Did I mention karmic patterns on any of these blogs yet? Well if not, I am going to be writing about mine in particular today. So, where to begin. After eighteen years, I can finally admit that I have some deeply embedded daddy issues that have governed my life and intimate relationships. Though extremely independent and mercurial by nature, I court codependent relationships of the most dysfunctional nature. I am exaggerating. Not the most, but they are pretty codependent; emotionally speaking. First off, I cannot be without male attention for more than a week, otherwise I begin to feel as if there is something void in me. Now when I was younger, there was a Lolita energy that I emitted that attracted older male attention. I was precocious, clever with words and consequently had these men wrapped around my adolescent finger, indulging them in their poetic projections but -unlike poor Lolita- never allowed them to get too close to me because secretly their attraction repulsed me. These men were old enough to be my father and yet they lusted after me. Perhaps it was my subconscious desire to seek revenge at my own father who neglected my mother and I, then later abandoned us before I even developed a memory to recall him by, though my cruelty may have been derived from another source of trauma altogether. In any case, I would string these men along, drawing from their desires and past anything notable for a good poem or pretext to a novel, then once I had enough, would abandon them in their fantasy world, alone and groping in the dark. I wouldn't say I broke any hearts, but I know it does hurt to open up to someone and have them rip the carpet from under you. Those drawn to me back then were not in their right minds to begin with. They were plagued in some way, and I played the therapist as I normally do to disturbed individuals. An archetype I am shedding and have no interest in playing out anymore. As I matured, I grew out of playing Lolita, finally altogether when I fell in love two and half years ago. Falling in love changes you. All those melodramatic poems don't do it justice. It is the simplicity of love that one remembers the most. A time of weightlessness, where everything - however fucked up - felt like it had been blessed. Good. You saw beauty in everything and thus did not feel the need to manipulate, play a part, deceive, lie or neglect. At least love did this for me. In those eighteen months, the love I bore transformed me. All of a sudden, the concept of flirting or playing games with someone seemed ridiculous. I began to become more sincere, more honest, and subsequently, more vulnerable. Playing a part, there is less risk than in being yourself. But what does that even mean? These days, I have no interest in even being "myself". I want to strip the concept of "Self" altogether and just Be. Here. Now. But let's rewind back to how and when I was conceived. My father, whom I have no memory of, I was told by all accounts, a charming man. Quiet, mysterious and highly charismatic. His head was in the clouds, so was my mothers - the romantic girl that she was - and that was where they met. But the gravity of Earth is a different place altogether. Their marriage was short lived and strained from the very beginning. It will never be a happy marriage when one loves the other significantly more, and it will certainly be a tragedy when that one is the woman. My young mother gave her all into the marriage while my young father kept her on the sidelines and indulged his friends and nightly outings. He was, for lack of a better word, a coward. And a disgrace. At least to me. Even as I write this, I feel so much disdain for the way he treated my mother. With neglect. Not with anger, or even possessiveness. With apathy. What poison, this indifference. Have you ever seen a flower wilt without sun or water? It shrivels up in the most heartbreaking way. It does not have a voice to cry out, or tears to shed. But even something as seemingly arbitrary as a simple flower, I wince when on its petals I witness neglect. So I was conceived as a ray of hope to save their failing marriage. Perhaps a baby will bring new life to something dying... perhaps. I have felt the burden of such subconscious responsibility my entire life. To be created with that intent, creates the karmic patterns of that soul's life journey. To make him love me. To save, to heal broken people. To soothe those in tears and hearts on fire. If only I could make my apathetic, emotionally unavailable father love me. The charming one. The one with the glimmer of familiarity that takes me back to my first memory. Yes, if only. |
1 Comment
Lucky
8/17/2014 10:25:42 pm
"Fear is better than apathy because fear makes us do something."
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