Month: January 2021

please wait

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I didn’t expect that there would be so much conflict from a menstrual cup.

The first time, it was just surprising. The resistance, the awkward fumbling fingers inside myself to get it adjusted. I spent the next few hours in concern, terrified to take it out, worried that a cup of blood might stir up that same dark surprise. But that process was relatively easy, and the second attempt to insert it went much better.

Okay, I thought. I’ve got the hang of this.

Unfortunately, every time since has gotten more and more difficult. I found myself going Far Far Away, into a distant point in the ceiling of my mind in order to be able to get through it. It has been a long time since I felt that kind of blank desperation, coupled with that very specific kind of pain.

I gathered a few tips online and thought, okay. I can figure this out. This is too great an invention for me to miss out on using it.

Unfortunately, even with assistance, it was too much, too difficult, too overwhelming. The pain, the resistance, the groping fingers, the blood. When my lungs began wildly clawing for air, making my chest heave, my brain begging, please please please wait wait wait waitwaitwait, I thought, “A tampon is fine for tonight.”

Quitting is not a thing I do.

While brushing my teeth a few moments later, I had to stop so I could lean with both hands bracing the edge of the sink, the whole world swirling around my head. I had to take deep breaths inthroughmynose outthroughmymouth for a full minute, leaning my head against something solid (was it the open door? was it the doorjamb? I can’t recall) until everything came back into focus.

Today, I realized I’d run out of tampons and if I truly didn’t want to leave the house, I’d have to put the cup back in. In spite of my deep breathing, my coaxing and cajoling, my whispered encouragement, I ended up with my cheek pressed against the bathroom wall, sobbing, as my fingers shoved and my mind screamed.

I got it in, yes, but at what cost?

It will get easier, a voice said softly.

What will get easier? I snapped. Raping myself? Great. Looking forward to it.

When the things that happened to you “never happened,” it’s too easy to pretend that none of it was real. I never had to clean up my own blood. I never had real broken bones. There were no itchy healing stitches. When there are no real living consequences to what has happened, did it actually happen?

I did not think that a menstrual cup would be the thing that would bring it all back, but here we are.

Because it’s more than just the pain, the struggle, the horrified way my mind immediately gasps, waitwait, it hurts wait please. It’s the way I catch flashes of things, new things, things I only remember as these moments are happening. Him leaning against my ear as my cheek presses into the wall. His vile, horrifying whispers.

It is one thing to be raped by a careless person, by a selfish person, by an abusive person. Hate fucked. Having your boundaries pushed out much further than you wanted. Falling into the mute “just get it over with” feeling that virtually every woman I’ve ever met has experienced. I don’t know that I have a single female friend who hasn’t been violated in one or all of these ways at some point in her life.

But to have someone experience genuine glee from violating you? To laugh at your sobs? To echo your wails? To play in your blood? That is truly a different kind of experience. Someone you loved so deeply, the first person in your life in so long that you finally completely trusted and let in, with a completely different level of intimacy than you’ve ever considered was possible… and he takes everything from you. With delight. With arousal.

It was a campaign of war, and it was highly successful. It was a tactic to make me weak, small, a slave, a prisoner. I can’t imagine how much his little flunkies have enjoyed this show. Watching someone like me beg for his affection, play puppy on a leash? A grateful outlet, begging to be plugged. Hilarious.

I could feel that energy around me in 2011 and 2012, after he was exiled. They would come in the night and pull on my toes, breathe on my face, poke my ribs. I’d have half-asleep nightmares of an old woman crouching next to my side of the bed, an inch from my face. Sometimes she would bite my nose clean off.

It was them laughing, taunting. Proud of themselves. Proud of him. Coming to peer and leer at my ruined beach house, to drink in the suffering and terror. We won, we won. The witch is dead.

I have had lives where people knelt at my fucking feet, do you understand? Everyone knows who the fuck I am. I don’t say that to brag. I say it as a statement of fact.

