nor people who have even heard of it) and I am not claiming any originality in making it.
What interests me more than the Star Wars analogy to love/hate is the realization that religion is just an application of this emotional coin. Religious fervor is much like the irrational motivations people have when they are deeply in love or when they are deeply motivated by hatred.
Those affected by such devotion to a religion have the same level of responses to their faith and the doctrines of it that people have toward the object of their love/hate.
When people let this emotion warp and twist their lives they turn into hate machines that are willing to apply that hate toward everything and anything that opposes their faith. They will kill. They will torture. They will maim. They will steal. They will do all of the evil and bad things that people do when they hate something.
When people have a religious indoctrination based on the emotionally less-mature path that is easier to manage through destruction they are a detriment to ALL of mankind. They become examples of why humanity shouldn't be allowed to survive and become examples of why religion is bad. They make me glad that I lack any and all faith in anything because I never want to experience the level of darkness that their faith brings into their heart. There are far too many people like this in the news because they can do such a disproportionate amount of damage to others and that is scary to everyone else.
Conversely, though, are the people who find religion enhances their lives in positive ways.
I have many friends of faith. Many friends whose faith enriches their lives. Many friends whose faith brings them peace and comfort. Many friends whose faith is absolute and drives them to love their fellow man with the same heart-wrenching level of compassion as they have for the people they know in person. Many people who make me want to be a better person. Many people whose faith in their deity makes me angry that the gift of faith was never bestowed on me. These people are some of the best people I know and their love and tolerance makes the world a better place. There people, when they make the news, generate heart-warming stories that restore a small portion of my humanity. Unfortunately we do not have enough examples and stories of people helping others. We don;t have these stories because they are boring. Fear sells because it is actionable. Happiness does not sell because it is not.
Religious faith, therefore, must be the same emotion.
I find this revelation interesting that religion is just an extension of the love/hate emotion.
Which leads me to wonder if people who lack emotion or have trouble parsing love or hate or whose love/hate baseline is set at a different "neutral" position have vastly different (this is a relative term) brain structures or chemistries in a certain structure of their brains.
Just another idle ponderance that infected my mind and would not leave until I wrote it down. Feel free to comment, discuss, add links to relevant scientific articles, etc.
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