Dealing Flesh (31 page)

“I understand. I loved you very much. Still do.”

“I love you, too. By the way, it was my birthday two days ago.”

“Well, happy belated birthday. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?”

God. Help. Please…Nooowww
.

“Are you totally single again? As far as I heard from Leslie, you are living with a girlfriend.”

“Well, I was. But…we just broke up. So to answer your question, I’m single.”

“Why didn’t it work out?”

“For the same reasons you left. She complained all the time that I am spending too much time with the horses, with work…and my buddies.”

Romy:
I never complained about that. He’s trippin’.

“Are you completely severed from her? Or do you still deal with her on occasion?”

“Well, for the moment, we still own property together but I’m in the midst of figuring out how to split that up.”

“You bought a house together?”

“Yeah, we own a ranch property in Malibu.”

It slowly dawns on me that Tough Gal was probably right that day at the grocery store, urging me not to take the ride to “his” ranch. My head starts spinning again.

Romy:
Everything’s gonna be alright.

As sad as the information makes me, I say “yes” to Ken’s offer to pick me up for dinner tomorrow night. He appears at my place at nine instead of the planned seven o’clock. After the restaurant visit wraps, he drives me back to my apartment.

“Shall we go upstairs?”

“You know, honey? I love you, but I think that this time around, I want to really get to know you, kind of start dating you while taking things slow as we grow a friendship first.”

Sensing his unwillingness to go through with such a process, I tell him “good night.” As I aim for the car door, I feel his hand clasp my wrist at the last second.

“I love you. You will always be my honey, but I can’t give you that right now,” he says.

“I love you, too. Well, I guess, I better go then.”

I leave feeling as if a sack of coals was tied to my chest. The minute the apartment door shuts behind me, I head straight for the crying game.

~~~

I take a lunch recess on the job, now working as a coordinator in the office of a small service-oriented company. My cell phone goes off. Ken’s number shows on the display. Seeing it furnishes a swift jolt of instant “yahoo.” After all, it has been at least five months since I heard from him. I answer. He asks if I want to hang out sometime soon.

Romy:
How can you still doubt that he cares? I love him.

I ask Ken to pick me up from my house at six o’clock this Friday to catch a seven o’clock movie. Friday comes, and so does the arranged hour, but Ken never shows up nor does my phone ring.

Ragelina:
I’m so fed up with his shit. Fuck him.

Romy:
Just put me in the looney bin.

I am having lunch at the mall this noon. On my way out, Ken phones me. Too angry to have a peaceful conversation, I let the call go to voicemail.

Not a clue how to respond in any kind of reasonable fashion other than to scold him, I ring one of my mentors, this time, the one from the program that deals with people affected by someone else’s use of substances. She gives me an example of what I could say should I happen to talk to him again.

A few minutes and several deep inhalations later, I ring Ken back. On asking him why he did not show up last night, he explains that he got sidetracked and forgot about it.

“I think it’s really unacceptable that you didn’t honor our commitment.”

“Fine. Take care,” he growls, hanging up on me before I can say another word.

Hunted by wolves of hopelessness that voraciously scavenge on my insides, I rush to the store and load up on sweet things and other carbs.

After I devour all at my house, I hang my face over the toilet and out it all comes again. I repeat the cycle at least twice more this evening.

As the months pass, the insatiable craving for sugar chokes my will power so tightly that it becomes practically impossible to make it through a day without binging and purging.

Scaredy Cat:
You frighten me.

~~~

2006

I seek out yet another group for help. This one can supposedly provide hope for people who have lost the ability to eat like normal eaters.

As I keep showing up over the months, I slowly but surely learn of ways to honor the house that my soul calls home. One big revelation that sticks with me from the get-go is that what my body looks like is none of my business. What a concept. Intrinsically determined that nothing shall ever take preference over my relationship with the God of my understanding, I declare, “working on myself” a permanent lifestyle.

Sightings of Light

Sitting in front of the computer transferring more of my handwritten autobiographical notes onto a disk this afternoon, it occurs to me that the annoying itch that used to harass my veins off and on for many years no longer visits. Such observation reminds me of yet another phenomenon: Pretender Babe, Hot Shot, and Big Shot Mama have dropped from my conscience in 2002, and Starlight’s death in the beginning of 2003.

Adding to my amazement is the awareness that Romy no longer carries grudges, not even after I shredded the “trillion dollar card” that I got from Ken on Valentine’s Day in 2005, an action I contribute to having gotten ample glimpses of my immense intrinsic value.

As for the rest of the cast of characters on the “committee,” Blushetta and I are getting closer the more I discern that she does not possess the power to take away from my overall worth as a human being. It looks like we are going to be in it for the long haul, although on many days, I seem to be unable to track her down at all.

Tough Gal tunes in sporadically but with most of the drama gone these days, she often ends up grossly underemployed.

Doubt Cloud and Scaredy Cat pester me intermittently, but commonly comply with the memo that states their presence is not appreciated, unless true and valid reason for concern exists.

As for Miss Vanity, she rarely speaks. The few times she does are barely worth mentioning.

Whip Cracker, Fantasia, Lustania, Enviola, Ragelina, and Avengelia, however, at this point, refuse to vacate the premises for good.

