Inside My Velvet Rope

I have been reading Caitlin Matthews' book In Search of Woman's Passionate Soul. I began reading the book in search of proof that my daimon is a real being who loves and dwells with me; I wanted to know my soul is not alone. To my surprise, when faced with Matthews' assertion in support of that ideal, I rejected it.

( A new incarnation of what I already rejected. )

It's interesting that in my fundamentalist Christian days, I equated daimons with demons. Now, I equate daimons with denial of personal responsibility. Understand, though, that I don't look down on someone for adopting either belief (in a daimon or in a divine presence talking to them). Even if I don't find those ideas useful right now--and who knows how my views may shift in the future...I never saw this shift coming back when I was a fundie--I see how those beliefs can be useful for the people who believe in them.

This rejection of the idea that wisdom, comfort, and guidance come from outside of myself is crucial to my development. One of the things my upbringing took from me and I abdicated as a young adult was respect for my inner voice and trust in my intuition. By rejecting this "somebody bigger than you or I" ideal, I am learning to hear and value my inner voice for the first time. If I later become convinced of the existence of a guiding force outside of myself, I will be able to integrate that belief with self-respect and responsibility for my life.

I am reading Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand, and the book is stirring anger and fear in me. I am about 1/4 through the book, and there is an overwhelming theme of mediocrity being rewarded, while those who do not walk in lockstep are pushed down until they surrender. When the person who is shining brighter than the rest does not quietly accept pleas from friends to step back, people in authority step in to create rules to force them to submit. The rules are created in back rooms and under tables, and the jealousy and hatred that fueled their creation are whitewashed...in this case with empty words about social responsibility and the need to even the playing field so everyone can achieve. Furthermore, those who do not fall in line are told they are selfish and wrong to fight the power.

Not only does this remind me of current political events in this country, it reminds me of some of my experiences in corporate America. I know it is just a book, but it is pushing all sorts of buttons.

One could never say Anaïs Nin was a simple woman. There were many facets to her life, and she seems to have preferred it that way. Most of the time. There are many times in her diary where she writes about being frustrated or afraid or worn out from trying to please so many people so much of the time, of giving so much to others and leaving little or nothing for herself. But then she goes right back to writing how glad she is to be able to be there for them. I have learned, as I have read her diaries, not to think the opinion she expresses is the opinion she will hold by the next day. :-)

I can relate to her hatred of politics and her preference to remain in her own, artistic world. It is an ugly business. But the more I see and learn and the more truths I expose, the more I see I cannot afford to take Nin's stance. She involved herself in some aspects of her lover's communist activities out of love for him, but having no interest or belief in communism itself. I have developed an interest in the democratic process in this country, because I see I have been duped. It is about time I bothered to open my eyes and see what has been right in front of me all along. I was proud to sit with eyes wide open and watch Senator Clinton's strong, gracious speech today. Now I and the other members of the PUMA PAC will take it from here.

labyrinthnight bought me a copy of "Incest", the unexpurgated diary that covers 1932-1934. I can hardly wait to delve into that one!

We saw the new Indiana Jones movie, this afternoon. I thoroughly enjoyed it! Now, though, I am happy to curl back up with "Nearer the Moon".

Also, three glasses of soy milk and a glass of cold water later, I think I was dehydrated. I am still thirsty!

At one point I had begun to find Anaïs Nin's diary overwrought and melodramatic. I stopped reading Volume 2 of the abridged diary for awhile, because I could not tolerate it. But I picked it up not long ago, and now I want more of her! So when I returned Falling Leaves to the Central Library this afternoon, I checked out Volumes 3 and 4 of Nin's unexpurgated diaries. (I will look for Henry and June (Vol. 1) and Incest (Vol. 2) next time.) Volume 3 is called Fire, and begins with the passionate reunification of her and Otto Rank in New York in 1934.

She was a passionate woman, which is a trait I share with her. And I still find it amusing that we share both a birthday and a practice of daily, hand-written journaling. I didn't know either fact until red_silk_robe sent me Vols. 1 and 2 of her abridged diaries for my birthday, this year! Unlike her, though, I do not hand my diaries over to others to read. (She would give volumes to her friends to read, and that is when she first began receiving encouragement to publish them.)

She was something else...she left her husband back in Paris in order to join her lover, Otto Rank, in New York City. Later on her other Parisian lover, Henry Miller, joined her in New York City in order to keep her from forgetting him. She lied to all three of them in order to spend time with whomever she most wanted at the time. I am disappointed in that aspect of her behavor. But she wrote so beautifully and honestly of her deceptions and passionate feelings that I enjoy reading of them.