In fact, realizing this was a turning point for me in this life. In 2010, I had no self-esteem, no confidence, no ability to stand up for myself. It was seeing how these people looked at me (or more specifically, at Hermie) that made me wonder if I was wrong.

It’s also why Hermie is so cold-blooded about it all, I’m sure. First of all, she cannot allow anyone to see or know that any damage has been done. It is entirely on brand to shrug it off. Haven’t I also done that in this life? Look what happened today. Look at the invoice due on your denial.

But also, frighteningly enough, I wonder if she doesn’t care because she’s also been this person. How many people have I raped and murdered? How many faces have I laughed into as they screamed and begged for help?

I’m the most sober I’ve been in eight years, and to the surprise of no one, it turns out I was trying to numb my brain all along. Of course I would want to numb my brain from this.

I think about going to therapy and I laugh. I understand there are people out there who are likely spiritual therapists, who would be able to understand and believe me. It is such a hurdle to try to help people to understand I’m not delusional or a liar. But what am I supposed to say?

Some things you just have to carry. Once you get lost in the forest of terror, you never come back the same.

No one ever does.

onion skin

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I have had strange, fleeting thoughts lately.

Thoughts of the very first time I successfully meditated alone without getting any side-guidance through my ex.

For at least a month back in 2013, every single night, he had been reading instructions off of the Ouija board to me from “Alex.” Helping me lean into my intuition, showing me how to See.

I still think of that tiny hidden lake, deep in a forest, with a waterfall cascading at the edge. This was the place I had been going to to practice meditation via the board, before I even imagined (or discovered) a beach house.

Up until that moment, Alex himself had appeared as a fuzzy, out of focus image- like a faulty hologram, or a picture on an old television, back when staticky channels still existed. Just the night before, I’d finally been able to conjure his face on my own, and it was the greatest success I’d ever felt.

The waterfall scene was nothing more than the equivalent of a painted backdrop inside my mind, but it was still mine. I created it, totally alone.

And more than that, Alex was there waiting for me. I couldn’t hear him speak- it would be another year or so before that happened. But just to really see him standing there, to be able to believe and know for certain that I saw him, was monumental.

Alex and I sat side by side on the edge of the water for awhile, when I suddenly pushed him into the water. To see if I could. To see what would happen.

When he emerged from the surface, spluttering and shocked, I could see in his face that he was both surprised and impressed. Before I could say anything, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the water with him.

As we swam lazy circles around each other, there was a different look in his eyes. A smoldering desire that held me in his gaze like startled prey. Which, as we all know now, is exactly what I was.

If prey can be grateful at being devoured.

///

I have also been thinking of the time when Alex had been exposed and was on the worst part of his rampage, one that would last for weeks before he was finally captured. When I became the trap that finally tripped him up. 

I was like a ragdoll at the beach house during that time, being dragged there in my mind to be violently assaulted day after day after day. It could happen at any time, for any reason. For no reason.

My oldest friend, someone I had just met at that time, showed up to protect me.

“What is the purpose of these theatrics?” he asked, gesturing to Alex’s hand clamped around my upper arm, my entire spirit slumped in humiliation and defeat next to him. His sweeping arm widened to include the rough seas and furious skies, direct opposition to the normally idyllic scene.

“Oh I am so glad you are here to save the day!” Alex sneered rabidly, his eyes wild with fury.

“Isn’t he your boyfriend now?” he said to me, shaking me by the arm to bring me back out of my (his) trance. “Go on, then. Do what you do best.” With a wave of his hand, he ripped my dress completely off my body.

I stood there, helplessly fumbling with scraps, before I remembered I could create one just as easily as he had destroyed it.

My oldest friend’s gaze never left Alex’s face. “Is this how you treat people you claim to love?” His eyebrow arched in a way I would eventually come to loathe. “Impressive. Why don’t you let her go? If she is so enamored with you, surely there is no reason to hold her.”