Thankfully though, Franziska, whose caring input I seldom ignore, deters their words in the overwhelming majority of incidences; that is, if they get through to me at all. I would not want to lose Franzi for the world, nor Pristina whom I guard like a mother bear to the best of my ability.

~~~

2007

“I love you,” I utter tenderly, caressing the left side of my face with one hand, as if I was petting a kitten while greeting my reflection inside the bathroom mirror. I mean it, I really do. This very moment I do. I know that is all I have—this moment of full attention to what is—may it be as painful, blissful, scary, trippy, mighty, caring, exciting, distorted, happy, agonizing, hopeful, or self-condemning as it wants to be.

I’d be lying though, if I claimed that all my problems ceased to exist, or that I’m forever cured. There is no current cure for my ills. The enemy always lies in waiting, hoping to catch me at a time when the unruly “committee” members inside my head cry
Revolution
again. In some circles, it is also referred to as “the fuck its.”

Luckily, I am aware that if I stay connected to the outside world, walk the tiger on my leash with grace, and trust that mighty force in the Universe, I can most likely forego such predicament.

With regards to making restitution, my mentors tell me I belong at the top of that list. I do agree it is “I” whom I’ve harmed the most. And showing up for myself and that little girl inside me that I kicked to the curb many years ago, serves as a large part of making “amends” to myself.

Franziska:
You do owe yourself the favor to live up to your highest potential.

I hope she’s right because without the convenience of hiding behind my defenses these days, I still often catch myself shying away from wanting to shine. With the daily effort of trying to stay out of my own way, I tightly clamp onto Franziska’s other notion which sets forth that all things that rightfully belong to me will find and attach themselves to my life, given I remain committed to this journey toward wholeness, stay on the path of seeking truth, and assist others in finding theirs. I am.

Looking back at my former conviction that becoming famous or busting the chains of Blushetta’s curse would generate self-esteem, I now stand corrected. To my knowledge, healthy esteem develops by performing esteemable acts—acts that can be as simple as helping others or participating in worthwhile endeavors that touch the soul, others’ and one’s own.

And who could have known, too, that the true jackpot was never to gain the love and adoration of a man, or to win the lottery, but instead acquire the love of something imperceptible to the average eye, provided of course, one comes into possession of the pair of special glasses?

I no longer deny that the saying “one first has to believe it before one can see it” holds actual merit.

Liberation

I am pacing from wall to wall inside my room. “There’s so much I had to let go of,” I moan.

I turn on the light, reach for the computer-typed
Freedom List
that I had put on paper a few weeks ago, and start reading. Okay…fine…there is no denying. My breath smooths out as I recollect the true magnitude of the gifts that have been bestowed upon me. Thinking about it all injects my frowning face with a feeling of humility and exuberant joy. I read them over again…

Freedom from
the urge of wanting to compete with other women’s sexuality

Freedom from
needing to be the “hottest” girl in the room

Freedom from
the yearning for the label “Best Fuck That Ever Walked the Earth”

Freedom from
the obsession and the thirst for fame and super model stardom

Freedom from
the urge of needing to fit in with the cool people

Freedom from
having to obsessively stare at myself in mirrors, or check my reflection in store windows

Freedom from
needing to be labeled “sexy” or “hot” or using those words to describe people, places, or things

Freedom from
thinking that I have to laugh when someone tells a dirty joke

Freedom from
the urge of having to wear clothes that will ensure a hit

Freedom from
the obsession with hard, or soft-core pornographic magazines and films, Internet porn, sex shops, lingerie stores, and anything that portrays people as drugs to others

Freedom from
needing to scan places for potential hits

Freedom from
the bondage of having to show you that I can get your man to go for me, or divert his attention from you at any time

Freedom from
wanting to possess a man, or score unhealthy romantic attention

Freedom from
the compulsive need to flirt. I can, if I want to, but as a choice, not a must. This includes freedom from the need to check out who is sitting inside the car beside me at a light, or on freeways

Freedom from
the craving to connect with people and/or places of the underworld, such as pimps, figure modeling establishments, massage parlors, escort services, bordellos, hostess and strip clubs, as well as other obscurities

Freedom from
the need to receive objectifying stares or sexual compliments about my looks or body in order to feel okay; that includes freedom from the urge to provocatively stretch my limbs in public places or excessively play with my hair in order to get attention, to feel lusted after, or desired

Freedom from
the urge of wanting to pursue men that are bad for me

Freedom from
bondage of thinking I have to search for “Mister Right” wherever I go, that I have to search at all

Freedom from
major drama

Freedom from
obsessively listening to radio stations playing nonstop love songs, watching tons of gushy romance flicks, devouring anything tabloid, or joining popular social networking and internet dating sites

Freedom from
the desire to numb out in front of the television watching soap operas, music videos, entertainment gossip, and certain types of talk shows to avoid dealing with life on life’s terms

Freedom from
the attraction to luxury vehicles and sports cars, and designer labels on clothes or other products and items

Freedom from
the bondage of needing to have my hair colored, or worrying too much about its length or style in order to please a man. Gray hairs are lovingly invited

Freedom from
the bondage to sexualize fantasy (on most days)

Freedom from
objectifying others in any capacity (on most days)

Freedom from
the craving for masturbation (on most days). But, should I on rare occasion succumb to it, the act is no longer driven by compulsivity and binge patterns; neither do I need to revert to extreme measures in order to derive satisfaction

Freedom from
bondage to binging on and purging food, and on most days, freedom from the sugar demon

Freedom from
the urge to numb what I’m feeling (on most days)

Freedom from
the urge to participate in the reality-altering behaviors of others

How freeing to know that…

Just because a drug, thing, food item, clothes, person, event, etc. exists or is offered, it does not mean I am obligated to pick it up, use it, eat it, wear it, be with it, or participate in it.

“I am rich!” I shout.

~~~

I awaken to a new morning. My eyes are closed, as I lay stretched out on my back across the Queen-size mattress inside my room. A comfortable silence permeates through me, guides me to a place of rolling hills that are lined with dense patches of dark green forests. I see a white dove serenely sailing across the lush landscape of peaks and valleys. Rehabbed in wing, I envision being that bird and become the bird.