The narcissist and the sea hag

Revisiting an old journal today. Can you identify?

I’m told the result of human dignity and compassion is peace. I suppose my dignity has been called into question more often than I can bear. Compassion is too irregular to grab a hold of, too inconsistent.

Peace interrupted by self doubt and a sense that my very soul has been captured and tormented, like a cruel slave owner poking and slapping a victim with no hands. In a cage. But the door is unlocked.

What keeps me returning to the abuse and devaluation time and time again? I hope that I might be worth something. That I  might belong to a clan of people that hold me in highest esteem.

I am lovable. I am strong. I am a survivor, I’ll show you. I can take the assault and brush it off like it never happened. Until I can’t.

Until I am charged with the responsibility to create life, beauty, peace, safety. Sometimes I lay down at the edge and convince myself that there is no real threat. That I manufacture the pain, hold too tightly to the idea that respect is a natural condition for the spirit to maintain health. Sometimes I plunge into the water, brave and determined . This time I will rise up, above the hurt and confusion. I will soar among the clouds of the unknown, seeking freedom and who I am.

But there’s always someone crying, needing, hurling daggers of fear, hatred, contempt or guilt. As soon as I cycle through a knowing, a clarity of mind, as soon as I come to the top, ready to stand as I am, the tension rises up, the stones are thrown, the uncertainty swells up around me and I feel as though the dry ground turns to mud.

I am paralyzed. Again.

I want to lay down in the field of tall green grass, surround myself in flowers and solitude. I am being called to the water, to submerge into the depths of quiet and comfort for the soul. It beckons me to the edge and pleads with me to let the deep slowly swallow me up, cover me in the energy that I come from. Back to a safe and soothing murmur of spirit running it’s course.

Water always finds her way.

I vacillate between the intense desire to Hide myself deep beyond the waves, under a rock and tucked away for safekeeping, and emerging from the shore in a gown of power, drenched in tears of my pain resurfacing.

But I settle for simply crawling ashore. Washed up, covered in sand and tangled in kelp. Hair over my eyes and heart in my hands, I drop to my knees clumsily making my way through the desert, wearing my power quietly under a shirt that is too tight.

Compromise, acquiesce, conform, be quiet. Forgive, move on. Be kind. Don’t speak. Speak More. Stop talking, you’re a hypocrite.

Sweet self, gentle, wild, powerful soul self. I’m sorry. I’ve betrayed you so many times and for so long. The queen is alarmed and angry at the distain I have for her. The girl is hurt and confused as to why I haven’t protected her. The wild gypsy heart is cramped and stifled and the creative energy she was made for, she longs for, is slowly drying up. Again.

I have cut off her hands and demanded that she paint, bound her arms and cry that she produce something beautiful. Cut off her hair and dismembered the veil of safety for her to create in her and out of her something mysteriously delicious.

Be brave I tell her, and I throw her to the Lions. Be a lion I tell her, and I send her to prep school. Sing for me I exclaim! And I fill her mouth with sand. Rejoice in your freedom, and I bind her feet in rope. Dance in your pain, in your blood. But the blood is running out.

Spirit emerges as an eagle, hovers over me as if to say come up higher. A feather of hope brushes my cheek, reminding me of who I am. Like a siren I sing out to the sea of wind and waves within me. Be still, listen.

The chimes in the trees are deafening, competing for the energy surmounting under the wings and the quiet reminder.

I gaze upon the water to witness the horns growing out of my badly shaped head, the scales emerging from my distorted face and the venom dripping from my ugly lips.

But when my eyes behold the creature staring back at me, it is not at all as she is described. I see no horns, only hair falling playfully around her head, shaped by experience and circumstance that created it just as it is. There are no scales forming upon her face, but rather deep feeling, intense emotion, joy and pain etched into the covering of her soul. And as for her lips, they are beautiful. Not dripping with a toxic fluid, but full, with the substance that sustains life; creates, speaks into and kisses the very creation they brought forth out of  her love and blood.

I suppose the crown of jewels ought to be circling my reflection, but it is not what I see. I see a braid of flowers Resting gently over my forehead and encompassing my thoughts and desires like a shield; a gentle, beautiful, delicate shield. Able to give pause to any assult and regenerate by its own seed.

And so I will summon you, sweet soul, when we can plant our toes in the sand and spin circles around our ideas freely. Until then, take refuge in the wind of the Eagles wings and the power of knowing. One day you will create the wind. And the salty mist will sustain you.

The Beloved

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