His grip on my arm tightened, and he drew me closer to his thin frame. “Why don’t you do something about it? I would love to see that.”

“I think you know that I can.” My oldest friend’s voice was calm, but his amber eyes flared with golden flame. “I think you know what will happen if I do.”

Alex threw me to the ground as if I was a pair of uncomfortable shoes, and surged forward to bring his face into the face of someone I was now realizing he knew very well. They were nearly the same height, and their faces together had so much energy it must have been flammable.

“You want to make this about our shit now?” he hissed through his teeth.

That was the beginning.

///

I have been thinking about the time that I found the basement in the basement because of a nightmare I’d had. How I went there in meditation and found myself crammed inside a steamer trunk. Soaked in dried blood, covered in bruises, emaciated, filthy, matted. Naked. Screaming.

Please, please, she wept in a high, thin voice, her eyes not even able to see me. I’ll do anything I’ll do anything. Please please I can’t please don’t please

How my oldest friend showed up without me speaking his name, sweeping her up into a crisp white sheet, pulling her tiny body against his chest. The way his eyes flicked over to mine, searching my face briefly before taking the three of us away from there.

And then, maybe a year later, when it was he and I that were face to face.

“You are a whore,” he snarled in a voice I’d never heard before. “This is what you do. Another little project. And you don’t care about anybody but yourself, as always. Oh no, you claim that you love us, you really promise you do, but…” His mouth tasted lemon. “How can you? How can you love anyone but yourself and the power you hold over us?”

My mouth let out a string of horrible, vicious, crude obscenities. I wanted to be as foul, as disrespectful, as blasphemous as possible. It was all I could think to do- the rest of my entire soul felt like it was falling down, down, down into some kind of putrid abyss.

These days, I am starting to see he may be right.

We didn’t truly speak again for maybe four years. He was never far away, and as he promised me in 2010, if I ever called for him out of fear or desperation, he always showed up and was kind and respectful. But I’d fall asleep instantly, sucked into a charybdis of emptiness.

He couldn’t wait to get away from me.

///

I think about him as well. My biggest secret, the one I’ll probably never speak out loud. The first time I realized the truth from the way I caught him looking at me, when he didn’t think I could see.

Up until that point he had been another guardian, a point of counsel, and a source of extremely raw and brutal feedback. The kind of truth that cuts like a scalpel on your ego.

It is hard to reconcile that as well. Someone who should be a stable force, a truly exceptional example, suddenly becomes erratic, furious, demanding, desperate.

There is an intensity between us that feels like profound love and electric anger and a heavy, wistful melancholy. It is ancient. We have loved each other so many ways, and it has never been enough.

When he laughs, his head tips back and you can see all of his teeth. It feels like a rare jewel to see it- he is so serious, solemn, austere. To be able to give him joy, rest from his burden, feels like the greatest success one can achieve. But to be wholly seen by him feels like being stripped nude on livestream. Bleeding. Raw.

Whenever we have lives together, one of us gets murdered. Usually while the other watches. Our love is eternally doomed. It is searing with fire and soaked in blood. It is clandestine and forbidden.

I am capable of intimacy, I am certain.

I just have to find the ability. The soft, fleshy place I keep revealing to others, only to have them try to plunge their white hot brands into it.

I want to be loved and not possessed. Just once. Just once.

And so… we peel.

apple slice

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I’ve been lost in a fog of head, heart, soul sickness for the last day or so, so I decided to drive to the beach.

It was 42 degrees today, so needless to say, it was ill advised and an extremely short visit, but I needed to get out of the house for a bit. I needed to see my girl.

I know I’m not well when seeing the sea doesn’t even help. I know I’m not well when the only thing I can think as I watch the waves is, “There’s no way you could drown yourself in the winter. You’d never get past the breakers. You’re too weak.”

On the way home, I called out for a friend I only see when things are really bad. Usually, he comes to me, sitting on the edge of my bed as I sob myself to sleep, when I’m in the dark dark. He’s my often silent reminder that I don’t want to give up, not yet. Even if I can just make it one more day, it will be a win.

