Reclusive Enigma

There was no sound coming from the outside. A dull yellow pale afternoon hanging heavy, the only distraction, the sweet grass smell freshly chopped. And who could tell it was afternoon in the endless ocher but for the puffed out sun in a silver shadow floating somewhere between the heavens marking 2-ish. There was the silence the still moments between the frenzy, between the chaotic jolts and the feverish interactions that comprised the life we shared, my 2 female feline allies and I. The rest mattered little in those spaces of time, all that was, was lifting self out in a dissociative effort and waiting to return when the coast was clear – but it was never a full return. Some parts were left either submerged or in endless and perpetual hiding. Maybe with the sun – somewhere in between the layers that heaven was made of. Still they stayed afloat – those removed pieces of self and soul – for the safekeeping of the angels. They were perpetually young and undamaged, but like amputated body pieces, I was a soul disembodied and gutted from a very early age. I’d go into life like a jigsaw puzzle, places missing, other pieces not quite fitting, a disarray of a human not being – but trying. Trying to be without the pieces, without the connectors and without the currency that seemed to be inherent in all other humans blessed with being.

What to convey to another that would make them understand that what they were seeing was only a mirage – an echo. It would soon be apparent enough through behavioral patterns that the picture was not complete that something had gone awry in the unfolding of the personality, the psyche, the mind of the child. I’d attempted to write about this so many times before – and each time there was a profound sadness, too deep, too impacted and too infected for it to be released in words. Just walking around it, skimming the surface, not even touching, for the scars still reverberated with pain. And where to begin? The moment of inception or the day of non contact? So many years later and so many words and essays and articles and still I have found no better way to say that what happened to me was at its foundation the state of no-contact, boundlessness, non-connectiveness – people touching without feeling, seeing without being beholden, spoken to but missing the mark from the heart and hearing sounds different from the words conveyed. It was as if the pattern of my life force was out of sync with my surroundings and my heartbeat was a foreign notion in the larger, frightful and archaic scheme of things. I would send out yearnings and not receive. My needs were blocked, reduced and deterred. Other matters were of greater importance and that was probably the first message that I received loudest – and clearest. Do not expect to receive – expect only to be discounted. And in that constellation, within those parameters I perceived reality as only I, given whatever insights and abilities was gifted with could. This is what I wish to convey here. Understanding the plight of disorganized attachment from ground zero, working up.

The rudiments of upbringing would be: fed, inconsistent interaction, namely caretaker and mood would be unpredictable, some brief play, however, it was not the dance of you call and I hear, but it is come and dance now. I heard you crying 5 hours ago, I’m ready for you now. Starts and stops and long spaces of sheer emptiness – where only the sound of my own crying or breathing was heard. Sometimes in the distance the noises of life as it made itself known to me exploded. Here a scream, there a shout – or door slam, a phone ringing a dog barking. Light crossing into shade across the wall, breaking its line on a picture, a phonograph lilting out Handel, skin tightening around the body freezing memories into cell patterns, trees rustling outside nodding and shaking as the streams of air too frozen coursed through its branches, like I lying there, the air did course through me.

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This is wordology. A sample written years ago - the foundation of what would become the mode of being for many years. In chapters to come, there is more explanation and then, as if the light parts clouds in initiation, the breakthrough.  Neo-psychology light workers are welcome to connect via joysmelody @ gmail.com if only to compare notes on early childhood trauma reversal.