A Memoir - Summer of 2001
So far, I like my new job. I am an assistant. My new boss, my Network connection, has already told me that my belief system is bogus bullshit, that I am broken, that I am in denial and that, I don't know much. “UMMM something something, something. Narnia. Yackety yak. You are …. ”
It's great, I'm glad to be here, sitting on the floor in half lotus. I think it's about 74 degrees, a desert dreamer’s wish come true. I'm going home tonight to my condo, for one more night, I'm a big shot who sleeps in a condo, of all things.
All is well.
Codependent no more! It's getting easier to do for myself without asking permission. Learning to choose my experience. It’s tough to choose what you want when you never knew what you liked. When ugly was as regular as bitter with some cardboard flavors in between. Currently, discovering the nature of cardboard and how to avoid putting it into my mouth. Small bites, 100 chews.
I learned that Network is not bullshit energy work, or woo woo crapola. Then I listened for two hours to everyone talking about energy and wooo woo crapola and how to fix the broken heart, and how to stand up a be counted, and how to be your own person, and how to create boundaries, and how others are controlling me, and …. Crapola? So be it.
All is well.
I don't really need to talk or impose my labels on others, do I? They said so. They seem quite anxious to impose them on me, my wounds revealed to them; for them to pick away; pulling the scabs. I ate the scabs off my knees when I was six. Are they six? Maybe I enjoy watching them eat my scabs. Amusing. Is that passive aggressive of me? Or simple entertainment! You can clap now.
They tell their stories. We sit in quiet appreciation. A boring movie, not well written; expected. Being patient. Allowing process, as they say. I begin to share mine. “Stop. You are not doing it correctly. Do it this way.” I am quieted, then sedated with jargon; wrestled to the ground with new age aphorisms - mental karate. I succumb due to lack of practice in my psychospiritual dojo. They are only interested in my scabs.
What can I say? It's a Saturn/Pluto transit. “Submit, worm!” The boot is strong.
I am told, "Oh, we don't subscribe to stories around here.”
“I've been married twice before and now I want to get it right.” My statement is reject by the group. Evidently I can say it more "by the book” if only I would comply, bend the knee, submit my assignation.
I can't tell anyone because they don’t speak my language and so as usual, I will learn theirs and become their most enthusiastic cheerleader.
The greatest part about all this is that I know my role. Sidekick, second fiddle bright light for another. “I ride shotgun!”
All is well.
My best friend is a grouchy, demanding bitch. My second best friend is open and lovely. Pretty good odds, considering that I used to only choose totally mean-spirited people to be my friends. Maybe the bitchy one will go away when I stop trying to fix her. Am I trying to fix her? Yes. I see her negative parts and I point out the positive spin.
I am spider woman. Spinner of new thought forms. Sidecar Sally driving without a steering wheel. No brakes, no gas, just hopeful suggestions to the newest narcissist I am attempting to learn from. My foot pressing down on the floorboard to no effect, and yet the wheels spin and thread is made.
Evidently Highly Sensitive People learn about sovereignty from Narcissists. An unholy alliance.
I've been trying to spin her happy, but maybe she's my pet project because she has an inherent sweetness, and she is after all, a god-Ess. She called me this morning sounding angry with a very good excuse to be so, and a nice long list of problems, firm foundations for bitter sentiments. I was supposed to do something for her and did not do it yet. Once again, I have failed her. Mea Culpa.
You would think she'd be grateful to me for providing a perfect vehicle for her crunchy feelings, but oh no! My charms go unnoticed. I turn the invisible steering wheel in my mind and wonder when I can replace the missing spark plug in my jerked engine.
I now longer drink the proverbial kool-aid. Haven’t you heard that food coloring and refined sugar in water is a poor substitute for real happiness? I work my program and program my own work.
In preference for working, I climb trees and rob honey bees of their sweet liquor. Today my sidecar is lost in a ditch, a few miles back on a road to nowhere. I jumped out and ran on crisscross desert trails, through high forests until I fell into a mist, beside roaring tides.
All is well.