Last night I learned the meaning of the word “trip.” I’m not an alcoholic or an addict, but I find the mindset similar to the one created by psychosexual abuse… and therefore we get along extraordinarily well. It’s a black sense of humor, that. A woman made me laugh that had accidentally set her house on fire and killed her children. It was not a funny situation; she was using humor to express tremendous pain. Laughing through the tears so that the shame doesn’t kill you because IT WILL IF YOU LET IT. I cannot ever say that strongly enough. When people get as mentally fucked up as the abused and the addicted, their worth on earth weakens into nothing… so they plan the next trip. You can plan to go to Paris… why not plan to fly in the ether? Why not prepare for the journey to the edges of your mind?
I’m sure each drug does it differently. Alcohol is state-dependent, so when life starts spiraling you can depend on negative thoughts slowly creeping toward suicide. Everyone, including me, realizes the emotional disaster we have the potential to be, and it isn’t until the snowball melts that we can do a damn thing about it. Worthlessness clouds everything. Shame becomes a mantra for the disenfranchised, the ones that feel like they are literally hanging onto the edge of society and even that is too much work. The more our emotional failures pile up, the more we recede into darkness and light is a choice. A daily choice. One that cannot be ignored. If you can choose not to drink as an alcoholic, then the very next choice should be not to be bitter about it. If you are a survivor of sexual abuse, you cannot stop the tapes that run in your head until you make the connection that your regrets are what’s worthless. You can’t have regrets, because why regret something you couldn’t control in the first place?
With Diane, I could barely keep it in my pants as a teenager, and she blamed it all on me. That I was just this freak of nature when she was the one that taught me to love sex in the first place (yeah, chew on that one bitches). You want to talk about regret? I spent years torturing myself that I’d just gotten the wrong message. It was all above board. Meanwhile, I am vomiting emotions and punching walls trying to get rid of my nightmares of her sexual abuse, connected to my own, and my sole desire to be her shining white knight for far longer than I should have spent worrying about it.
It feels like a developmental delay, because it is. My sex life didn’t occur in the right order, kind of like when my nephew was born with his aorta and his vena cava plugged into the wrong sides. His problem was medical, and required thousands of dollars in surgery. Mine is mental, and no less damaging financially, but hopefully not to that degree. It scared the financial hell out of me when my therapist told me that she thought it would take five or ten years to get to the bottom of all this. I’m going to pay it anyway… I mean, what choice do I have? I do not choose to stay broken. I have done enough of that. Staying broken has caused me no small amount of emotional and financial security. It is an uphill battle that I fight every day to win, but most of the time I hit just above average. The lows aren’t as low anymore, but I’m still waiting to get high.
It’s going to be quite a trip.