He’s also a blunt, sarcastic person, and I am used to jabbing, jeering jokes from him most of the time. This time, he seemed concerned as he appeared in my passenger seat.

“What’s going on?” he asked, searching my face. “Are you all right?” I felt him dip in and out. “No. You’re not.”

“I don’t know, man,” I sighed. “I …” One of my favorite things about talking in meditation is that we are able to speak in visuals and emotions, and I gave him a burst of what I’d been processing. “And I guess I’m just… like, not okay.”

“Of course you’re not okay,” he said. “Are you serious?”

“I mean, first of all, these horrible images I’ve been seeing recently. I don’t understand the purpose behind it, you know? Why do I have to keep looking at it?”

He nodded. “Listen, it’s horrible, and I get it. But do you understand that like… that really happened? And you’re allowed to feel terrible trauma and terror and disgust about it. I mean, I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. It’s not… insignificant, to say the absolute least. You cannot deny it. You cannot diminish it. Not if you ever want to move past it. And I know it’s horrible, but if you’re still seeing it, you’re not done with it.”

“So why is she still with him?” I cried desperately. “How can she be?”

His head tipped thoughtfully to one side. “I mean, she… doesn’t really give a fuck about anyone, including you.” Then he hesitated, combing back through his words. “No, that’s not right. She does care about people. Intensely. But no one can tell her a single damn thing. She does whatever she wants.” He gave me a sly side-eye. “Sound familiar?”

I laughed with concession. “But like… I just. I can’t get over it. To see that, and know it doesn’t matter to her?”

“To her, it’s theatre. You are ‘just’ a human. You’re like, a single apple slice, and she’s the other three-quarters of the fruit. Your suffering is not significant to the goal she’s trying to achieve. I mean… you’re not the only one who is confused by it, but think about how aggressive you are about your goals in this life. She is…” He smiled a little and tipped his head again. “She doesn’t fail. That’s for sure.”

I smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He sat quietly, letting me rummage through my thoughts before I finally said, “Okay but like, it is hard to not want to be here at all, but to also know that no one wants me Over There. It’s so fucked up to think that no one even wants me in Our Home. In the place we all belong. Like, I-“

“Who said that?”

“Everyone!” I cried. “Ya’ll are always saying, ‘Oh you don’t want to come here, there’s so much drama and everyone is so angry.'” I cut my eyes to the passenger seat, as if he was really sitting there. “You specifically have said that.”

He laughed a little. “Okay. That’s fair. But let me point out two things. One- and I know I’ve also said this to you as well, many times- you will be so angry at yourself if you quit. You came here for a reason, and everything you’re working on both there and here will be entirely disrupted if you opt out.

“Second, I want you to also fully recognize that you will be angry at others when you get here. I think people have you convinced that you’re about to be interrogated and vilified when you get here for all of your misdeeds, as if you’ve been suddenly revealed to be the murderer in a horror movie.”

He looked over at me, his blue eyes lit up with intensity. “Understand that your life has been fucking violated, Kristyn. You know so much more than you should know. You are involved in so much shit in this life that you shouldn’t even be aware of. It’s so fucked up, it’s so so fucked up.”

He reached across the center console to grab my knee as I drove. “Do not let anyone convince you that they are blameless in this scenario. No one is without fault. And you are absolutely welcome to come Home. So many of us cannot wait for you to be here, okay? Please do not feel like you would not be wanted.” He squeezed my knee. “I personally cannot wait to see you. Okay?”

My mouth pulled to one side, neither smile nor frown. “But it just seems like… like [my oldest friend] looks at me like I’m an addict. Like all I do is siphon from him.”

He laughed out loud now, clapping his hands together. “Oh, Kristyn. Do not for one second let him make you feel any kind of way about yourself or your decisions. Not now as Kristyn, and not as Hermie either. He has fucked up so much this time around with you, and so much of his behavior is a reflection of judgement on himself.”

