Monthly Archives: July 2016
I had the feeling last week, that I wanted to do the consulting work I was assigned to. I realized that at moments I was having fun doing the research. Perhaps, I thought, the anxiety is coming from getting to a place where I like it, where I am good at it, and I feel good at it. Perhaps I am worried about being happy because someone else who isn’t always wants a piece. It was bad, around Jessie, to enjoy things. To be just plain happy. I couldn’t have fun, silly reckless abandon fun, integrate joyfully into the world, because she felt she couldn’t. And she had me and kept me and it would be so terribly unfair if I was giddy…before she was.
what is tying me up?
what is unenabling me?
shame for needing care
shame for not being a
how does one come to feel excellent while still having the need to be cared for? While having needs…while being human?
It’s time to get raucous. Why has that word come to me 3 times in the last 24 hours? Raucous. It will seem that way to you. But that is because we don’t often look or listen or feel and also ask about the origins of what is being shown to us.
All I want to say and express is raucous to some (harsh, strident, grating, rowdy, disorderly…a little out of control). But there is pure sense beyond it. What is that sense I wonder…? I really don’t care if you can’t figure that out. If you can’t you can sit with the raucousness. If you actually wonder what sense if makes for me to get all raucous, you’re welcome to ask.
The truth about me — I have not expressed, reacted in my life. Early on I was scared away from doing so. I experienced terror as a result of showing my experience, showing my emotional reaction. I was scared away from having a perfectly natural…not just human response…but a response specific to me, specific to my make-up. Being alone and death were the threats that taught me to hide it all.
The gates would inevitably open though. And they are about to burst. Just writing these words is giving me nausea. I want to keep on typing words around it all. I want to keep on writing words all the way up to the gates…so close that I am tasting the ages old doors and the crap on them with my eyeballs. Part of me, even now, tells me I can be safe if I just-don’t-say it.
I am afraid to not ever be able to take back what I say when I say it. I am absolutely paralyzed by fear when I think of the punishment that could chase me when I say the words, when I show the anger the dissatisfaction.
Why would I be afraid that I won’t be able to take it back?
Because when you say what you really think in front of people who think you owe them, people how have built up such a city of avoidance between them and their own gates…they will punish you forever, because they think punishing YOU will get rid of THEIR pain.
Well, this is something that has occurred to me more than once as I found my gates again. As I found my way back.
But you know what? I thought that there was truth to the fact that I need to be punished for staving off danger. For revealing my boundaries. For showing someone I want them to stop hurting me. I thought something trumped that.
And again, you know what?
Fuck It. And Fuck You. And Fuck those people. And Fuck It All. I honestly don’t care if I sound disobedient, entitled, pissed off, disagreeable, defiant… (because I don’t need to care anymore) about how someone else is going to label it. How someone else is going to hurt me. They can’t fucking do it anymore. I don’t have to give any moments of thought to how selfish, violating, pricks deal with their own shit as a result of encountering mine. I have taken all of the responsibility in the world, including everybody else’s, for others’ reactions to me, for feelings others would have because of what I do or say or feel or let out, and even what I DIDNT do. And everyone can absolutely kiss my fucking ass. I mean all those who would blame me for ruining their day for doing nothing but expressing how I feel. Acting on how I feel. Being exactly who I am when I feel a certain way. Your uncooth shit is all yours. Go eat it, paint with it, shit on it, publish it, cry it out loud, I don’t give a fuck. Because whatever you do, whatever narrow-minded shit you decide to throw at me will bounce right back to you, Bigger, and Messier.