Speaking of diaries, I need to buy another safe, to protect my most recent volumes. I bought two more blank books today: unlined Moleskine Reporter's Notebooks. The unlined Moleskine I have already half-filled with fountain pen ink and art marker doodlings is my third. What on earth did I write in, before I discovered these notebooks? When I am not experiencing a depressive episode, the pages pull words out of my pen. Yesterday and today I filled seven pages each day with my musings. Scribbling in my diary is the best part of my day...when I am not making pictures, that is.

I am still reading Desmond's Tutu's No Future Without Forgiveness. I wrote the other day about how evening the playing field usually requires revenge, because otherwise those who have wronged me get off free and I am left dehumanized and demoralized. I also said Tutu's idea of not seeking revenge is idealistic. Today, however, I no longer think his idea is idealistic because of one simple matter: the victims/survivors of apartheid were allowed to publicly tell their story in a victim-friendly environment. They were officially hailed as victims/survivors, then they were referred to a sub-committee which would decide what reparations they would individually receive for the gross injustices they suffered. There would be no one-size-fits-all "solution" in an attempt to push things into the closet as quickly as possible. Reparations would be decided on a case-by-case basis.

In other words, there was no need for revenge, because those who were wronged would have their pain publicly acknowledged and would be given some kind of repayment. The government wanted healing and reconciliation, so rather than pushing things under the rug and pretending they never happened, they brought things out to the light and repayed the victims. Granted, there is no way one can truly repay someone for their lost humanity, but by providing some reparation the victims could at least start on the path to healing.

Back to my experiences: there is no public acknowledgment of my pain by those "in power"--I use that term loosely, for lack of a better one...in theory, no one has power over my life, except for me--and there is no reparation for my suffering. Those who wronged me have no interest in healing, just in them remaining top dog and getting away with what they have done. How, then, can healing come to me?

If I had the answer to that question, I could make millions. :-) Not long ago labyrinthnight and I discussed the conundrum of needing closure for wrongs suffered but being unable to get it through reconciliation with the ones who wronged us. We realize we have to seek closure/healing through some other means, and those means may not be obvious and may not result in healing as quickly as if those who did wrong were willing to acknowledge our pain and their part in it. I suppose it is a good thing that we desire healing and don't want to hold onto our pain and anger; that would do us no good. But I am frustrated that the healing process seems like little more than a vague wish, since I don't have an obvious roadmap for it.

Perhaps I need to write more in this space, continue to publicly testify of my pain. I stopped doing that a couple of months ago, because I felt I was talking to myself, making myself unnecessarily vulnerable, and laying my heart bare for nothing. After all, the victims/survivors of apartheid were invited to testify, and the atmosphere was deliberately focused on them; they did not merely stand on a street corner shouting their pains and receiving acknowledgment and reparation. Perhaps I should continue what I have been doing: writing in my paper journal and writing privately to those who, despite their own busy lives, acknowledge my pain and offer understanding, even if they cannot offer reparations. In a sense, those people have become my Truth and Reconciliation Committee. They may not be able to offer reconciliation to specific people, but they are helping reconcile me to the rest of the human race; I feel less like giving up on all people, thanks to them.

The healing process is a long and painful one. I have been on this path for 9-1/2 years and still there is no end in sight. (My idea of "the end" is when I finally feel whole, rather than haunted.) I used to think the answer was God; if that was true, I would not have remained rubbed raw and vulnerable throughout my many, many years of faithful activity in various churches. If there is an answer for me, it cannot be found by merely praying more, reading the Bible more, running myself ragged to serve on someone's committees, and sitting on someone's hard pews for more hours. I just hope I am on the right track and can someday (soon, please, thank you) look back over the minefield that has been my life and marvel that I survived long enough to get to the Promised Land.

12:11 PM: It is important to note that the victims who testified before South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Committee were allowed to tell their stories in their own language, in their own words. They were not ordered how to tell their stories, nor were they subjected to cross-examination, though the perpetrators lobbied for that to happen. The idea was the victims had already had their voices silenced for so long by those perpetrators; now it was their turn to tell their story freely, just like the perpetrators had their turn to shine in the spotlight and turn events the way they wanted them, back when they were abusing those who were now invited to testify.

I've found perpetrators are notorious for crying foul and accusing victims of misrepresenting facts and not telling the "whole truth", when those same perpetrators had long enjoyed the luxury of retelling or hiding history according to their own agendas. When the victims were given the spotlight and allowed to tell their story in their own words, suddenly the perpetrators cried for balance and the hearing of the other side of the story. That is hypocrisy at it's worst, and I've seen it in action in my own life.