“But he’s like… important. He is…”

“He’s a miserable do-gooder,” he sniped with a scowl. “I mean, you probably get to see a lighter, softer side than the rest of us, but mostly, he is… not fucking fun. At. All.”

Then he waved a hand as if swatting a fly, possibly hearing something I couldn’t. “Okay, that’s not necessarily fair either. He is very good. He does not break the rules. In fact, he only breaks them when it comes to you.” He shrugged a little. “And even then? When I say that he ‘fucked things up’ for you… even saying that is so funny really because it’s like, ‘He consensually and without manipulation slept with his oneuponawife, the person who has known him longest and loves him the most?’ That’s his scandal?

He leveled his gaze at me. “He was never inappropriate while you were married. You have a few moments a year when he comes to visit. And even that is too inappropriate for him.” He held up his hands, eyes wide. “The scandal of it all. And yet, for him? It is. It actually really is.”

His eyes twinkled a little. “She exposed them both. I know it was horrible for you, but man…” He shook his head with a small, smothered laugh. “She’s… she doesn’t fucking lose, man. She is a real power player. I know people telling you that she’s ruthless makes you cringe, but I think it’s impressive. She is relentless. She cannot be defeated.”

He shot me another side-eye. “And then on the other side of that, let’s be honest- being good is boring. No one wants to say it, but it is. It means always being The Example. It means being judged to the highest degree. It is absolutely the level anyone should want to attain, but the cost is enormous.”

He smiled a knowing smile, a commiserating smile. “And Alex is fun. Alex makes you feel like you’re smarter and cooler and braver than anyone in the Universe when you break rules with him. It’s an electric adventure. Everyone has fun with him.” He winced a little, the conciliatory way his (current and former) loved ones all share. “Until you don’t.”

I focused my gaze on the road. “So… what about me?”

He grinned slyly. “You’re like you are now, mostly. Sometimes you’re a fucking ton of fun to be with- trouble, mischief, danger, adventure, hysterical laughter. And sometimes… you’re not. Cold, dark, empty, sad, listless, broken, mean.” He shrugged a little. “But I like it. It’s what I appreciate about you. You have The Balance. Honesty is a deeply underestimated gift. You’re extremely fucking real. That’s a superpower.”

I dipped my head shyly, and another long pause passed between us.

“And… Jim?” I winced, afraid to know. “What is the deal with that?”

He took a long, slow breath in and released it. “Well. I mean. Here’s the thing- and you know this about yourself- she’s super secretive. She’s holding a lot of cards right now. But if you are asking if she loves him? Yes. Absolutely.”

I shrugged. “It just seems like… I dunno. Like everyone says she’s ‘ruthless’ and just… all this with Jim has been described to me as a kind of manipulation. I’m really worried I’m going to break his heart. I’m worried she doesn’t give a fuck about him.”

He smiled softly. “She does. I promise you, I know that for sure. And Jim knows what this is. He knows that there is a very real chance that you get here and go back to all this drama you three love so much.” His mouth twisted, and his eyes did one hard roll to the edge of his vision and back. “But it also doesn’t change how she feels about him, or how you feel about him. This is a forever bond. Please don’t continue to beat yourself up for this.”

He reached over again, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I know you have this idea that you are some kind of… villain, and I don’t know why you feel that way. You’re listening to the wrong people. You should listen to Jim.” He tipped his head again, this time with a wink. “And you should obviously listen to me.”

He leaned in a little. “Do you understand the level of success you have had in your life?” He gestured to the beach houses rushing by us. “I know you’re looking at this and thinking it is success, but are you willing to be the person you’d have to be to achieve this?”

“No.”

“No. So look at your life, Kristyn. You are powerful, confident, respected, loved.” He gave me another side-eye. “And I think if you’d ask the people who love you to express that to you, they would. Gladly. It’s okay to need to be loved. It’s okay to ask to be loved. It’s okay that when you’re thirsty, you ask to be watered.” He nudged me gently. “Right?”

