Hellbender
Acici is a woman slipping into throes of addiction.
What you must know is that when people say that, like they are addicts- we must remember that this is not like just the simple act of using a drug, it is a culture, a space that lacks proper flow. A lifestyle where what matters most is not what is best for you. It’s shallow and fruitless.
For me it was like a spiral, where with each turn and toss, my focus was altered in such a subtle way that it seemed that one day, my priorates were just simply all off wack. My job, my family, my health, my intellect, my spirit, MY COMMUNITY, began to take the back seat.
In your darkest days of addiction, you begin to bring harm to those spaces, those relationships.
Slowly, your rickety wheel leaves you stranded, at best. We are capable of regeneration but often we need a little guidance.
Our best bet is to go, spoke by spoke of the wellness wheel and solidify each portion of our life- I understand Acici all too well.
In the aftermath of a divorce, she begins to feel the effects of an emotional hijack. Can it be, after all this time, layered under years of sediment and soil, her fear of abandonment can still rock her world?
Acici became a writer by way of survival. As a young girl, much like me, she learned to tweak the story of her own little life, in an attempt to create a reality where she was safe and in control; a world so fantastical, hers would seem normal.
She mimics the amygdala, an emotional sentinel- stamping on the brains of her never-ending line of lovers; their gifts, their bones, their endings, all mapped out on the road towards her next big dig.
In Poirot’s voice she hears,
“It’s sedimentary my dear” To her it made perfect sense, the little story she created, this illusion of safe and a forever mate, when it ended the formula, you know, the balance of her life was not solid, things got so twisted. It’s as if the series of fractures threw her off.
Threatened to bury her.
Fortunately, some girls can’t stay buried.
The beginning of our stories are so similar, episodes of uneasy goodbyes- like tripwire along the road of any attempt towards true love.
The difference between us is how we were able to react to the cataclysmic events surrounding a divorce. Mine led to my current incarceration, hers landed her on her therapist’s couch.
That’s how it is, she can think of a million times when a two people are charged with similar things, or are struggling with addiction or mental illness and they have been held much more culpable and dealt with much more severely.
” Acici sat on the plush suede chaise, her face turned slightly to the side, just enough to peer out over the bay.
Her focus was on a scene from the distant past and it wasn’t visual. No, it was the memory of a smell, the pungent odor of mildew.
She paned right and noticed her therapist, Ms.. Sorter, was explaining how common it is for persons who experienced trauma at a young age and their inability to recall the details of their childhood homes or the rooms in which the trauma occurred.
Acici smiled as she found gratitude in her ablate to recall the details of her childhood bedroom, the smell of salt and sand. She could still see the giant blow-up plastic Bozo the clown, the red apple hook rug that she and mommy made, one little strand of yard at a time. She could see the chartreus, chiffon curtains shimmering and swaying in the Florida breeze. The way it always seemed like summer.
Ms… Sorter provided safe space with a long pause, like the tone of a temple bell from her favorite meditation; the thought reminded her to breath. Acici mustered up the strength to explain the significance of the smell of mildew- how it served as one of her greatest triggers.
Acici began to recount the details of her youngest memories, it amazed her that she had mostly beautiful images stamped on her heart.
She reveled in this strange truth, the amygdala hijack- when the feelings buried alive inside our hearts, even when they are the smaller part of our recall, still have the power to rise to the surface and send us into fight or flight. It’s as if we weren’t meant for this concrete, polite, urban space. We are physiologically wired to face down lions, jump from waterfalls, when needed. The same neuropathways that keep us on a tightrope here, would serve us better in our privative lives. She pondered all of these thoughts, perhaps life was meant to be deeper, more adventurous. We certainly weren’t meant to be caged.
Perhaps it’s the contrast of smell that helps her revisit her childhood home with mum in the house. Mum is a quite person and this may explain why I have always associated scent with the memories attached to her. Mother was always shaping pottery, drying herbs. weaving hemp and nylon rope into macrame- the smells of earth, clay, hemp and flora- dominated the house when she was there.
After the day she said she was going shopping and never returned, wet clothes and towels began to pile up. I was only 5, I didn’t understand that our beach stuff would spoil and mildew.
When Sam served me with divorce papers, it’s as if they were made of mold.
I saw myself falling into a rabbit’s hole, and I know how deep that hole can go.
A chill ran down Acici’s spine, as she peered down at her hands, her mother’s hands now that she is older, she searched for one more revival of breath.
It was only in knowing the depth of the hole which once consumed her that she sought help from Dr.Sorter. She found a note in her diary one day: ” Sometimes the hole inside you is so large, it threatens to consume you….Claim the events of your life to make yourself yours”
She decided to take her brothers advice, the advice in her diary, and seek the help of a therapist.
The trickiest thing about sobriety is that when so many years have passed, it is easy to forget how the floor of the hole felt on bare feet. How it felt not to feel at all, not to trust anyone, not even yourself. Acici turned her gaze back to the bay and noticed a new boat coming in to the marina.
Suddenly, she sees herself, driving her car, fixated on the rear view mirror. She promised herself she would never forget how it felt to drive like that again, never forget how it felt to sleep on a cold stele slab with an itchy- scratchy, used-by – a- bumb- blanket.
No man is worth falling that far.
Emotions are fleeting.
She can work this out.
So here she is, like and archeologist on a dig, attempting to dust off the emotions buried deep in her heart and sort it all out one more time; wrestling amygdala as she rears her wild head.
With her, amygdala, it doesn’t matter if things appear to have been reconciled. NO matter how many years you’ve sifted through the soil; shook the contents of the pan, she still shows up unexpectedly.
One of the things she saw in the pan was an amazing drive for life and the pursuit of living that life with absolute love and vigor. Just as the smell of mildew there are so many other scents that propel me, nourish me.
If I were to use paint to demonstrate the motion how would it be?
Acici sat back, closed her eyes and pictured herself in the rocky mountains. She’s dressed like a gold miner, wearing a worn leather hat, stooped down over a creek with her pan in hand. Her heart thaws and her nerves seem to reconnect as she begins to see little sparkles of gold, rationality, security, hope, all gleaming and reflecting sunlight.
She looked more closely at her painting and she noticed the trigger of abandonment as a cobra, rising out of the pan, blocking out her view of the gold. She forced herself to say outload, ” viva la Vida “.
Once again, her attention shifted back to Ms.. Sorter. She laughed as she heard her sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but what Ms.. Sorter was saying was so powerful.
“Love is the cure. Real love comes from loving yourself; loving yourself enough to find your balance, never let your fight or flight situations be the fools gold that casts a glare in your eyes. “
Back in the car, she calls her mum to tell her how much she loves her.