It’s a Tangled Web

“The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt and humiliation.” –Steven Pressfield, “The War of Art” Pg 68

I read this part of the “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield and laughed out loud as I was riding the recumbent bike today. How much more true can that statement be? It must mean I have been an artist all along. That’s an amazing thought. It actually DID get me thinking, though..is that what all of this has been about? Did I need to see the bottom of the ocean in order to better understand how to float?

I remember being very young and having “fantasies” about being kidnapped by a group of men in a white van. In the fantasy they would give me ice cream and drive me around. I had no clue that that would be dangerous. I also used to daydream about how awesome it would be if I were homeless, and imagined my little self, curled up in a happy ball on the sidewalk. The only thing that worried me was I might be a little cold sometimes. Ah. Innocence. Inner sense.

Back to the EMDR. I’m sitting on the purple couch with the green light streaming back and forth in front of me, headphones on but I can still hear my therapist, and the little DMV thingies in my hands buzzing away. At first I fight to keep my eyes open. I want the Full Blast experience. I’m ready for an exorcism. But I find my eyes closing so naturally that I don’t even notice the darkness. It happens like that.

She asks me to describe a safe place. I tell her the beach. She asks if I am with someone. I want to say “Fuck No” but I smile and simply say no. I’m alone. I’m sitting on the sand, listening to the roar of the ocean. The ocean and the kiss of the wind is all I hear. And the sun is on my face, pushing it, gently, like a warm force field heat blanket. But not too hot. ET asks me what else I would like on this beach. And I quickly add “a bathroom.” (To throw up? She must think?) And my mind answers, no, thank god. Just to pee when I need to. Easy access to pee availability at all times is very important.

We also talk about my “Dungeon.” The Dungeon is a place I lived for a very long time, but have yet to write about. The name alone suggests a dark and dreary, awful place. But it’s the dark and dreary place that comforts me. It kept me alive. So I surprise her, by saying the Dungeon is also my safe place. But the walls have been blasted open by dynamite in slow motion. Grain by grain the thick sheets of rock have been blowing like dandelion wishes. Dandy Lion, and she ain’t lyin’…

Without realizing it, I am dancing in front of her. Chair dancing really. She asks me to put the vibrators under my legs, and then says, “Do that again.” I open my eyes briefly and remember I’m in the room. I tend to leave the rooms often. Leaving room for the others. I have to blink a couple of times to get my bearings. She says to close my eyes and “Do what you were doing with your arms.”

I oblige. I close my eyes and rid myself of any worry that I look foolish. This is my time, I think. I am done and this has to happen. I tell her I am a Tiger in a National Geographic magazine. I look like I’m stuck in a cave, my arms outstretched, clinging to the rock walls. She interrupts my dance, and says “Show me the hands again.” I find my fingers making slow  yet thunderous flamenco movements as they circle once, then grasp to the hot rock on either side of me. My finger tips cling and suspend me in the air. Look at me, I’m flying.

I feel a swooshing sensation come over my body. Tears well up in the corners of my still closed eyes.  They catch me by surprise. “What do you notice?” she asks. And I smile a shit-eating grin, as if helium balloons have been fish hooked into the corners of my mouth. My face doesn’t quite recognize the sensation of an authentic smile. I reply, “The birds outside the window. I can hear them. I’m here.”

She squints nervously at the light
How long have I been down here?
She thinks.
A long fucking time
Like the muddy water she drinks
Murky and unclear
But good enough for now.
Or is it?
The dungeon called home.
Walls scratchy, floor cold.
How did I get so old?
Like the pebble in her shoe
that eventually paved a hole.
You learn to love
that dungeon you call home.
She’s crouching to fit inside
What the fuck have I got to hide?
Arms outstretched
Back strained
She winces against the pain
The light sings to her desire
turning her ice into fire
Arrested wings uncurl
It’s okay baby
Come on out,
Meet the world.

Kissing,

The Cockroach

Copyright © 2018 Kissing The Cockroach All Rights Reserved.

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~ by kissingthecockroach on February 25, 2012.

5 Responses to “It’s a Tangled Web”

  1. Wow, i love reading about your experiences in therapy. I find you truly inspiring and brave to be willing enough to open yourself up like you do to yourself and your therapist. Amazing… keep at it! x

  2. […] put the EMDR headphones on and I hold the vibrators. I no longer use the lights, as we think that may be the cause of post […]

  3. These are so amazing. They are like a melding of truth and fiction (only it’s all truth!) I don’t know if I’m expressing myself well. Actually, I know I’m not.

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