I.O. Kirkwood

Fury + Fear = General Anxiety Disorder?

My Fury embodies the energy of Kali: Goddess of Rage and Resistance.

Fury is what I feel when I’m helpless. Plus fear is what I feel when my amygdala kicks in with the fight-or-flight reaction (FFR) and I can’t make it stop. Equals General Anxiety Disorder.

Looks pretty simple, but it isn’t. If I broke into rages instead of a panic attack, then my fury would be diagnosed and treated. The anxiety expressed in those rages would not be addressed. If I have panic attacks instead, because I’ve been victimized one too many times, only the anxiety would be treated.

Therapist: What are you afraid of?
Me: I don’t know. I’m safe, there is nothing to fear.
T: Then why do you think you have panic attacks?
M: Because that was the only way I could express my fury.

It leaked out of me 24/7. How do you treat that kind of fury? The helpless fury that must find an outlet or I’ll explode.

Most therapists are at a loss of how to treat fury-induced anxiety. They don’t consider the other emotions that are tightly woven into the panic response.

Especially for women. Women cry when they are frustrated and feel helpless. This feeds the angry fire.

I’ve learned to embrace my fury. I treat her like a long, lost child who has grown to a strong, even vicious woman. Anger is so destructive when it isn’t given a proper outlet.

For those of you with imagination, anthropomorphize the fury. What does the fury look like? What gender? What species? Build up this image in your mind.
When you know what your fury looks like, embrace it. Tell it you love it and that it is a part of the collective of you. You might have to do this a number of times before Fury trusts you enough to listen.

Once the Fury relaxes enough to have a conversation, you can hit these bullet points:
• I love you as a natural part of who I am as a person.
• I’ve neglected you and I’m sorry for that.
• I understand why you have sabotaged my efforts in the past.
• To show you how sorry I am, I’m asking you to turn your attention to what hinders us.
• Your destructive nature is necessary to sift the wheat from the chaff.
• Let us work together as a team to overcome any obstacles that come our way.

You may have to have this conversation with Fury a few times before it takes, but it will take. Fury will settle into your unconscious mind, where it has always resided, but now Fury has a new directive and will fulfill your request with a focus that is monumental in proportion.

After I did this, my whole life changed. The decisions I made when Fury was not acknowledged were cut and burned. Some of those decisions were salted as well. Fury doesn’t play.

Another role Fury can take is as a defender of the child you were, the child you must raise. This is anxiety. This is helplessness. Have Fury protect and care for this child. Fury was given to us for this purpose.

Many call Fury the Shadow, but this is only true if you deny its existence. Otherwise, it becomes a tool of the heart and mind. You’ll make better decisions. Toxic people will shed from your life. This will be true even if you have a mental illness. I think one of the reasons I survived so long with the illness was because I acknowledged all the icky parts of myself. Just know that Fury is the biggest “shadow” of them all and must be addressed first.

I am not a licensed therapist. I make no claims to having any experience other than my own. If the above practice resonates with you, you’ll have success. If it doesn’t I recommend that you not continue the matter and seek professional help.

Either way, if you are seeing a therapist, discuss the ramifications of a guided meditation. Remember that you are paying the therapist for their expertise and that you are the boss. You are the owner of all the feelings inside of you. If your therapist isn’t open to working with you on anger issues or just recommends prescriptions to the psychiatrist to deal with the anxiety, it’s time to find a new therapist.

Take charge of your journey to wellness. You are mighty, not helpless. Let your Fury become your guardian. Fury will tell you when something isn’t right. Fury will protect you.

That’s Not How Feminism Works, Sweetheart

I know you feel men and women should at least be equal, right? You’re very vocal about this, but I’ve seen you use your feminine charms to crush a besotted male. I’ve seen you order men around because you know they want to get between your thighs and that you have agency of yourself so he’s fair for a game of deceit and would be a monster if he complained.

You’re also very vocal about how feminist and vegan and superior you are to the “baser” humans. Such as men, people who eat meat, and those who haven’t had the same privilege as you.

You say you’re feminist but you don’t represent my aunt, my mother, or me. You have suffered but the reason you are able to make such an outcry over your suffering is because my aunt, my mother, and me have fought for your right to scream your indignation and be heard.

