The adage goes: Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
But distance also provides a deep sense of clarity.
The past three months have been, in a word, tortuous. Three months ago I gained a profound depth of clarity as well as humility. Over the course of six years, I’d been prescribed by doctors copious amounts of amphetamines, opiates, and benzos. When I mean copious, I’m not kidding. 6 kilograms of amphetamines, 3 kilograms of opiates. I should have died from these lethal doses, but I muddled through unscathed. No damage to my brain, but my metaphorical heart was crushed. I’d become a monster. I was drooling on my self, lost interest in others, and ruined my 30-year relationship.
I went cold turkey to purge myself of these toxins which wasn’t painful, but terribly discomforting. I don’t have an addictive personality, but I was dependent. When I meditated the voice of wisdom told me to rid myself of these toxins. Without their removal, I wouldn’t gain clarity. And without clarity, I wouldn’t ever understand humility.
There are six fundamentals of the human condition: Life, Peace, Humility, Clarity, Courage, and Truth. These words have been carefully selected so as to avoid any misinterpretation. The human condition cannot achieve one without the others. For instance, we cannot gain clarity without truth and courage; we can’t gain humility without life and peace. But as humans, we tend to avoid these tenets. We lie, we cheat, we distrust, we have arrogance.
I have been blessed to receive them all. I have seen and felt them missing. I have lied. I have fostered mistrust. I have pretended to be humble but acted out of arrogance. Whenever we deny ourselves the full embrace of these tenets, we deny our own existence. We deny ourselves our own humanity. Are these tenets difficult to accept? Yes. But once we surrender ourselves to these fundamental expressions of our humanity, the world, in its divine expression, provides for us the very fabric of Life.
And Life is the greatest gift of all.
This morning I gained profound clarity. I understood that Artem and I will never be together. That I had wholly manufactured our relationship because I had experienced a hope which was so pervasive and desperate that I was willing to forgo sanity. I had been incarcerated for two months as a severe manic. I’d been entombed in some of the most sadistic and disgusting psyche wards in Chicago. 4 psyche wards in 14 days. Some offered a bolted down cot, with no pillow, and a sheet which was tied down so I couldn’t strangle myself. I’d been locked away in some nursing homes which prevented me from wandering outside wrought iron fences. My former partner took out a restraining order against me after I’d tried to strangle him in an ER. I had no home, no address, nowhere to run from these oppressive places, so I turned to my imagination to escape.
It was in the bowels of my imagination that I found Artem. I yearned for any escape. Any thing which even smacked of normalcy. So I developed a relationship with Artem that I thought was real. I was so desperate that I didn’t know what else to do. I asked my Parisian over breakfast this morning, “Haven’t you been so desperate to free yourself from the bonds of personal anguish, that you’d believe in anything which provided the most ridiculous shred of hope?”
But it wasn’t until last night did Wisdom bestow upon me clarity.
My Parisian is flesh and blood. When he first embraced me, I felt the knobs of his spine, I languidly stroked his chest hair, I allowed my fingers to trail down his belly to his button, I let my eyes wander through his eyes and I saw my own attractiveness there; I touched his arousal as though it were molten iron; I kissed his tender lips, letting our tongues dance with each other as though they’d known each other for lifetimes.
And it was there, in flesh and bone, that I’d discovered the stark difference between fantasy and reality. The dreams of Artem were simply a way for me to maintain sanity. It’s my Parisian that allowed me to feel my future, my reality.
So I’ve learned over the course of the past few days that I’m not interested in hope, but am fully vested in reality. Whatever doesn’t happen with Artem doesn’t happen. Artem is paying dearly for crimes he committed in South Africa years ago: Tax evasion, fraud, and criminal intent. I simply can’t help him.
Ah, but the Parisian? In him, I have found myself, and in his eyes I see myself. In all my true colors and wrinkles; in my Parisian, I have learned to fall in love with myself.