You know what I really think? – now that you know what to do with your shite reactions … I think that using a kid to make your life look worthy of something is a fucking asshole thing to do. I think that living your life with a kid as though the kid is a pet or a doll or a piece of baggage… an almost inanimate object is an asshole thing to do! I think that making your kid feel like shit because their feelings or reactions or bodily processes got in the way of your pathetic plans for your day or your life is an entirely fuckhead asshole thing to do. I think that intimidating your kid as a way to teach them how to ‘behave’ is a fucking numbskulled, asshole, manipulative,entirely abusive and cruel thing to do. I think that getting caught up in your own pissiness and fears and unfinished business enough to threaten your kid’s life (by cutting off their airway or using your adult strength to bruise and traumatize your kid’s little body) is one of the most insanely psychopathic and FuckHead, murderous, illegal, axe-worthy things that you could ever do in this universe. It’s like shooting a gun into the world when you are blind, deaf, and dumb. I think you are a complete cruel asshole fuckhead prick moron coward, shit-for-cells person. I think you are a complete fuckhead if you do all of these things and more and then completely lack the fucking microscopic shred of humanity that it takes to apologize with any dignity and honesty for doing those things, specifically those things (!), when you do decide that you think that maybe you might be able to kind of maybe apologize for “some things” you did. Oh, YOu “did some things you weren’t proud of”, eh!? I don’t give two or two thousand fucks for those pansy-ass coward words of bullshit. Want to learn what an apology is? No, it doesn’t sound like you do you Fucking Asshole.
I think that your bullshit formula of “moving on and forgetting the past” is a complete fucking cop-out…not only for the person you fucked with, but for you too. If you are too much of a fucking coward to even deal with your own shit with yourself, well you can go fuck yourself. I have no time, energy, or even favorable excretions for that. Show some fucking humanity and at least get in touch with the smallest inkling of a desire to clear your own self of the feelings that made you be such a fucked up, self-absorbed, terrorizing, abusive prickshithead in the first place. You know, you keep on spreading that shit around, even if you have it deeply buried in the bottom of the ‘secrets’ drawer in your mind, your memory, your emotional monsterass chest… And when I feel it, from you, our time will be completely limited, probably most often non-existent. Because there are billions of other molecules of air I can breath in billions of other places for billions of other seconds…and there, I will not have to be near that lying, sliminess you like to pretend that you are entitled to carry around because you are bigger or stronger than me.
And you know what? This is what hurt looks like, sounds like, when you pass it around. Especially when you pass it around to people like your kids who unwittingly accept it from you because they thought that the whole purpose of you, the whole purpose of that behavior was to take care of them, and teach them, and protect them, and affirm them. And you manipulate the situation by serving them shit, fear, a sense of self-worthlessness on a plate instead of honesty and self-reflection and tender caring, and tenderness allround.Fuck you, Fuckheads. Fuck – You.
Who the fuck teaches their own flesh and blood that love feels like Torture…
I Fucking dare you to do it again.
Three o’clock in the morning. I feel this second. and then next, I note the passing effect of each moment. Why all of that? Because I was born. It is a special type of preceding days from which derive the purpose of being born.
<<Since I have been in the world>> — this since seems to me to be charged with such a frightening significance that it becomes unbearable.
There exists an understanding that lifts weight and carries what we have done: for it, everything but itself is without basis. Pure to the point of abhorring all but the idea of the objective, it translates this extreme understanding according to the idea that committing or not committing an act is one in the same and what comes with extreme satisfaction also : that of being able to repeat, with each encounter, that no gesture we make requires us to adhere, that nothing is held up by a trace of substance, that <reality> is to come back out from the absurd. Such an understanding should be called posthumous, – it operates like the understood is living and not living, is and remembers being. <<It’s already from the past>> it says about everything it accomplishes, in the exact instant that it acts. which in that way is never destitute from the present.
No one is looking elsewhere because I am not enough.
The earth is holding me and paying attention to me; I am everything I need to be.
Earth is not looking elsewhere. I am the centre of its attention. Because I am a whole piece of the earth. I have already satisfied the criteria to be alive.
When people look at me, they are not looking for something. They are just looking at me. I am free of others’ needs to find whatever they are missing.
When people look to me to make something feel right or complete I turn and put my focus on what I am required to do to stay even with me.
My belief that others’ seeking elsewhere is a sign of my inadequacy is a lie. It is a lie. Others’ have not yet noticed what they have. THEY have not noticed that they have everything they need.
