“Only after disaster can we be resurrected.”
“Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.”
It lay there silent, even with the promise of speech written in black sharpie. I don’t know how long it had lain there. Two years at least. That was how long he’d been dead. Two years.
How had I missed it for two years? How had he known? And did I really want to know? Now?
He died on a Wednesday. Windy Wednesday. I remember the cold surrounding everything, reaching in between the folds of my coat as I hurried towards work in the morning. He still lay in bed, asleep, as I leaned down to kiss his flushed cheek. Blonde tousled hair, strong jaw, lids closed over crystal blue eyes.
When we first met, he was conceited and arrogant and vain. I loved him. Too handsome and he knew it. Talented. He sang like an angel. Rock and Roll God. He was drunk, probably high. I found out later that he never used drugs. Hardly ever drank. What I had seen that night was just the sheer joy of his being.
I hated that and I hated him.
I loved him.
In the end, hate won out. He lied, pretending to be what he was not.
Now, the silver disc stared up at me like a plea. Listen to me, it seemed to say, hear me!
He’d loved me with a passion both deep and strong. Wanted me. Needed me. Gave me whatever I wanted except the one thing I had to buy for myself.
The silver disc stared up at me like an accusation.
There had never been a suicide note. Nothing was left except the broken body after he jumped. All the talent and those looks, the betrayal, gone. Crushed.
Did I want to hear his voice again? His song, for it was almost certainly a song. Did I want anything of his that I did not already have? Hearing him would not make up for his lies.
I know he had been drugged that morning. I don’t know if he woke as he was stumbled to the balcony. I don’t know if he woke as he was shoved to the rail. Did he know, that moment before? Was there a single moment of clarity when he saw death?
What did he know on the long way down?
Picking up the silver disc, I broke it between my hands, shock of his knowledge vibrating across my flesh as it shattered, mirrored splinters scattered across the bare wood floor.
Chaos is just a point of view.
When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth.
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
How true. And how sad. Everybody has lied at one time or another. I won’t lie and say I’m any different, but I’ve written about lying before because it has become the major deal-breaker in my life. So apologizes if you’ve heard this before.
All children lie even if just by omission. My children lied. ‘I don’t know who squirted all the toothpaste out of the tube.’ ‘No, Mom, I didn’t eat the last of the pizza.’ Well, if neither child ate the pizza and they are the only two in the house…. hum…. But still they would maintain to the end of time that they hadn’t eaten the pizza. Where then are the stray kids hiding in my house, eating the pizza, squirting the toothpaste, and every other thing my children swore they never did.
So where do we draw the line between childhood lies when lying means ‘the thing never happened, was never eaten, because they don’t yet understand the difference between lies and truths,’ and adult lies meant to intentionally deceive? Or are they are both the same thing just on a different scale?
My children lie now, at 19 and 22. Small wonder. Their father taught them lying to avoid responsibility was the acceptable way to be a man. He also taught them that lying to their mother was an acceptable way to avoid taking responsibility for their own lives.
My Ex spent 20+ years lying about everything and, yes, he stole my right to a truthful life. In order to maintain the fantasy of what I thought life should be, I lied to cover him. In a previous job, I had to lie to cover the owner’s inability to run the business properly. I hated lying, but I didn’t know how else to survive. I wasn’t strong enough to stand up and say ‘no,’ when it might impact my job or my marriage.
I am strong now which goes a long way to explain why I now have an Ex and not a husband. I still have the same kids, however, and retraining them is a long, grueling battle. How do I show them that lying steals my right to the truth, and to a truthful life. How do I make them see, above and beyond anything else, lying is disrespectful, both to me and to themselves? How do I teach them the courage to stand up and tell the truth no matter the consequences and the courage not to steal anybody’s inherent right to truth?
I couldn’t help adding this picture when I ran across it..
I am broken. Horrible way to introduce myself, I know.
“Hi, I’m Broken. Nice to meet you ….” Not!
Horrible and yet, why should I be ashamed? Better hair, better skin, better teeth. Better body. Whooo boy, that’s a big one. Bigger than I that’s for sure. Much bigger. So who and what am I? I can’t change, can’t make myself tall or shorter (for longer than I can squat), prettier, nicer, happier. Seems like we always want the thing that we aren’t.
But back to me. I was born broken, or so I’m told. A wrinkled little prune of a baby boy, covered in blood and cawl. I noticed I was different when I was four, fascinated by the flies dying on the windowsills and floors, snatched from life by the Mother’s flyswatter. Maybe the Mother knew by then, but maybe not.
I knew and that was all that mattered. In fact, from then on, I was all that mattered.
Lots of people think of psychopaths as Hannibal Lecter, Tom Ripley, Becky Sharp from Vanity Fair or everyone’s favorite psychopath, Dexter, and rightly so. The important point, however, is most of you *don’t* think of psychopaths as the neighbor next door or the woman in the cubical. You actually think we’re…. normal.
Don’t you know being a psychopath is the best thing in the world but it’s not normal, not by a mile. At least not in the way the world in large defines normal. But aren’t we all different? Aren’t we all psychopathic in one way or another?
Maybe we chose our own lives, our own paths. I’m assured by the ‘New Agers’ this is correct. We choose out lives, our trials, what we need to learn in each life. Actually, I like the mental image of me in my baby form sitting there, all the paths of the world laid out before me. I could be anything or anyone I want. A President. A King. Famous equestrian. A poor, broken, woman in a war-torn land. (Not sure why anybody would choose such a thing but then I’ve never understood the thinking of the bovine masses.) Are they too afraid to stand apart and shine?
Out of all those choices, however, I chose this path, the path of a psychopath. I am not afraid to stand out and shine. I love standing out and shining. What I love even more, is dazzling the masses with my shine while they think I am as normal as they are. The dictionary defines a psycho as:
‘a deranged or psychopathic person —not used technically’
Think about that. Then tell me what path you would choose.