Stinging Nettle

When one’s personality is likened to heroin, one begins to doubt their goodness.

Getting high makes you feel amazing. Your senses are heightened, your smile is wider, your thoughts are not completely your own. Music sounds like it was hand delivered from the angels for you solely to enjoy. Hunger escapes you but! even the simplest of cuisine becomes a proverbial party in your mouth.

Then you wake up & everything is that grey slate – work, gym, dinner, flossing, fake smiling.

Until you get your poison again.

After a few instalments of this process, you create an addiction. Getting high becomes the focus of your life. Your grey slate is unbearable. Without your narcotic, nothing feels right. You lose whatever zest you had for life. Priorities start and end with one & only one note:

Get fixed, stay fixed.

You will pretend like you are stronger than the drug. You will quit cold turkey. You will lie to people when you start using again. You will think of more creative ways to hide your activities.

You might make it through rehab, people will tell you how proud they are of you.

Still, every day you will think of how it felt to get high. You will only remember how brilliant you were while intoxicated. The nasty aspects of the drug will be forgotten.

The greyness in your life will bring you back, no matter how “good” people think you or your life is.

You know there is something better. The stars do not shine for you sober. Sexual encounters are merely hasty masturbation in someone else’s body. All music sounds like soulless top 40.

Now replace the drug for a person.

(Me, for example.)

This is not the first time I have heard this. I have had people walk away from me because their feelings for me scared them. I have been told that I am addicting. People get close to me and they want to consume me. They want to own me.

In the most possessive ways, these reasonable good-natured people can.

I was in a relationship with someone recently that ended very poorly. I was under the impression that he was not to be part of my life anymore – which pained me, but life goes on. Then he started to find ways to contact me. Little places he knew he could say “Hello!” without being detected.

I was happy to hear from him, of course. It was not my decision to cut off contact with him.

He asked me to keep it a secret. And I did.

The past months have been like this: pretending we do not know each other in public (he says he is being monitored 24 hours a day), deleting all proof of our communication (he does not want me to post anything that others will sort out is him) and lying to my friends on how things with him are.

I had to stop it. It was exhausting.

Then the frantic messages began …along with the angry glances when I would walk by him (that scream, “WHYAREYOUIGNORINGME??”). Then the whispering. I know the whispering was going on all along, I was just too enamoured to tune in properly to hear what it was saying.

I hear it loud and clear now. The whispering is soft shouting. It says, RUN.

I know things I wish I did not. I know the way he feels for me is not healthy. I try to be harsh so he will leave me be.

Harshness is not part of my personality so I fail. I refuse to acknowledge his existence. I know it is better for him that way.

Mostly I know if I speak to him, I will ask him about the whispers. The stories that have been playing as background noise the whole time. I suppose I know there is some truth to them.

I would like to stay as ignorant of this as possible.

… and it breaks my heart (again and again) to think that he would be that kind of man.

{with wings}

The crippled soul divides and the scars of years fly away
like confetti on the desert wind.
Phoenix rises – proud young wings reflecting amber.
Excited, and ready to search for his rose.
But the flight lasted so long
and those powerful wings grew weary as he padded through blind alleys,
swooped open-eyed into blind curves
and wasted night after lonely night trying to drink from a mirage.
But no distraction could decimate the totality of belief,
and his number came up just when the weight of his despair had him pinned to a rock;
when the feathers of his wings had been shed
and he stood naked before a dispassionate ocean of grey faces.
His precious twin. His rose.
Isolde dancing alone, then multiplying, inviting…so many many levels.
And the crippled soul unites and prepares for the long journey home