The kind of behavior I describe above is a result of immaturity and not having the experience to see beyond your adolescent world of pure ideals. You haven’t done the hard part of living yet.

Let’s take an example (or two):

You can’t be vegan if you eat dairy, fauna, or marine flesh of any sort because that’s not how plant-based diets work. You don’t get to wear the flashing badge if you “cheat” with some ice cream once in a while.

You can’t claim to be a feminist if you use sex as a weapon because that’s not how equality works. You don’t get to wear the flashing badge if you use biology in that manner.

This is not what feminism is about.

Feminism is built on a respect for all people. You can’t claim superiority because you don’t harm animals but you do manipulate people with the intention of harming their emotional being. People are animals too.

Does masculinity need an overhaul? Fuck yeah. The Y chromosome is still dizzy from the abrupt changes in our culture. They haven’t had time to adjust to their demotion from “kings” to mere humans. But most of them are trying their best.

It would be helpful if you didn’t go around calling people names. It would be prudent not to willfully provoke an already outraged demographic with name calling and hypocrisy. It would be in your best interest to not obnoxiously present yourself as an easy target to those who want to discredit the feminist platform.

I do not suggest remaining silent because that isn’t an authentic state of being. I do encourage you to not give your power away to others. I do hope you believe in your self. I want to see women work together instead of competing for the most alpha male. But it isn’t just for women that feminists marched.

We also marched against the toxic masculinity that continues to destroy the fabric of our society. Complex human beings have been reduced to caricatures on both sides of the line drawn in the sand.

We marched to protect our children from war and overwork in the factories. We marched so that men were allowed to feel and express emotion without being labeled. Unless the label was human.

We’ve all been poisoned by American mores about gender roles and the idea that skin color determines your worth. America has had its pass that is granted to adolescents as they explore the world around them. It’s time for America to grow up and end the hypocrisy.

Authenticity is found in honesty to yourself and others. It is found in discovering that we are all one and to hurt one person is to hurt yourself. Eventually, this compassion will extend itself to all the creatures of this world.

And you, in your ignorance, have weaponized the very thing that subjugated all other women in ages past and yet advertise yourself as superior to others.

That’s not how this works. That’s not how this works at all.

Toddlers: How Mine Survived

Toddlers

Raising children is a fine line between harnessing demons and treating them as humans. It’s a difficult job. I’m so glad I’m done.

See, I despise toddlers. I despised my own and I despise other people’s toddlers. Even when toddlers do the cutest things, more often than not, I’ve had to wrestle with them the way I wrestled with my own inner demons. Though I haven’t developed a taste for wine, I understand why Moms need the tonic.

Here is an interesting article that may throw Moms of Toddlers a lifeline.

I like infants. They can’t get away from me and they can’t say “no.” I love to hold them and soothe them and kiss their soft little faces. I miss that.

But I don’t miss the “Terrible Twos” or the “Fighting Fours.” I don’t miss changing diapers or potty training. I don’t miss the biting, slapping, and kicking. I don’t miss the calls from the daycare teacher about how my child went “thug” for no particular reason. Or broke an arm in an attempt to fly from the top of a jungle gym. Or ate something, like trash. Or threw up everywhere.

I have lots of war stories. Lots.

I also don’t miss the sass. I trained that shit right out of my children, but it was a hard road. Corner time was a common event and the “Ritual of the Spoon” was applied, though sparingly. My oldest still loses his keys, but not to my house.

Each toddler was handed over to my now ex-husband. He loves toddlers. Unless they are doing something from the above two paragraphs. *sigh* I always played “bad cop.” But the child had to be completely out of hand.

My ex and I were pleased about the infant-toddler-adolescent arrangement.

Once they exit the toddler years, about ten or eleven. No, seriously, the baby doctors have this all wrong. About ten or eleven, then I like the child again. They’re funny and full of strangely accurate observations. Everything is interesting to them.

At this time, I became the warrior mother. Navigating them through middle school and high school was very rewarding, even though both were dismal students.

I also taught them the art of critical thinking. My children read and absorb information even as adults. My heart swells when one of my sons argues with me about the validity of world events and societal practices. I love it when they have their own opinions based on their own experiences and research.