My job is to give them space to come to that realization for themselves.
And my job is to let go of the lie that…I cost them something. And to let go of the lie that I am not enough when I am around them. Let go of the lie that it is because of me that they do not feel satisfied, relaxed, content…
All I was good for was
Reading her mind
Being her support, her best friend, her grunt.)
(Pretending she cared for me well)
Nothing else about me really mattered
The scary men
They all excaped her.
Or cost her something… her attention.
But not washing dishes
She kept aside. My needs. I was human. A human child. I was living. I was breathing. I was feeling. I was choosing. I was looking. I was needing. I was hating. I was worrying. I was trying. I was hiding. I was crying. I was gauging. I was playing. I was riding my bike. I was seeing. I was learning. I was loving. I was getting excited about things. I was sad. I was discovering. I was sensing. Everything.
None of it could be important. None of it was included. None of it could be center.
Now, I am good for…knowing that.
I am good for coming to know that I have lived forever like my life is inconvenient. I have lived like my life must be on the outskirts of someone else’s life.
I have lived like who I am is secondary to why she ever kept me in the first place.
I have lived a lie about me. Many lies. Because I believe the lie she told herself. About me. From the very beginning.
I mean, the very beginning.
Now, what am I good for. If I discover that… What does that mean about this life I have lived?
It has been a waste? Because it has all been a lie. My own lie too. Because she told me to dance, so I danced. Like a stupid, stupid girl. Who thought she needed to dance for dinner. A fool.
Did I do anything at all for me? All this time. Did I do anything at all because it was what I was good for?
Trust me now? To know…What I am good for?
Trust me now to know. Just know.
I know I am good for guiding and caring and doing and understanding, and showing and teaching…
I have to know.
What I am good for.
It is the one thing that they love, admire, look tenderly upon. A child’s innocence. But I was hated for it. They hated me for it. So I became ashamed. Ashamed of the clearest, cleanest, most genuine part of me.
Don’t show awe. Don’t show no wherewithal. Don’t show that you don’t know. Don’t laugh and have fun with the simplest things.
Hide your learning process. Hide your personal process. Hide the 1000’s of genuine feeling expressions that you have every day.
Because they make you not good enough for it.
I am a woman now, and I plan to unearth my innocence, my true enjoyment of the silliest, simplest, most mundane things. And I am an adult now. So I am not squashable.
They can bite me.
- Experience: someone I allowed close to me showed 100% absence of consideration, meanness…and I was forced (felt forced) to swallow it. It has felt gross. Like poop inside me. A rotten wound. And when I have looked for the wound to make it stop, it floats away deeper, elsewhere, making me chase it, while I feel more an more sorry for myself and more and more unloved by that person.
- The Radiance In Me That Was Dimmed: Innocence. My beautiful rose-coloured glasses, splatted with mud, shit. I was assaulted for believing in good. I was insulted, ridiculed, humiliated. Made to feel lower than low.
- The Need I Had At That Moment: I needed a shield. A beautiful shield. I needed the belief, a pure, natural, unuprootable reality inside me, in my heart, in my body, in my tissues, that they were a joke, a test, a gaff, a show, that was going on in someone else’s theatre, not mine. I needed to know that I was in a safe place that no one could drag me out of, that no one could make me believe I had left, that no one could see and therefor no one could enter. I needed to believe who I was. And not be convinced otherwise.
- 3 Things I Do Today, or Tomorrow to Express My True Feminine Essence (Innocence): 1 – buy, wear an amazing dress 2 – get my hair done 3 – show my radiant innocence to the world.
As I sit here working on some archetyping for a consulting job, and I feel that sense of resistance to ‘success’, this question came to mind… If I am not enjoying myself doing this (which I can not say either way in the moment whether I am or not), what exactly do I enjoy myself doing enough to keep on doing it, indefinitely…?
If I have such a paralyzing fear of success, how will I enjoy doing anything I love as a job, ever?