The unmanageable lightness of my hydraulic steering wheel, operated by an unskilled drunk driver
I’m so hurt, yet my skin never seems to get thicker. It’s always at the verge of breaking, bleeding, and gutting me away at any sign of connection. I tried everything... but commitment. I was the drunk driver all along. I’m responsible for this hell. I’m the shitty dumb boss of me. Can’t even keep consistency of my metaphors. Should at least have bought insurance.
The bitter aftertaste of his presence and the sight of a rolling boulder
But I’m here now. In a big apartment as empty as my stomach, smelling of sandal wood and cigarette butts. He got it for me up until the 27th. He brough me here and got it for me. I blaze in awe when he’s around. My heart lights a fire and jumps in, to be served on a silver tray. He refuses it every time, as he oscillates from casual detachment to predacious eroticism.
That little bitch has a manipulative way of making things about himself. It doesn’t mean he is uncapable of genuine affection and support, but it’s clear when he taps in or out of his control freak set up. He often voices his approval or disapproval, likes or dislikes (usually unasked for) on certain things I do or say, as if they were aiming for his opinion rather than expressing my individuality. This shit can slowly strip anyone off their agency in a relationship. At the same time he wants to be the centre of his love interests' lives, he doesn’t like them becoming emotionally dependent on him, but if they become too independent, he feels insecure in his lack of power. He loves talking about him and the ladies. "I wished to share", but he always gets bored, annoyed or talks down at Pâmela when she decides to "share" about the gentlemen.
_ Yes. I can feel the wind coming from the west as I reach the peak.
A familiar lurking voice invades my brain
“Pâmela… Pâmela, Pâmela, Pâmela (with a party hat). You must respect his process! He doesn’t know what his new self wants. So be quiet and let him use you at will whenever he feels like it. Respect him, for he is the one sponsoring this big short.”
Sure. Let me be his training field and let’s call it a deeper kind of relationship. So light I can't even name it. What is the difference of that what we can't name and what we can nott properly address?
I get it.
Playing the victim is always the easy way out. But no. Not anymore. You got this Pâmela. Put on your prescription glasses and froun at the air.
He is insecure and traumatized - who knows for how long. Dark feelings leaping out unannounced, onto the blinding spotlight of consciousness, living him bare skinned as the little sticky frog he buried underneath his big-cock-pissing-cash-alpha-king persona.
Please, tell me: how could I not be touched by his own realizations when they meet at the corner of my own?
The material and immaterial needs. The complementary nature of unfathomed ontology. The destructive power of twin flames needed to bring the sentimental old structures down at once, to give space for new vital foundations.
The pain is almost unbearable because it shows exactly where we are resisting change. His process complements mine. I need to learn to be responsible for my body. He needs to be responsible for his soul.
He lacks where I bleed, he bleeds where I lack.
Now I understand why people like us never stay together. The boulder is always doomed to fall once it reaches the peak. It’s not supposed to stop. Ever. But my part of the deal is clear, written on my underwear. I have thick skull, I’m a big romantic sucker for life. I can’t be caught up in the tangle of his process. I can’t let him define who I am and how I am.
I don’t want to distance myself, nor force an inconsistency to play along his hard-wired power dynamics. I must remain strong where I know I am strong instead of blaming him for not having a hammer, when I know damn well I am the one with the hammer, and he is the one with the nail!
I want us to be each other’s safe harbours, and for that, I must take responsibility to define who I am, instead of waiting for his behaviour to dictate my reactions. I must learn to set clear boundaries without fearing rejection if I want respect. He must learn to be comfortable with boundaries without feeling like they are a sign of rejection if he wants to work on his anal-retentive need for control.
I must be what I must be so that this mind-boggling cathartic interception is milked down to its full potential, without consuming us in self-reference, uncertainties, unspoken words, and bittersweet encounters that echo goodbyes louder than hellos.
For it to be light (or bearable), we must accept what it is: tough love; ugly love; 'looking deep in the eyes of the fire breathing beasts within ourselves' love... But it is love. And it doesn't mean we have to be toguether 'this or that way' to honor it, we just have to embrace it and fight along with it, not against it! For this love is not the type of love that brings dead flowers in a water vase. This love aims at death and destruction! But it kills the bad weeds we've mistaken for flowers for so long, so real ones can thrive on their own. Flowers we didn't even know could grow from us.
...
But that's just me. That's my narrative.
Suddenly I feel like hell has been misunderstood for way too long.
Suddenly I feel peace again.
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