I don’t have my hand up their asses so they parrot what I or society says.

It takes a community to raise a child. I believe that because otherwise, both of my children would be scarred for life. I didn’t inflict myself on my toddlers, even as ill as I was, but I could also hand them over to those who had no children or had a child who needed new friends.

And now I reap the benefits. My “bad cop” turned into bad-ass-defender of my children’s autonomy and safety. Both report that they feel loved and liked by me, that they always have.

So yeah, I despised my toddlers and I despise yours. Though I loved and continue to love my children, toddlers are savages. But mine survived and most likely yours will too if they don’t dance in the middle of a busy street because you had to go the bathroom and he escaped his play pen and crawled backward down the stairs at 10 months.

I’m not sure I have recovered from the “Dancing In the Streets” saga. I have a heart arrhythmia now.

Old Lady Badges

As I get older, I realize that my mother was an old lady well before her body had caught up. I don’t know if it’s my medication or a strict code of courtesy that my mother had passed to me when she died, but I have begun to collect my Old Lady Badges.

What are Old Lady Badges? They are scenarios in which you no longer give a fuck and speak your mind. The Old Lady Badges I have collected so far are as follows:

Chastising a young person in a public forum, a child who is not my own, for taking something for granted.
Calling the manager to discuss the behavior of an employee while my head bobbles with fury.
Sending back a dish of food, dammit, because I’m paying for a pleasant experience, not the chef’s incompetence.
Spoiling a little dog to death.

I haven’t done number 3 or 4 yet, but I’m sure 3 will happen. Not so sure about 4 but if I could have a pit bull-corgi mix, that would send me over the moon. We’ll see.

I’m sure there are other badges that will surprise the hell out of me and might depress me:

Talking to strangers because I’m lonely.
Crying in the middle of the aisle in a store because I can’t remember what I want.
Eating cat food because I have 17 of the furry bastards and can’t afford groceries.
Going to a local soup-kitchen because cat food isn’t cutting it.
Feeding pigeons in a park.
Wearing clashing shades of purple and orthopedic Doc Martins.
Saying out loud what everyone is thinking but won’t out of courtesy.
Losing my mind—completely.
Muttering about how kids these days don’t know the meaning of customer service.
Taking public transportation because I forget my destination, or where I am, and panic.
Talking about days gone by to my grandchildren.
Reading the obituaries to see which of my high school and college acquaintances I’ve outlived.
Buy a house that has everything I need on one floor. Everything.
Having a doctor for each part of my body.
Planning my life around doctor appointments.
Playing pinochle at the senior center.

I’m also sure there are badges I don’t know about. I hope I don’t have to experience most of these. I may have earned number 6 already. I’m not known for discretion among my friends and family, but I think they love me for that quality.

Number 7 is a frightening badge to earn. For number 8, I don’t mutter. I speak very clearly and succinctly about that topic. Number 11 looks very interesting and I may do it just to earn the badge.

Though I write this with a dash of humor, it’s truly a morbid sense of what’s to come. I’ve learned about a few of these from my mother and father. I already need bifocals so that will be number 17.

These are very real scenarios that senior citizens experience. Overlook these inconveniences. The “elderly” are full of knowledge and experience. They also have wicked senses of humor. Listen to them. They are not invisible.

The Release of Death

I can only speak of my own experience now that someone with enormous influence over my life has died. I could write about the horrors of those last two weeks or how I cried when I made one of the most harrowing decisions of my life.

Instead, I’m going to write about the last two years since the death.

I had a love-hate relationship with my mother. It was a two-way cycle of yelling for most of my life based on misunderstandings that can only arise from two incompatible perspectives violently clashing. She believed that everyone, including myself, lied to get attention. I believed that honesty was the best policy, sometimes to my detriment.

My mother had Bipolar II with a co-morbidity of closet narcissism. The world revolved around her and the vagaries of her manic-depression. She refused to get help and she refused to acknowledge my illness as anything other than histrionics and attention-seeking.

I can’t hold her illness against her now. Not since my diagnosis with Bipolar II, which was only valid in psychiatric circles with the release of the DSM-V in 2013. The medical community had betrayed her with their shoddy treatment of her breast cancer. The psychiatric community could only do the same.

