The Call

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My past has always been my Past and Present (combined). I’ve never been released from it.  I always thought that I dealt with my pain and abuse in a way that kept me comfortable and sane.  I wrote about it.  To me, it was my way of remembering, confronting, and fighting. With disgust and angst I bashed and battered all the wrong doing to a pulp. Apparently, I thought that I could beat the trauma away, even though it never occurred to me that (IT) kept coming back.  My writing seemed to get more and more distressed.  So much so, that I recently was forced to stop. First, I thought it was just “Writers Block” or me just being too busy.  Then, as the days turned to weeks I began to realize that something else was stopping me from writing.

For the past couple of months, something has called out to me. Something has brought my (past) outright and in my face. Lost letters suddenly appearing in-between the pages of a forgotten journal.  The review of an old manuscript that brought up “old” questions. Strange dreams and even stranger phone calls. New meetings, new people, new advice and viewpoints, and new lessons.

Whatever it was that was beckoning me, demanded my attention. For days, I began reading me.  I read through over 10 complete journals. I read my scribble on loose paper tucked away in drawers. I went through my websites, posts and drafts. My one liners, poetry, and short stories. My rambles, photographs, and even artwork.

What I saw was painfully heart-breaking and tearful. There was a constant, resounding, wailing cry in my writing. I found out was that (I) was sad, angry,  hurt, and bitter. Yet, convincingly content with my feelings. I realized that I  had protected hate within me. Hate became my friend and confidant. Hate was my defender yet my baby.  I even gave it a name (The Jackal) which will be premiering in short-story form hopefully in a couple of days. I became so crafty with my defensive techniques that I honestly believed that I had to nurture my hate to be a complete and whole person.

I’ve always spoke openly about my duality, my personalities (not clinical), my day and night. It has never been a secret about how my life transitions and slips in-between the good and the bad. Actually, I’ve somewhat embraced the differences because I believed that it made me more of an interesting person. But, most importantly this beloved hate of mine, does something simply intriguing to my writing. My hate has given to what I love the most (my work) an undeniable twist.  Therefore, believe me when I say that I have more than a bit of fear now. I’m petrified about what this fast approaching (change) may do to me and my ability to write. Which could be why I’ve ignored (it) for so long.

But, the CALL. This Call wouldn’t wait any longer. In a sense, the Mirror that I had eyed myself in (my Bipolar Mirror/Bipolar Mirror Skits) suddenly crashed and a new one appeared.  This other mirror had been hidden behind the first mirror.  Imagine me.  Imagine this. I freaked out!  WTH! Here, I thought my dress was already hiked and panties proudly displayed. Only to find out that there are ruffles, and layers upon ruffles, slips and petticoats, garters and stockings, layers upon layers before you/I can get to the goodies.

I’ve come face to face with the fact that I have been a hypocrite. Pointing fingers at others and their mess or lack of, just to make “My Mess” more acceptable. Holding on to a dreadful past and saying I’m moving forward because I’m confronting it and knowing with all my soul that I’m lying to myself and everyone else who loves me. I haven’t confronted anything. Because if I truly had, there would be no need nor want to hold on to it. It doesn’t make sense and hasn’t for years.  I’ve written about it often and shamelessly.

The Box  “I know that I am fragile, a bit damaged, cunningly beastly…. but you don’t…You can’t see it. You won’t be able to recognize it, even if you did… by chance… have one unspeakable moment to peer into me…It’s too ghastly and lurid for you to comprehend.

You are too perfect, so perfect to ever know evil; even when your holding it in your hands.

So, put me back… in the box….quick.

Continuum  …”Itching.. I scratch holes in my skin..
twisting and restless..I pick through my flesh
Anxiously, I scrape; (to get the bad out)
but the drips they suckle

Instead, of watching them go hungry..I feed them
Lest, they thirst..how will I survive.”

I’ve held on to Hate but claimed I wanted Love.  Hate monopolized so much of me that Love would never be able to fit. My life has been a big contradiction and it’s no wonder why I’ve been so confused.

I talk about the Love Movement so much, and how it is fundamental in anything and everything. Yet, I casually brush it away every time it lands on my shoulder.

“The Call” is LOVE.  Love called out to me..and I listened. Not just physically. My soul listened. I heard and felt the sound, clear. Love for me. Love just for me. Not given to me because it’s meant for me to share. I’ve done that. I’ve always given all the love I could hustle up to everyone else. On the surface, that’s what kept me going for all this time. Constantly passing. Passing it on, from hand to hand, project to project, charity to charity. Passing along and making others happy, kept me happy. Only because I felt that it would be selfish and futile to keep some for myself.  My hate and mess could never be conquered; so why bother. I convinced myself that if I ever kept love for myself that it would be “Thievery”. It’s stealing if you take something that you were never meant to have. Giving it all up was the right thing to do.

This time, The Universe,  called out to me. For me to hold on to, for me to keep, for me to heal away the hate; the hate that I thought kept me safe.  LOVE gently and tenderly shooed hate away.  Now, I understand that Love is all I need.  Love without acceptance. I don’t have to welcome the bad as apart of me, because it was bad that was inflicted on to me. I have never been forced to commit. I chose to commit to my hate out of fear. Now, I release it out of love. True love. Love for what brought me here (at this place) and in this state of mind.  Love for the Woman that I am TODAY. But, also love for my past and the girl who was left behind.  Love will tell my story and only with the hopes of retrieving more love…will be my motivation to write it.

Besides, I’ve tried Hate for so long, wouldn’t it be just as sensible to try Love?

My personal affirmations:

Love is my eyes and ears to ward against Hate.. if Hate should ever try to claim another mirror.

I can see myself clearly and without blemish only through the love-filled eyes of the Universe…(I see me just as I am seen)

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