Apr
12
Revisiting the Whipcracker
April 12, 2007 | |
Before: Devil inside.
After: Angel on a mission.
So he calls. Six months later. Informs me that he has changed. Fundamentally.
And although this admission is not necessarily geared towards me, I still feel somehow satisfied.
After so many pointless instances of scrolling through old emails and photos and deconstructing fragments of conversations once shared over too much tequila and too little inhibition–there was suddenly an opportunity to reconcile.
Maybe not for the relationship, but at least for my own jilted pride.
After all, we had a fu**king blast together, from what I can remember.
Our relationship marked by weekly anniversary’s in the usual celebratory fashion:
Getting kicked out of restaurants. Sprawling on his floor in a drunken stupor lip-syncing to Tricky.
And the usual morning after sarcasm that ensued as we struggled to recall:
"What exactly happened last night, and why am I wearing Lola’s dog collar?"
Yes, romance was budding in the scariest fashion but I didn’t care.
The guy was hot, smart, and kept me hanging on the seat of my la perla
underpinings in a way that left me breathless but I digress–
The end began like this:
Back in October, after having sabotaged myself in the usual fashion, I walked out on him and our "budding relationship" while still in the thick of it. Clutching onto my pride for dear life and heading out his door without peering over my shoulder to see if he
was even watching. Violently pounding my heels against the pavement and
soon to be
forgotten familiarities of West 22nd street. Pushing me far away from
him and all the bullshit insecurities he provoked. Chest heaving to
repress the scream. Teeth tightclamped to silence the words. Thoughts
much too scary to *gasp* speak to him. The ones that gave away the
secret: No, I was not OK. I was human–and I was hurting. NO, I WAS DEFINITELY NOT OK.
And with the spin of my heel in the opposite direction–I went from hurting to hating.
Succumbing to that mantra that reigns supreme in my subconscious. Like a safety reflex
propelling me forward from potential hazards such as this. So the little voice in my head chants on:
Being pissed is empowering; Pissing and moaning is for pussies.
I sublimated my anger for pain and continued on autopilot. Returning to my apartment where the screaming ensued outside the confines of my own fucked-up reality. I sat there numb in front of my laptop. Words aching to burst from my own bloated ego. And in submitting to my own twisted, masochistic defenses, I recorded our epitaph. An ode to the demise of a relationship that I decidedly snuffed: Words to him I could never verbalize, but instead would post on the internet for him to stumble upon and hear me out. Only after my fingers hit the keyboard did my pride allow for my acquiescence entitled:
"Getting Whipped, Licking The Wounds."
Yes–escaping from intimacy became a sport that I not only mastered, but depended upon for survival. By the time I reached my twenties I was a pro. Of course, I had mom to
thank for this well-honed technique of walking away from the
vulnerabilities of love. She was kind enough to outfit her offspring
with this suit of armor at the tender age of 7. Preparing me for
battle. Sending me off into the arena to joust away at those who tried
to invade my vulnerable heart. And reinforcing the warrior within were
guidebooks called: "Passages," "I’m OK You’re OK," and "Looking Out For
Number One." and my personal favorite; "Smart women Foolish choices."
Titles whispering subliminal affirmations that would surely empower, as
we sat together in silence bonding between episodes of Donahue.
So tonight, after his bold extension of the Olive branch, I agreed.
Yes, now I was ready to face my demon. Him, and the reflection of myself I saw within him.
Why did I bother to placate his guilty conscious? I had my own agenda.
It was in this confessional where that lacey curtain of pride was ripped open,
exposing the nakedness of my own, pathetic truths.
My attempt to reconcile the same guilt I felt towards all the other men in my life.
And in our shared confessions, we repented and saved each others souls.
Yet still I question it. Does the whipcracker ever truly relinquish control? Maybe he had.
As for my case…
I wasn’t so sure.
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