She was right. Many times, she was right about people and situations. How she conveyed these insights was the problem, because she cast her sense of self-importance and “superior” intellect into the telling.

I don’t care for that kind of conveying. It smells of deceit. But how could my mother deceive me? I was her first-born and only daughter. I was her miracle when she gave birth to me.

These insights are the aftermath of death. You don’t only grieve the loss. You grieve for the relationship and the moments. All of them.

You get angry that you were left behind. You lament over unresolved grievances. You regret the future that will never be.

It’s all about you now.

You might hate the person who died, and if the ties were half a strand of DNA and/or all the interactions implied in that sort of relationship, you are torn up inside. Love and/or hate. Mixed emotions that you must resolve.

But here’s the other side of the coin. Whatever awful relationship you had with this person who influenced your life, the death sets you free.

Whatever aspect of your life this person dominated is now open for you to explore. Sometimes, it’s your entire life, but usually it’s a shedding of judgments that infected you through criticisms. It’s the letting go of someone else’s perspective. If you want to, you can see clearly.

The weight that lifted from my shoulders after my mother died was enormous. Here I was thinking I was my own person and I’ve discovered that I wasn’t. My mother’s influence touched the most important aspects of my life and colored them with the idea that I always made poor decisions, that I was nothing compared to her. That’s a weight I was willing to lose.

I’m relieved she died.

There. I said it. As much as I loved my mother, I hated her more. Her decisions deprived me of a potentially healthier life.

Because that’s what abuse does. It gives you a greater potential for illness. It gives the abuser a greater potential for illness. Emotional, mental, and physical violence take its toll on both parties involved in the transaction.

I can’t change what happened, but I wonder if I would have been a more productive contributor to society without her influence. I wonder if I would have developed my predisposition for Bipolar. There was a time when I wasn’t ill. I was just frightened and conflicted. Hypervigilant.

Sometimes I miss you, Mom. We had some good times, but only after I “divorced” you. You couldn’t undo my childhood, but at the end, it meant so much that you wished you could. That you learned how to say, “I’m sorry.”

But most importantly, you said, “I believe you.”

The Art of Courtesy

I am no Miss Manners. I curse like a sailor. I have foot-in-mouth syndrome to such a degree that LSCWs despair of my ever being cured. But there is one thing my father taught me, and it is the bedrock of all good things in society. He told me this as a child and I have never forgotten it.

Civilized behavior is leaving a room as nice as or nicer than when you first entered.

Behaviors that are not civilized include:

Dropping trash on the ground. Treat trash like dog poop and put it in a receptacle. Not the sidewalk, not the expressway. Just don’t.

Leaving a trail of discarded clothing and other belongings. Don’t let people know you’ve been in a room, or several. This is the symptom of a disorganized mind. Keep that shit in your bedroom.

Fucking someone else’s significant other. Ah, the possibility of true love to escape the misery of your relationship with your SO. If you can’t fix the issues, leave. Then you can fuck whoever you want. I learned this the hard way.

Coercing someone. I’m not talking about grabbing your toddler as they bumble toward a busy street. Coercion is when you do something that isn’t in the best interests of the coercee. This is a matter of listening to the other person. That’s one of the most civilized things you can do.

Taking up two parking spots. If your Maserati needs two spaces at the grocery store, keep it in the fucking garage. If you can afford a Maserati, you shouldn’t be doing your own shopping anyway, entitled asshole.

Cutting in front of the little old lady in the checkout line. This is one of the most disrespectful things you can do, in my opinion. Elders usually mellow out to an extent that they can become invisible. Don’t treat others like they’re invisible.

Not taking care of your animals. If you own a pet, you are responsible for said pet. If you own anything, take care of it. That’s what ownership is about. It’s not having. It’s a responsibility. If you can’t take care of it, don’t own it. Simple.

Not taking care of your kids. This is egregious. Your children are parts of you and if they aren’t the center of your care and concern, it’s a reflection on how you feel about yourself. Neglecting children is right up there with beating them. And your past is not an excuse. It’s an obstacle to vanquish. I speak from experience.