I wavered, my entire body playfully cringing to one side. “Ehhhhhh…..”

Right.

We’re still learning.

trigger warning

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A few weeks ago or so, I saw a stream of images that were unbelievably violent. Disgusting. Art school concept horror shock value gore. After watching the images rotate three, four, five times, I realized that it was me.

…well. Whatever was left of me, at least.

I tried to dismiss it, but I spun straight into a raw panic attack. The style that had the instant potential to be a Big One- hyperventilation, a loss of vision and hearing, pounding pulse, pinhole narrow throat that cannot swallow. So afraid that I start to drool into my hands.

But I caught it and killed it. Honestly, with lies, the kinds of lies you sometimes have to speak to keep from getting caught in the maelstrom.

This isn’t real, I’m not really seeing this. This isn’t real, this never happened. This isn’t real, I don’t believe it.

About a week after I saw this mess, I went to meditation and it was more of the same. Old things, things I thought I’d finally gotten rid of, smeared all over the beach house in a way they’ve not been in almost a year. In a way I was sure I’d finally defeated. Absolutely vile, graphic in a way that feels excessive, violence to surreal, cartoonish levels. Putrid.

“What is this?” I shouted at my friends, who stood solemnly in the frame of the doorway. “I don’t fucking want to look at this shit anymore! Why do I have to keep seeing this?”

But I know why. I know why.

I haven’t had any sort of sexual contact with anyone in over two years, and I haven’t had a good, satisfying intimate interaction with a living person in almost five.

FIVE. YEARS.

And to be honest, mostly I am okay with that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with choosing that for myself, so long as it’s a choice and not a wound.

But it’s also not entirely true either. The previous post is a story about spending the night with someone I have loved for centuries, after all.

Part of the reason that I don’t seek out relationships with living people is because I have such secure, loving relationships with the dead. It is pretty ideal for me, if I’m being honest- they are only a shout of their name from coming to me. Sometimes that’s all I need. I cry out and they answer, and I instantly feel better.

When I try to apologize they say, “You’re never alone,” and they mean it. But I also still have my space, my time, my silence.

Even if it’s all a fantasy, a delusion, a sickness… is there anything wrong with it if it keeps me alive? And more than that- can it be wrong if it brings me comfort and joy?

How could I let someone “real” into this world? Can my life be full and empty at the same time? Is it wrong to be so fulfilled by doing so little? Is my kind of love enough?

Is any of this the same as having “real life” love? Can I accept real life love when I can barely sustain friendships without trying to sabotage or abandon them? Is opening up my entire heart and soul to someone really something that I want for myself? Is my solitude a product of grace or fear?

Every single person I have ever given my trust to in my life has betrayed me. Every single person I have offered something precious to has used it as a tool to violate me. It is hard to continue to give anything to people when it has only meant it will be a weapon held to your throat. Or. Worse.

Have you ever heard yourself choke on your own blood? Have you ever had to watch yourself gurgle for air from a face that barely exists?

And she’s still with him. Even right now. He’s the reason no one trusts her, me, her/me. I can’t understand any of this, and it’s me. For fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to do with that?

This week is the first time I have had more than two days off, totally alone. There is a lot I have to face. I am a little concerned at where I really am mentally and emotionally once my work persona melts away.

Last night, I had a dream that a pack of wild dogs were threatening me, but I wouldn’t back down.

One of them ran at me, then past me, leaping onto a recliner just behind me. As I walked carefully by it to get out of the room, terrified of being bitten, the dog flipped onto its back and gave me a big doggy smile.

Okay. I’m trying. I get it.

I’ll get there.

enabler

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Two nights ago, I spent the night with my oldest friend at the beach house. It was one of those times where I honestly wished I was able to write down our conversation in the moment, because I really got so much out of what we were talking about, and I only remember the things we discuss when I’m there. As soon as I am fully “awake” again, it all slips away.

