The Devil’s in the DNA: Chapter 4 – Psyche’s Enema
While showering off after writing that last post, I got to thinking about why I don’t say what I feel. Allow me to put a little caveat in there, if I had a nickel for every time someone has said to me, “Hey Dvine, why don’t you tell me how you really feel about that.” I’d be one rich bitch. It’s not as though I am incapable of formulating a strong opinion of something and expressing that opinion. On the contrary, those who know me would probably say that stating my opinions on all matters would be a strong suit of mine. I’m very good at debate. A master of deductive reasoning. I can express myself well, damnit! So what is my major malfunction?
I used the good soap in the shower hoping it would help clear my mind. Know what I saw? A friend of mine. I will call her Loo-Hoo. I had contacted her regarding my infertility issues because she had gone through it herself. She called me right after she read my message. She and I were fast friends for a long time. She even took me in and sheltered me when I had no place to go. We had sunrise coffee and chats almost every morning and I would greet her at the door when she came home from work with a dry martini with a twist. The two of us would sit in her back yard and talk of everything. As time passed, I moved away and our lives continued on. After I moved back to Texas we saw each other a time or two, but our lives are different and busy. She called me. After so long she called me. I know this might not seem like much, but you don’t know Loo-Hoo. She actually reminds me a bit of my Jungian analyst I had in San Diego. My analyst was very kind and very patient. She had this way of looking at me that let me know that she knew exactly what I was thinking, exactly what I was hiding, and that I had nothing to fear because she wasn’t going to do a thing to push me to reveal it. She would wait until I was ready and then she would listen. No judgment. Just listen. Loo-Hoo is like that. She has these piercing eyes that cut right through the crap. Just as my analyst did, I could tell that she could see something in there, lurking in the muck, but she wasn’t going to pry. She’d let me come to her. When someone looks at you like that it’s as if your psyche has been just given an enema. There is this urgent need to push it all out at once. To just spew all of your pent up indigestible bits all over them. I never do, though. Unless you give me five drinks and then I will. You won’t be able to understand me, but I’ll tell you all about it.
Suds and steam washing away the smell of panic I felt from the last post and holding Loo-Hoo’s face in my mind I wondered what she was doing there and what she had to do with me thinking about my defenses. Then it struck me. When she called me she immediately connected with me again and was instantly supportive and caring. She asked if my husband and I could come to her house for dinner and commiseration on Saturday. I said of course! I was so excited and happy to have someone to talk to who had been through this crap and had come out the other side. I went back to mindlessly working on my blog. That’s when the Code 12 hit. The urge to push it out. Splat! Onto the page it went. A big, dripping skid mark of my wretched deceit and defensiveness right there on the screen. What. THE hell. Just happened? Confused and filled with panic I hit the showers to scrub off the bits of enema blast that reeked suspiciously like fear of judgment. But Loo-Hoo would never judge me. No. No she wouldn’t. But she knew. OH FUCK SHE KNEW!! She had already been through all of this! I can’t hide it! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! I’m going to dinner at her house where she keeps those eyes and has that horrible way of being all loving and kind and wise and shit and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! It’s already out there. Well, hell. I’m actually going to have to be real. There’s no way around it. If I try to hide it behind some clever parlor trick of mine she’ll just look at me with those eyes all patience and understanding and I’ll be reduced to a quivering mass of psyche innards. What if I just play it straight? What if I just say what I feel and mean it? Would that be so horrible?
Which leads me back to my original question of – If I can clearly and logically state my opinion on anything and everything why do I rarely say what I am truly feeling? My parents. Think about it. My parents are uncensored. My mother disclose everything about her without you even asking and will throw in comments about your disappointing features while she’s at it. My father will give you the evil eye, call you an inbred idiot douche-bag and then he’ll slap you on the back, tell you a joke and invite you to join him for a drink. Living with them, learning from them, I adapted a different boundary system. I will tell you what I think you should hear or what I think you want to hear, but I’m not going to tell you much more than that. I censor EVERYTHING that comes out of me. Ahem. For the most part. Barring those hundreds of times I didn’t shut up before I said something stupid. But those situations were different. I was never talking about me.
I’m going to have to talk about me. Me.
This blog was written by the oh so talented Miss Emily.
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