I've lost patience with most of them. I've lost patience with women. They come to me over-competent, sexy, and broken. They are ready to kill and to cry. They come to me cringing to keep themselves together, all bottled up and shaken. They are stuck, confused, overwhelmed, and used. I can tell by how they sit down. If I could, I would cuddle them, stroke their hair, hug them, and say-tell me everything and I will still love you.
It is always a man. Maybe their first love, maybe not. But, it's the man they've decided to keep. There were early warning signs. She ignored them. She knew it all along. He was a bastard, a dueschbag. The warning signs were like red lights flashing on and off, bouncing off the bedroom walls, yet she made love to him anyway. When times were good, they were, oh so good. And then, a small crack begins . . . Tiny inconsistencies build up. She comes to find me. Should she trust him or not?
They come in all colors, shapes, and sizes, with grand breasts, or dimpled nipples peering at me through their shirt. They all have jobs and are very intelligent, both emotionally and intellectually. Some have been in therapy before, others have not. But, it's all the same. A man is destroying them. Intentionally, or unintentionally, I do not know. And he doesn't either. It hurts.
"Oh, the pain in my soul. I don't know who I've become. I don't like myself, but I can't stop. I love him." And all they want is his love. The love of an incapable asshole. No, I should be more compassionate. The love of a man who can't love because of childhood rejection and unmet childhood needs. Wait. He's not my patient. I'm not treating him. I don't care about him. I care about her. Too much. I take her home with me to my wife. In the shower, I wrap my hands around her waist, her thighs. I lick her. I protect her from harm and erase the wrongdoing. I honor her trust. I am the man she dreams of, considerate, lustful, playful, honest, communicative, devoted. No other woman exists, only her. There couldn't have been another possibility because since the first light, the beginning of love itself, we were soul-mates. All we had to do was find each other. She loves me completely with no necessity for the unconditional. I am her man and she only desires me. There are no other men. In fact, they are all boys by comparison.
That night, my wife and I make love. I bring her to our bed. I feel guilty afterwards. Obsession only exists through the objectification and rejection of reality. But I love my wife. I do. Duality is uncomfortable.
I dart my eyes around the office because she is rambling, repeating herself, has been rambling for the past twenty minutes, not making eye contact. I'm worried. We are standing on the edge, peering over. Nervous breakdown.
"What are you looking at?"
" What?"
"Is there something behind me?"
"No?"
"Are we out of time?"
"No. Why?"
"Is there something behind me you haven't seen before? I mean this is your office, right?"
"Adrianna, I was listening. I am listening. Please continue."
"GOOD. Because he never listens. All I do is repeat myself. It's like having a child. But I must like
something about it, right, because I'm still there, right? I've given him ultimatums and all we do is
fight. Even now, all I'm doing is sitting here talking trash about him and we'll probably fuck tonight.
In five minutes, I could be telling you again how wonderful he is and how I want to marry him. I
want to kill myself."
"More about how you don't like yourself anymore."
"Before?"
"Before you met him."
"I was different before, and now I don't know. It's like I don't care about myself."
"Yes."
"I just keep giving him ME. And he just keeps crumpling me up, like he doesn't give a shit."
"Yet. You just can't pull yourself away and you keep going back."
"I know. It's fucked up, right?"
"The fact that you know it's fucked up doesn't seem to be enough. It doesn't seem to be helping
you. Do you feel guilty about anything having to do with him? Do you feel sorry for him in any
way?"
"Yeah. I feel sorry he's such a fucking asshole and can't get his head out of his ass to realize how
great I am. Me. Standing right in front of him."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yeah. But, I do feel bad because one time I scratched him."
"You scratched him?"
"Yeah. Right across his face when I found out he lied about cheating on me. I had asked him about
it, you know, and all he had to do was tell the truth. I knew he was lying, right to my face, and then
of course it came out later. I mean, a lot more came out later."