The hardest lesson to learn in meditation- once you get past just learning how to go to the Silence and allow your thoughts become a stream- is how to accept visuals as they come to you. I’m not sure that everyone who is deep in the mystic world has the same elaborate second life that I do, but I don’t see why you couldn’t if you wanted to.

Then again, most people are not as actively pursued as I am. Most people do not have this much interference. Most people have dead lovers who stay dead, and don’t try to bleed into your current living life.

Anyway, he and I were in bed together and suddenly, I became Hermie (my Entire Self, the person I primarily present as on The Other Side). I think some part of our conversation triggered this transition, but I can’t recall what led up to it, except for the moment when I suddenly blended into her.

She’s beautiful like the freshly polished edge of a knife. Like the ripple of muscle across a panther’s back as it paces. Like the delicate fracture on the side of a building after an earthquake. Like the vivid depth inside the shade of newly spilled blood.

I am her, and I’m afraid of her.

He pulled back suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at the sudden appearance of her face. “What is this?”

She reached up to lay her hand on his cheek. “I just wanted to see you. I wanted to see how you looked at her. How you used to look at me.” Her thumb stroked across his cheek, her hand sliding around the back of his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.

He kissed her back for a moment, then pulled away again, his eyes scouring hers. “What’s going on, though? What did he do? Are you in trouble? Did something happen? What is…”

“No! It’s nothing,” she insisted, reaching up to pull him close again. “I just wanted to see you.” Her eyes burned into his for a heavy, desperate moment before she leaned her lips up to his again.

The moment their mouths even briefly brushed together, she started inexplicably sobbing. So did I, in fact. The weight of it was so abruptly enormous that I was crying before I even realized it. It was like a brief thunderstorm, bone deep sobs that shook my entire body for about thirty seconds, then it passed back to blue skies, pulling hands, an aching mouth.

Instead of being sympathetic, my oldest friend appeared even more suspicious. He stared at her, me, her/me with his mouth drawn in a mix of empathy and exhaustion. But he stopped asking questions, and it wasn’t much longer afterwards that I fell asleep wound tight around all my pillows, crushing them against me as if I might mine warmth from their centers.

Yesterday morning, especially after binging all of Euphoria, I realized that he looks at me like I’m an addict. Like he expects me to ask him for money. Sell him on a hustle. Weave him a desperate fable. The exhaustion of my constant, unpredictable swings of behavior was easily visible in his eyes.

But certainly, if I am an addict, he is my enabler. The quiet defeat when he looks at me sometimes tells me I have wrung him dry more than once. Everything about me is a strategic move, it seems, and lately I worry genuinely that I have never loved anyone since I’ve existed. Not the kind of love other people talk about.

I really worry about it a lot, actually.

Even in this life, loving me is like trying to hold smoke. Like trying to catch a feral cat. I’m not someone you go to for softness or gentle encouragement. In fact, as soon as I feel like someone cares about me, I get extremely uncomfortable, anxious, suffocated. My eyes start searching for the exit. Oh no, you don’t want this. No… really.

And the harder part is seeing in the eyes of people who have known me longest that I am not entirely wrong to feel that way.

My two favorite words that people often use to describe me are “honest” and “loyal.” That is an enormous compliment to me, but I am also aware, as I have been for many years, that honesty is not a trait that most people value, and loyalty isn’t really the same as love.

The kind of healing I need to do in this life is a sort of ancestral healing, in the sense of my soul being its own ancestor. I have layers of my own personal identity that I desperately need to heal, especially if I am serious about not coming back here again.

There is something about my Entire Self that is treacherous, manipulative, duplicitous, and I have to find a way to repair some of this damage. If I can. Which is why this entire lifetime has been about being made smaller, conquered, disrespected, discarded. Why what I’ve needed to learn is humility, grace, asking for help.

Well. …I’m still learning.