October 26, 2009
Lately, I've asked the universe to help me transgress my own unhealthy conditioning in matters of vanity and relating to others. During Autumnal Equinox, the intention was set in a series of four parts, each based on past experiences that have shaped my current patterns of behavior. Growing up without a father caused a lack of positive male attention, which I sought heavily through the only way I knew how, promiscuity. I lacked a positive sexual model. Additionally, growing up as the only child in a scarcity-minded household, relatives were careful to never spoil me so I learned to covet and possess materials in a way that didn't allow any room for loss or error.
So far, I've named these two demons and have a way of identifying them when they come crawling up my shoulder. I would also illustrate these four parts with photographs of my own murder, the killing of ineffectual practices. The conscience is both a curse and a blessing.
I summoned The Devil himself. On Facebook, no less. I drew him out of my tarot deck and into my bed. This person gave the hamster on my heart-shaped wheel a crystal meth feeling and beautifully barbed words which caught on its insides, eviscerating it. This person brought me back about 17 years, back to the feelings I had when I first started seeking external validation through male attention, giving up my virginity twice in one night to the boyfriend of my best friend. Jealousy, obsession, anxiety, insecurity, a feeling of lack. Yearning for that one material object that would make him see that I was special, that I deserved to be more than just the clandestine mistress. All my material desires swirled around this one idealization of Mr. Devil. Because he was always someone else's boyfriend, he was something I could never have, which in turn made me mad with obsession at the idea of possessing him. I was in a hellish secret place that seemed like an obsidian encasement, glass-like but completely opaque, and the only person with the key was him. The threat of breaking free not only an undesirable impossibility, but I relished in this dark, melancholy place. I savored the torturous feelings of self-pity, spinning words into heartbreaking poetry. Many years ago, I had no idea of what my higher purpose was, so it was a dark, delicious adventure creating a heart chasm.
But now, things are different. This ain't my first rodeo and I've outgrown these ineffectual and blasé feelings because they no long serve my higher purpose, which is to love and be loved. And this feels more like madness than love. My psychic friend tells me that I have a dark brown schism right below my heart chakra and that I have not opened it up to anyone I've been in a relationship with. Figures.
What is the difference between love and obsession? I'm sure this has been asked as many times as it's occurred. Studies show that serotonin levels of people in love and ones with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder are unusually low compared to the standard levels found in the brain of a control subject. OCD and love are similarly obsessive, driving urges, and that serotonin is somehow involved with this kind of focused obsessiveness.
Have I fallen victim to my own chemical warfare? My body had a very strong, physical reaction to The Devil. The hamster would do erratic flips on its wheel, sometimes bending it into pentagrams and triangles. I started panicking for no real reason at all. God-awful feelings arose in me that seemed to stem from my expectations of attachment to a certain outcome. My attention no longer rooted in the present, but split between those feelings from 17 years ago mingled with the current feelings The Devil brought about. But I had asked for this journey, and not for the destination, so I laid in the bed I made. All of my maniacal thoughts centered around the tarot Devil on his pedestal with the two demons tethered to it. How befitting.