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Breathe.
She had to take a minute to align with the ocean boiling inside of her - or whatever - she had been moved by some artist and was weeping at being seen. More accurately, it was a discussion of an artist's work and the "you feel it too" camaraderie.
She hadn't told the tall one that the bad kisser had been Allen (her second red-head in the run). He meant more to her now because he had died after a heroin addiction that he had told her he was going to take up purposefully to be artistic. When she goes to Wilmington, there's an alley called Henderson, his last name. She always thinks of him and how they could really be real around each other. Like her sister falling in "love" with her second husband when he passed out in spaghetti on their first date.
It's all been laboriously pointed out and spread out on the floor before, but now she cares a little more specifically as it's now. This morning, she explored a bit into disorganized attachment which they say is just another term for emotional dysregulation disorder. Nonetheless, the phrase "these people wonder why anyone could ever love them really...." Even now, it kind of makes her weep.
"be sure to text me if you ever need any support. I know it will be hard to be with your mom and sister."
and why?
why is it hard.
Why does she sob when she really feels into the doing of it - the pain of the unresolved grief. Why did she still carry it? Why did she always carry it? Why can't you just get sober?
It embarrassed her greatly to be right back at the same gate but older and knocking again her head against the door for an eternity like that Peter cripaldi dr. who episode that creeped her out - and the concept that this has all gone on infinitely more than any of us could ever conceptualize.... but why.
and she had to fix that chip in her tooth.
The thing that killed her and confused her and drew her to the disorganized attachment label is the weirdness of it all - the first social laboratory - her family - was littered with danger and duplicity and grandmother respites. She feels so confused that in this current moment, men are the only humans whom she has ever really - dare she say - trusted. Her father was the most untrustworthy. Her stepfather became a source of fear. The only thing she can think is the brother. In the dangerous numb mother-ed family, he would pick up the little girl on his brief visits home and twirl her around and love her. It was fucking rare.
"you know, when your brother ran away the second time, he said he wanted to burn the house down and kill us all except you - he wanted to rescue you."
"please god. someone rescue me."
"you're so sensitive. that's your problem."
"look mom. I'm super sorry for existing. I know I've fucked it up. I know you would have done better, but can you love me anyway please... please.... before you go...before I go..."
"well, you'll have your sister after I'm gone."
She had blocked it out and considered it not that big of a deal So what, her sister was kind of a bitch to her. Looking back, she recognizes that her abused idolized sister both loved and hated her and taught her to be ... confused. What narcissi saw in mother Mary and sister Mary was "they are NOT happy. do NOT do ANYTHING they are doing." and then the aunt taking the career of 'trophy wife'. Those were her role models.
It's an old boring story. She ran from women into the arms of ... securely attached men at first. At first, narcissi picked really quality supply - loved sister-ed first sons of awesome mothers. (well, Kent - I might qualify you a bit). It embarrassed her that she got worse with age. The expensive famous astrologer had told her she was going to be a wise old woman. She was fucking waiting.
Now, she felt the fool all the time. The fool on the hill. The Grateful Dead skeleton thing waiting at the bus stop.
So, she researched how to fix herself. What kind of part she needed. The research suggests one must trust a human - learn to trust them - and then grow from that.
well, fuck. that's rather hard. They suggest a therapist.
She had had mark and chuck. Now she very much understood why she lost her mother fucking mind when chuck went out of her life. He was in many ways her lost mother. oy fucking vey.
And knowing this. What now? Who to trust? Who to trust? It makes her weep to realize where it comes from and even more to recognize it's still here after all the LIII.
so the men years. When would she trust a woman who was securely attached. Did she know one? It felt so repetitive.
Life.
the thread that connected her was a line she stole from someone else and paraphrased.... "when you hear/read/see art by someone and you don't feel so alone. in fact, you feel connected and seen."
a men
her fuck the patriarchy keychain was poorly made and the words had already faded off.
She would certainly try her best to fuck that patriarchy though....
and be wise.
and cry trying.
There was this dead psychologist - sue Johnson - who would tell her to
"change the music"
Once more with feeling.
she whispers the word "love" ... please please don't give up.
There had to be a correct song for that and it was not the demonic sobering one. she would welcome some new music for the first time in a long long long ...
there, there's your song....
"it's been a long long long time how could I ever have lost you...."
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