Here are the basics of courtesy:

At work, at home, and in social settings, acknowledge other human beings. I have never, ever been so insulted in my life as when the grocery check-out clerk failed to acknowledge me. I told him a few things and finished it up with “You are not too good for this job.” I believe I earned one of my little-old-lady badges with that one.

When someone renders a service, fucking thank them. Tell them you appreciate them. My favorite line is, “I appreciate this so much. You’ve been so helpful.” And I mean it. You can’t believe how this changes a surly clerk or child into a smiling human being.

Get your nose out of your fucking phone! Granted, this is a pet peeve of mine, but it is so rude. Put the damn thing down and look at the other person across the table from you. You can have the same interaction with this person, only face-to-face. Your addiction to your phone is a serious issue that may need medical attention.

I’m not blaming anyone because that would be the dirty pot calling the dirty kettle unwashed. As I grow older, I’ve discovered just how rude humans can be to each other. I remember my twenties and thirties and I cringe. I’ve become mindful of how I treat others and how I treat myself.

Courtesy is a mindfulness, an awareness, that will have a positive effect on the world around you. As the wise ones over the millennia have said, “Your reality begins from within.” That means every action you take reflects your inner world. Be kind to yourself.

An Open Letter to Melissa

An Open Letter_awkward — The awkward girl without a book.

An Open Letter_highschool — The awkward girl with a book.

An Open Letter_now — The confident woman I’ve become. Thanks for helping me to make this possible.

Dear Missy:

I’m writing this letter and making it public now that school shootings have become a “normal” fact of life. To me, you are kindness incarnate, and though I may never reach such heights, your nature is a standard that I’ve made my own.

I was an awkward girl: small, thin, and poorly dressed. Your first instinct was to protect me. I don’t know why. I don’t know which of your experiences motivated you, but you saw me. You worried for me.

At the lunch table, when I made conversation so awkward with your friends because I hid in a book, I knew you tried to include me. You hoped I would swim in waters that I couldn’t navigate. Maybe when I was five or six, it would have worked; that was before everything went wrong for me.

My existence was hell on earth, and throughout my life, when things were the most dangerous for me, an angel has stepped up to show me the way out. You stand out in my memories as all the other angels do. While your efforts to bring me out of my shell, to protect me, appeared to have failed, you showed me the way out.

Each time I help another, I remember you. You didn’t care what I looked like. You saw through my ‘weirdness’ and my attitude. If I saw you in the hallways, you always had a smile to greet me.

That continued kindness made an impact on my very self-hood. You helped me save myself in ways you can’t imagine. Perhaps I would have shot up a school of innocents if you hadn’t reached out. Or died of an overdose somewhere on the east side of Baltimore.

There was so much potential for an unhappy ending.

The reason I’m telling you this is I want you to know you made a difference. You hoped I would thrive. I do now, but it was a long road. Your small actions were one of the lamps that lit the path to where I am now.

Others have expressed their admiration for your kindness, and the way I remember you, you will aver my praise and tell me that you didn’t help enough. I say to you, seeds are small, but they grow into plants, crops, flowers, and trees. Never forget that every little kindness is powerful. That every plant that grows under your care will thrive even if you don’t see the fruit of your gentle labors.

I want you to know that when a butterfly flutters its wings, I think of you.

Thanks for reaching out,

Gwen

Relapse Is No Fun

pendulum

Keep in mind that this a first person narrative based on reading and experiences over the years. I highly recommend that you do your own research. New discoveries are being made all the time.

Bipolar is a physical illness in the brain, one that if not treated, has the potential to shrink the corpus callosum and areas of the cortex. Untreated, it can devolve into dementia and other cognitive issues. Even with plasticity, your brain can’t keep up with untreated Bipolar as it “eats” your brain.

Bipolar is a life-long illness that cannot be cured. Bipolar has nothing to do with learning how to control your moods or thinking “positively” or the endorphins created by forcing yourself to smile. I’ve tried acupuncture, CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy), doctor visit after doctor visit. I even tried the Celestine Prophecy without much success.

I’ve also discovered that medication doesn’t make Bipolar go away but does make it possible for me to live with the illness. I take my medication like a nun saying the rosary.