Always, always, always when a woman acts out to the point where others might call her crazy and they may be right, it is undoubtedly because a man has pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and she just can't take it anymore. She has given him only love and kindness, compassion, understanding, a willingness to forgive in exchange for the dream of the future and he has chronically returned this gift dirtied and bruised, sullied, damaged, dejected and rejected. And she has taken this gift, cleaned it, washed it, nurtured it, hoped for it, waited peacefully for it to regain it's perfection, only to give it again. Only, for it to be returned.
Men are never pushed to this point of emotional abuse and torture, or I've rarely seen it. I think it's because we simply do not possess the magic of creation and recreation. Like Shiva, both the creator and the destroyer. We exist somewhere in between, emotionless, without any power, pushing buttons, hoping to make a connection, I guess?
There is silence now and silence for me are tears in Kleenex, runny noses, puffy eyes, and apologies for dirtying my floor and the armchair. I consider silence a blessing.
Right now, if I could be anyone, or anything, go anywhere, or wish and pray and have it come true, I would be transformed into a big, fat, black women with huge bosoms and a booming voice. Aretha Franklin, Oprah, possibly Nina Simone. I would have a soul. Soul would be oozing out of my breath and then I could look at her, simply. With one look, I could return her self-esteem. Give it right back, along with her pride. Return her to how she was before him, untarnished. And then I would say with a smile burning up onto my lips,
"Girl, you know you're just too good for that fool. You're too good for that. You have to learn to
love yourself, accept yourself as beautiful and let him go. Move on. It gets better. There'll be
another one around the corner, and if it's not him, move on. Move on girl. Ya gotta move on!. Kick
him to the curb cause he don't pay your bills. And there are a million men who would love to do that
for you. Have you in their bed, take you out to eat nice places, take you shopping, and love you.
Show him the door. I know the loneliness. Stop whining. It's better to be alone, than with someone
who's holding you back. Mmmmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. It took me a long time to
learn, but once I did-there wasn't any more suffering for me. And there won't be for you either. You
got one life and you gotta live it! I'm on call. Call me anytime, anywhere you gotta problem, and I'll
show him."
How true, how simple. But I am not a big black woman. And I couldn't get away with saying anything like that. I prescribe her some Klonopin, tell her I love her, and kiss her goodbye. No, only the Klonopin part is true.
"I would like it if you thought about self-worth," I say.
She nods.
"We have to stop there, but I would like if you came back soon."
It is always a man. Maybe their first love, maybe not. But, it's the man they've decided to keep. There were early warning signs. She ignored them. She knew it all along. He was a bastard, a dueschbag. The warning signs were like red lights flashing on and off, bouncing off the bedroom walls, yet she made love to him anyway. When times were good, they were, oh so good. And then, a small crack begins . . . Tiny inconsistencies build up. She comes to find me. Should she trust him or not?
They come in all colors, shapes, and sizes, with grand breasts, or dimpled nipples peering at me through their shirt. They all have jobs and are very intelligent, both emotionally and intellectually. Some have been in therapy before, others have not. But, it's all the same. A man is destroying them. Intentionally, or unintentionally, I do not know. And he doesn't either. It hurts.
"Oh, the pain in my soul. I don't know who I've become. I don't like myself, but I can't stop. I love him." And all they want is his love. The love of an incapable asshole. No, I should be more compassionate. The love of a man who can't love because of childhood rejection and unmet childhood needs. Wait. He's not my patient. I'm not treating him. I don't care about him. I care about her. Too much. I take her home with me to my wife. In the shower, I wrap my hands around her waist, her thighs. I lick her. I protect her from harm and erase the wrongdoing. I honor her trust. I am the man she dreams of, considerate, lustful, playful, honest, communicative, devoted. No other woman exists, only her. There couldn't have been another possibility because since the first light, the beginning of love itself, we were soul-mates. All we had to do was find each other. She loves me completely with no necessity for the unconditional. I am her man and she only desires me. There are no other men. In fact, they are all boys by comparison.
That night, my wife and I make love. I bring her to our bed. I feel guilty afterwards. Obsession only exists through the objectification and rejection of reality. But I love my wife. I do. Duality is uncomfortable.
I dart my eyes around the office because she is rambling, repeating herself, has been rambling for the past twenty minutes, not making eye contact. I'm worried. We are standing on the edge, peering over. Nervous breakdown.
