Speaking of the Unspeakable


I think almost every woman I’ve ever encountered rants about trust – with their eyes ready to be narrowed and an almost imperceptible head roll that warns you to keep your mouth shut. It’s almost a sort of bonding ritual. And it binds them all to continue to mistrust. We all dutifully hang our heads because we’ve all been untrustworthy before and they think “mmhmm. Another douchebag.” at which point we’re second guessed forever because we have a penis, or immediately fucked. Or both. It’s an exhaustive Sisterhood cult thing that no one is allowed to say anything to. Because we’re all guilty. 
It also doesn’t give us permission to rise above our pasts, or the past of the jerk who was jumping up and down shouting “HI!!! I’M A BAD BOY!!! THROW EVERYTHING YOU ARE INTO ME TO PROVE YOU’RE LOVABLE EVEN THOUGH I’M OBVIOUSLY NOT INTERESTED IN GOING THERE!!!” …or something like that. 
Stop it. As long as the bonding through the Coven of Unjustly Brokenhearted keeps up there is no looking at what’s really happening that could change EVERYTHING…
Take some time.
Reboot your relationship with yourself.
Take baby steps getting reacquainted with your intuition.
Because somewhere along the way of redoubling your efforts at loving the bad old way it got misaligned and not to be trusted because you needed Sir Dumptruck to stay. So you batted that little voice down that told you he was full of shit. Traded away another piece of integrity for his presence. Now, horribly askew, you growl at anything wearing brown cowboy boots and are annoyingly repulsed by and drawn to varying versions of the same old shit.
Make friends with yourself again – or for the first time.
In an alternate universe – right next to you – people trust until you give them reason not to and it’s not a reflection on their worth or value. Because they like themselves.

Merriment & Madness & Mimicry

I’ve never seen such universal outpouring over the death of someone almost none of us knew in person. Because he made us laugh. Because he was a kind and often wise presence. Because for all his fame he was vulnerable and humble in very real ways and bared them to us. For all these reasons we all felt the illusion of relationship to him, though really he simply gave us hope for our own selves. For humanity. He was kind. An all too rare trait in our world. I don’t begrudge him taking leave of his demons. Who am I to judge his burden and pain. To profess his right course. Don’t let your last thoughts of him be of judgment so that your illusion can find purpose in being smashed. Seek instead to emulate his gentle spirit. For if you are spared his pain, being less cynical and a little more loving to your fellows should be a cakewalk.
Thanks for putting so much goodness into the universe for all of us you hairy beast.