When I found out that relapse was a common event in the lives of Bipolar II individuals, I felt like I’d been hit by one of those Japanese bullet trains. It doesn’t go away? This shit’s gonna come back and get me again? Hospitalization?

The doctors talk about early warning signs of a manic or depressive episode. I’ve learned that I yell at my cats before a manic episode. Then I clean house like Serial Mom.

Finally, I’m depressed, and I sleep. I can sleep away an entire weekend if no one stops me. I avoid things that need to get done, like laundry and paying the bills.

As I pull through another depression, I’ve discovered that the medicine helps more than I realized. The first spell of wellness is a rush. Then reality sets in. Bipolar doesn’t go away but it can’t take over my life like it used to.

Today, as my mind tumbled over everything that might have triggered this mild relapse, I decided to try that “smile” exercise. I was astonished. It worked! I ate a bowl of raisin bran, drank some water, smiled some more and now I’m happily writing away.

As I learn to manage my illness, other factors set in. Like peri-menopause. And getting older. Due to an injury, I am unable to work out, which is a line of defense against Bipolar. Do not underestimate the magic of living as healthy as you can.

Flax seed, fish oil, and other types of supplements and fresh foods that are chock full of B vitamins and Omega 3s & 6s help improve and maintain the think tank in your skull. They also help me remember why I walked it a room and what I was supposed to get.

Surprisingly, there is an ample and powerful first line of defense against relapses of all sorts. Water. A hell of a lot more than you’re probably drinking right now.

And get rid of that soda. It’s poison, calorie-free or not. No binge drinking alcohol. or binge drinking coffee. Moderation is the key because Bipolar is an illness of extremes.

So, yeah. Relapse. It’s real. Keep your mood journal and you’ll be able to tell when one is coming on. Keep taking your medicine. Keep drinking water. Talk to your psychiatric care physician (I just had my medicine upped to 300 mg and a supplement added).

And don’t get down on yourself because of a relapse. It’s a normal and expected part of the illness and there are ways to mitigate the magnitude of a relapse. You’re not going crazy. I swear.

Confessions of a Crazy Woman

treble-clef-heart

I believe in telepathy. I believe in Twin Flames, but beliefs are irrational. I want facts. I want to confirm that I’m not crazy. Or that I am.

There is the Man in my head. He speaks to me and no one else can hear him. But he isn’t a spirit guide because he loses his temper with me. He isn’t a direct line to the ineffable though he surprises me with the “timbre” of his voice when he’s pleased with something I’ve done.

The Man is a solitary practitioner, just like me, and trained in the same tradition as I. A tradition that believes telepathy is a very real thing. He’s close to my age, and we’ve been carrying on in this fashion coming on eight years. Eight years. And what has kept this going, even though he gets angry and has hurt my feelings with something he said recently, is that he has never steered me wrong.

Examples:

The first time I asked him for something, he told me it would happen. $500, which I needed desperately because of medical bills from 2009.
A few days later, my bestie calls and has a breakdown over her financial situation. She was afraid she couldn’t pay her rent.
It wasn’t a hard decision for me. I asked him to reroute the energy to my bestie.
She called me a few days later with wonder in her voice. She had received $495 of back pay for child support. Her rent was paid.

This money thing is not an easy bending of reality, which is what prayers and spells are meant to do. One person alone might not see fruition until years later.

But two of us were involved. Both of us had strong emotions of protection and an alignment of purpose. I don’t expect any prayer or spell to manifest so quickly and this meant I was dealing with a very disciplined mind.

I was in a classic narcissist-empath, abusive relationship back in 2010. Let’s just say I kept taking him back. The sex was yum and I was in my thirties.
I took a little over a year, but The man kept saying, “Dump him. He’s an asshole.”
He kept telling me I was amazing and better than the douche-rocket, pussy-hound, poor-excuse of a man with the amazing sex and the long, beautiful hair.
I dumped the narcissist. I completely shut him out of my life. I defended my boundaries and my integrity

The Man helped me exact revenge. He has a very passionate approach to everything he does. I will not discuss the details here.

The Man has protected me, has been loyal to me, and has saved me from myself on more than one occasion. He says that I helped him become a better man.

