Do I even know what it is to be honest with myself when I put words to paper, without censoring my feelings later? What the hell is it that I fear, that I cannot say what’s going on in my head? Upsetting someone? Who? Anyone I would be confiding in will still love me either way. Do I just think that the words about my emotions aren’t good enough, so that my topics turn to something more general? It’s not like I’m in the pits of despair here, I just have some sort of aversion to talking about myself. Like, maybe I think I’ll become self-centered if I pour out what’s in my heart. But, that doesn’t make sense. So, the next step of the lifelong healing process that my soul needs to go through is just… beautiful catharsis.

Masochism is simply the inability to separate destruction from pain.

I’ve been feeling rather restless lately. Maybe it’s the winter, or maybe it’s just all the changes my brain has been going through. Has anyone else been feeling this, besides me? My thoughts are coming from all directions, but at the same time the RaeRae compendium of useless knowledge is starting to get some real-world application. Everything is knitting together and making for a more cohesive view of reality. A cohesive view of reality is important. Hell, any view of reality is important, and should be treasured.
Micah is half-off for Christmas break (meaning that one job is over, but the night job is on and seems far too easy now that he does it with a full nights sleep) and he’s been getting sort of obsessed with Norse mythology. He asked me for one of the crystals in my box and painted a rune on it. It looks pretty damn awesome, as the red of the paint kinda smeared, and it looks like he carved it into the stone with the blood of his enemies. I think I fell in love with the manliest geek ever. And it’s awesome.

It’s that one little word that gets thrown around a lot, and argued over, and covered over, and still strikes a chord of fear into the hearts of all those who have gone through it. Abuse. It usually has an adjective in front of it, to differentiate it from the others (physical, emotional, sexual, etc.) but it works the same way. In the mind of the abuser, it is a desperate clamoring for control. It is a wounded ego lashing out at someone or something that reminds the abuser of how helpless they feel. Its twisted cycle is almost sickeningly predictable, and pulls all those involved tighter and tighter into the vice of pain:
The abuser lulls the abusee into emotional attachment.
The abuser gets upset at the abusee and lashes out, but makes it seem as though the abusee is the one at fault.
The abuser tries to soothe things over by making promises, getting emotional.
The abuser waits until everything is calm again to abuse again.
The abusee makes excuses for the abuser’s behavior, and starts walking on egg shells, relinquishing control of the situation to the abuser.
The abuse happens more and more, and the abusee comes to expect it, as if its something they deserve.
The abuser isolates the abusee, making sure the abusee is even more helpless and therefore abuse-able.
The abusee gets a moment of clarity, but it is short lived either though bargaining or more abuse.
The cycle perpetuates itself until something permanently separates the abuser from the abusee.

I kept thinking about this all day, because, if you separate this one little word from this cycle, and call it what it really is, which is control, then there are some rather close-to-the-vest scenarios, from self-destruction to what’s going on in society today, where this little power struggle plays itself out. But, how do we break up with things that only want to hurt us, yet at the same time we rely upon?

As I write this, it is 12:12 eastern standard time in Indianapolis. I’m out of wine, and my bathroom smells suspiciously of cigarettes. I have a closet full of postcard sized specialized paper that absorbs the ink from my strange musings, but doesn’t rip when I want it to. Handfuls of it. All stolen out of the discard bin. The only things I hear are the deep, even breaths of my lover’s exhausted fitful sleep from working two jobs, and the rustle of late-night traffic.
I keep getting the feeling that the galaxies are all starting to connect for me, but I’m not seeing the fruits of that connection yet. I do, however, live in pretty frequent coincidences. The most prevalent thought in my head seems to be “Damn it, I was supposed to be right here, right now, taking this all in. How the hell did I get here?”. But I like that feeling. It’s that sense of overarching destiny that keeps things moving along.