nothing after this is true – real-time hyperfiction is #dtf
“You write all these terrible things about me. I am just a nice girl who loves you.”
“Yes, but…”
“But you…”
Stop there. Again, thank you for this gift. The next statement out of your mouth should be, “But I…”
What are you going to do? How will you repair and do things differently? If you have responsibility in the breakdown, how can you own your “I” and quit blaming “you.”
The rest of these emails, or texts, over the several months of our deceleration and ultimate system failure, were this lens, “But you…”
I have a way forward, if that is what your messages keep attempting to do, point the blame at me, find the part you keep doing, the part that displays the “void transaction” screen in your eyes. Find out what makes that happen and explore the deeper pain of your trauma. I assure you, my writing, two months ago, was a trigger. My writing two months ago is not the pain that overwhelms you in 2 seconds, when a criticism or complaint enters our conversation.
That’s from a past hurt. Someone who never lets you speak your truth. Who never considered your side of the story. Who barreled on regardless of what you said.
What you said. “Your writing about me hurts me.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not asking you to quit writing.”
“Whew. That’s good.”
“Oh, now sarcasm. Great.”
“That’s what I do when I’m stressed. I go for a joke. Okay, you want the truth? Can you dig the truth if it’s put out in front of you? Can you find your way to say ‘but I…’ rather than always ‘but you…?’”
See how that puts you in the driver’s seat rather than the victim along for some ride I am architecting?
When you say “but I…” you begin to take responsibility for what you are doing, what you’re going to do, and what you will no longer do. That’s a great start for you.
I am not the cause of your existential pain or loneliness. Our sad childhoods informed us both, yes, and one of us learned to cope by writing and playing music. One of us coped by becoming creatively exceptional, trying harder, being smarter, and more aware. As Alice Miller taught us, there is a high price to pay for that over-performing kid. The exceptional kid.
I, too, responded to a trauma-filled household and childhood. I had fear. I ate, slept, and woke to fear. My mom fattened all of us up because that’s Southern comfort. I learned that dessert could make me feel better for a moment. Sugar. High. Rebalancing the blood from the icy pain of depression or watching your kid struggle with drugs or violence.
I have written about every relationship I’ve ever had. Most are love poems. The ones from 15 years ago still inform my heart. They should not be ammo to blast me for loving so many women. It’s a creative act. A muse is not a target. A muse can never be attained just as you hope to never catch a Siren or a mermaid, or have sex with a praying mantis who chops off her lover’s head and feeds him to her babies.
I don’t want a painful relationship. I don’t want to trigger or be triggered by anyone. I can withstand some trauma. I can agree to abide while your situation settles, your mind and heart heal, and we move along through time and space, attempting to be kind and loving.
But your writing…
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