He has a daughter and she was kept from him. When he was able to visit with her again, she was less than pleased by his assertion of parental rights. They fought constantly either with words or her silence and his frustration. He was at his wit’s end, which doesn’t take long for him when dealing with girly, emotional stuff.

The Man asked me how to cope. I told him, “She’s been filled with poison all this time and at a young age. The only thing you can do is meet her anger with love. She wouldn’t be angry if she didn’t care.”

He followed my advice, and it worked. He was delighted, even overboard with his excitement overthe breakthrough. He started applying this path to success in other relationships and interactions. His life has improved.

That’s the telepathy part. I still question myself despite the little signs and the way the Universe speaks to me with random people, media, and Nature herself. The Twin Flame part of it is a little trickier.

I thought soul mates, or Twin Flames, were a bunch of hooey. In a sea of seven billion people, how could one person be the one for you? I considered that there were multiple, compatible people for each person. Realistically, that made more sense.

But now I’m not so sure. When I went on medication, which made me question every aspect of my existence as my health improved, the Man was so happy. As I started to reclaim my life, he realized then how sick I had been, and still was if I didn’t take the medication. He kicked himself over and over for that. He’s got this guilt complex that I don’t understand.

The Man has remained, when so many other things have departed from my life and good riddance. The Man knows me at my worst. And he stayed. He stood by my side (figuratively) as everything unfolded, as his frustration with my, “I’m not ready yets,” and failures to show in potential Salem meet-and-greets accumulated.

I wasn’t ready for any of it. The Man professed love. He said that he fell in love with me the moment I asked to have my test go to my bestie. He even asked me if I knew why he’d fallen for me? I figured it was because I was that nice of a person.

“No. I fell in love with you because you’re fiercely loyal to your family. I want that.”

That surprised me.

I loved him the best I knew how as ill as I was. And I wanted to love him, past and all. Together, I wanted to fulfill his goal of getting married before he turned fifty, but that birthday looms and my “not-yets” and “no-shows” have cost us. I regret this, my mindlessness, but there is no easy way to change the past.

Now that I’m better, I’m able to see what is done rather than what is said as the ultimate test of a person’s integrity. Because of him, life is intrinsically MORE joyful, surprising, wondrous, and scary. Sometimes all at once. And my words have a solid foundation in action.

The Man’s loyalty and steadfast presence finally broke through my walls. He has entered the sacristy of my heart. He’s entered a place where no man has been permitted to visit.

Maybe that’s the whole spiritual exercise, learning how to love completely and unreservedly knowing that the person you love will disappoint you. But not on purpose and without negative intent.

I’m okay with being wrong about this whole thing. I have been traumatized to the point where I can’t remember what happened to me as a child. I haven’t eliminated the possibility of delusions.

I’d rather know I’m bat-shit crazy. I would seek help. Maybe check into a hospital.

I’m deciding that no fear will be how I live my life. I’m going to make my amygdala behave. Here’s my crazy jump off the cliff.

If you’re out there, if you’re real, I want to find you. I want the love the bards sang about. I want fights, tickle sessions, and lots of laughter. In person.

I don’t want to fall into the abyss of loneliness. I want to touch you, taste you, hold you, and swallow up the sun. I want to gaze at the same crescent moon from the same back yard instead of wherever we are at the moment with too much distance between us.

“You see the moon? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it’s my favorite kind of moon.”

You may be my Twin Flame. I’m ready, [insert endearment-I’m-not-permitted-to-use-in-public here].

One way or the other, I’m ready.

Inspired by the song #fallingtoblack

NaNoWriMo: Introversion for Introverts

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I have my outline, my sketches, and my worksheets all filled out. I spent most of October hidden away as I prepared for this triathlon of thought, imagination, and the clicking sounds of the keyboard.

I’ve completed 25,000 words already and we’re only a third of the way through. I’m on fire!

I’m also off line. I’m not writing anything else this month, except for this one article, and that’s all I write. Except for my novel.

I’m very excited. I don’t think I’ve been this excited about writing anything. I’ve been passionate in short pieces, but a novel? I think this may be the longest committed relationship I’ll ever be in.

Just don’t expect to see me on the street or eating turkey or celebrating my birthday outside of the confines of the world I’ve created. I’ll return soon enough and will have so much to tell you!

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©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.

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