"What are you looking at?"
" What?"
"Is there something behind me?"
"No?"
"Are we out of time?"
"No. Why?"
"Is there something behind me you haven't seen before? I mean this is your office, right?"
"Adrianna, I was listening. I am listening. Please continue."
"GOOD. Because he never listens. All I do is repeat myself. It's like having a child. But I must like
something about it, right, because I'm still there, right? I've given him ultimatums and all we do is
fight. Even now, all I'm doing is sitting here talking trash about him and we'll probably fuck tonight.
In five minutes, I could be telling you again how wonderful he is and how I want to marry him. I
want to kill myself."
"More about how you don't like yourself anymore."
"Before?"
"Before you met him."
"I was different before, and now I don't know. It's like I don't care about myself."
"Yes."
"I just keep giving him ME. And he just keeps crumpling me up, like he doesn't give a shit."
"Yet. You just can't pull yourself away and you keep going back."
"I know. It's fucked up, right?"
"The fact that you know it's fucked up doesn't seem to be enough. It doesn't seem to be helping
you. Do you feel guilty about anything having to do with him? Do you feel sorry for him in any
way?"
"Yeah. I feel sorry he's such a fucking asshole and can't get his head out of his ass to realize how
great I am. Me. Standing right in front of him."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yeah. But, I do feel bad because one time I scratched him."
"You scratched him?"
"Yeah. Right across his face when I found out he lied about cheating on me. I had asked him about
it, you know, and all he had to do was tell the truth. I knew he was lying, right to my face, and then
of course it came out later. I mean, a lot more came out later."
Always, always, always when a woman acts out to the point where others might call her crazy and they may be right, it is undoubtedly because a man has pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and she just can't take it anymore. She has given him only love and kindness, compassion, understanding, a willingness to forgive in exchange for the dream of the future and he has chronically returned this gift dirtied and bruised, sullied, damaged, dejected and rejected. And she has taken this gift, cleaned it, washed it, nurtured it, hoped for it, waited peacefully for it to regain it's perfection, only to give it again. Only, for it to be returned.
Men are never pushed to this point of emotional abuse and torture, or I've rarely seen it. I think it's because we simply do not possess the magic of creation and recreation. Like Shiva, both the creator and the destroyer. We exist somewhere in between, emotionless, without any power, pushing buttons, hoping to make a connection, I guess?
There is silence now and silence for me are tears in Kleenex, runny noses, puffy eyes, and apologies for dirtying my floor and the armchair. I consider silence a blessing.
Right now, if I could be anyone, or anything, go anywhere, or wish and pray and have it come true, I would be transformed into a big, fat, black women with huge bosoms and a booming voice. Aretha Franklin, Oprah, possibly Nina Simone. I would have a soul. Soul would be oozing out of my breath and then I could look at her, simply. With one look, I could return her self-esteem. Give it right back, along with her pride. Return her to how she was before him, untarnished. And then I would say with a smile burning up onto my lips,
"Girl, you know you're just too good for that fool. You're too good for that. You have to learn to
love yourself, accept yourself as beautiful and let him go. Move on. It gets better. There'll be
another one around the corner, and if it's not him, move on. Move on girl. Ya gotta move on!. Kick
him to the curb cause he don't pay your bills. And there are a million men who would love to do that
for you. Have you in their bed, take you out to eat nice places, take you shopping, and love you.
Show him the door. I know the loneliness. Stop whining. It's better to be alone, than with someone
who's holding you back. Mmmmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. It took me a long time to
learn, but once I did-there wasn't any more suffering for me. And there won't be for you either. You
got one life and you gotta live it! I'm on call. Call me anytime, anywhere you gotta problem, and I'll
show him."
How true, how simple. But I am not a big black woman. And I couldn't get away with saying anything like that. I prescribe her some Klonopin, tell her I love her, and kiss her goodbye. No, only the Klonopin part is true.
"I would like it if you thought about self-worth," I say.
She nods.
"We have to stop there, but I would like if you came back soon."
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