Journal 3rd Sept 2005

And a new journal is started under the new moon. To the sound of my skin splitting and my brain going mad, my body dancing in a frenzy of shaking, joy, misery, loneliness, bliss, gratitude, madness, tears, despair, laughter, hope, panic, anger, fear.
I am raw.
And full of light.

The void, ever closer, ever more real, never more of a mirage.

But still, it scares the shit out of me.

And I feel like I'm dancing with the Universe. A belly dance of double dare, come ahead, bring it on, punch me in the stomach, go ahead, punch away, knock me flat on my arse why don't you, coz whatever this lesson is, I just don't get it yet. Teach me. Break me. Make me bleed. Dance me to the edge of it. Push me. Over the edge. I dare you. For I know, there is no sting.

Releasing an obsession is a scary business. It brings you to the edge, of the void. Especially when another 'falling in love' looking outside is the final kick in the head for sweet gardener-world.

The void. Never closer. I can smell it. Feel myself pulled to it, dizzy, nauseous, breath-sucking no air, falling spiral tunnel of it. The blackness of it coz my head is no longer full of him. So I am face to face with the loneliness of being.

I wanted out. I did. I said it over and over. But he stepped out first. And I am mad as hell. So mad I 'd like to fuck him just to say I did.

He's with a Japanese woman who has loved him for a long time and, I suspect, been burned by him before.
I saw it happen, made it happen, knew it would happen. Was on my knees in Aberdeen, knowing it was happening. Summer solstice. Our anniversary. I should have gone.

I went back the week after, drawn in a panic by whatever this connection is between us, knowing he was with someone else, to see him newly with her. Both of us raw, bewildered, baggy eyed, in despair, in tatters, lost, in panic, like an animal shot, looking all around, not knowing how this pain came about.

Neither of us understand how we got here.
Broken in two.

Because not a word was spoken.

But at least he has someone and I'm jealous as fuck that it's so easy for men to pick up someone, anyone, to bury their pain in. While I, have no-one. That's what hurts the most. Not the loss of him, the absence of my someone else. My 'other'.

That Sunday brunch, I sat with a baby on my knee, loud Danish woman's silent baby. He couldn't stand to see it. He took Japanese woman inside and fucked her in the toilet. Two minute rage of sex, and she thinks he loves her. It is so all in the mind. We think we are loved and the world can see otherwise. It is so all in our minds.

Later that week at a barbecue, him leaning toward me giving himself away, she knew. He loves me, not her. She knew. And my heart went out to her. It did. His coldness. The using of it, of her. I saw my escape, but was jealous. She saw his longing and was mad. In her huff and his rage at her I saw. It's me he wants to be with. But it's her he's fucking.

What the fuck use is that to me? I drove home that night, unable to stay another minute, in raging tears, screaming at top of my lungs at the windscreen.

Me later that Sunday morning, alone in the cabin, on my hands and knees sobbing at the silent fucking misunderstanding of it all, howling like an animal, throwing up, sobbing. And what pisses me off most is, at least she's getting laid. Used like a wanky sock, but hey, warm flesh and manly scent against her, however briefly. And I long to be held. Feel that hairy warmth, of a man.

I couldn't eat. My throat closed in my outrage, in my loss, of what I never had. And still, my heart went out to her. I met her watering tomatoes early that Sunday morning, before I knew for sure. I was taking photographs in the sunshine. She was singing. The worst flaky high pitched Japanese squeaking singing I've ever heard in my life. The plants were curling up. But I smiled and thought, she's in love.

Later, at brunch, seeing her thinking it was his passion for her when he grabbed her, taking her inside, when it's his sex addiction. From heroine to fucking, to numb the pain. It was heart-breaking to watch her humiliation looming. That moment when she twigged. This is not what love is.

I wish I hadn't read so much about codependence, but I saw it.
Saw where I could have been. Where my higher self would not let me go. And still, I was jealous. Though my heart went out to her in her delusion. I was jealous. How could he ask her and not me? How could he? And I know the truth is she just fell for one of his clumsy finger flicking pawings that were not okay with me, not enough for me. She fell for it. Like hundreds of others probably fell for it. He picks his victims, he knows his type. The type who will dance the dance with him. I have left that dance hall. But I'm walking home alone.

Am I happy I'm not that needy any more? Not really.
Am I proud that I think more of myself than that? Not really.
Am I happy at what this means for my self esteem? Not enough.
Do I feel adult in any way? No.

I'll tell you what I feel. I feel lonely. Devastating, suicidal, can't take any more of this lonely.
And I'm livid.

I never saw anyone so angry after sex in my life as he did that morning, storming back out, leaving her. Not a shred of tenderness or affection, his face like thunder. Then she appeared, her wee face, thinking 'I'm loved so much and he can't keep his hands off me'. God it was sad. I felt for her. Saw the place I could have been, but still in my relief, I was devastated.

Is it better to have fucked than lost?

I don't know. I'm past caring. But my jealousy in those weeks was obscene. I called her sushi in my thoughts. A human being, sushi. I never said it, but I thought it. Obscene.

He's not for me and yet he's all for me. My mirror, my gardener. Not so sweet. But a warrior, out of heroine addiction and living on the streets, that takes some warrior stance. Now on to sex addiction and fucking his way through the vegetables in Findhorn. Better for his health. I suppose. He's reverted to type. Coz he thought I didn't want him. Thought I was with a Japanese man when I was in his garden to be with him. And I didn't see what was going on until I was home. Too busy looking at sweet gardener to notice the silent Japanese man who followed me everywhere, to every workgroup always at my side. I didn't see him. All I saw was sweet gardener, looking over, looking miserable. And not coming to me. He fucks everyone he can get away with fucking, so he assumed I did too.
I didn't. I haven't. I wouldn't.

Fucking Japan. I will never go there. And my haiku sting.

And he dropped her, stopped calling her when I came back two weeks later. She was miserable, crying at dinner, as he was out walking without her, trying to bump into me in the dunes, my evening habit of walking the beach.

Two evenings in a row he passed me, coy, and it dawned on me, he actually thinks I'll go to him now. After this. He's waiting on me coming to him. Stopping him, wanting him, asking him. Saying come to me. When he chose someone else over me, he actually thinks I'd still go to him. That this isn't over. That poor girl waiting on him like an idiot, like the type of idiot I used to be, and he thinks I'd still come to him!

I will not.

Sloppy seconds. No thanks.

This growing self esteem taking me out of codependence is a lonely business. It's the hardest thing I've ever done.

At first.

But God it feels good once the grief is worked through - and that's the trick of it. Sit in the grief. Crawl on your hand and knees, howling in the grief. Get it out. Dance it out, scream it out, out is the action - don't eat it, don't drink it, nothing must come in. Get it out. Sob, snotter and shake until your head is thumping, but get it out.

Then there's space for something else.

I recently read that the only way to be invulnerable, is to be vulnerable. It's true.

That was in June. It took me until Lammas, and a green eyed man, to get over him. I have only been able to go into my garden this last week. It was too lonely. Nobody there. I couldn't feel the plants. Or perhaps, I felt them too much.
I couldn't face them, I know that.

Sweet peas from my week in Cullerne flowering madly and maddeningly. They should die, Autumn is here, what are they on? I want to pull them up, get rid of the wig-wam reminder of them, but the pods on them, the seeds I can collect from them, drawing me back to my life-giving garden, drawing me to my true love, drawing me to the future, to new beginnings. From the chaos in a seed comes an intention. (Steiner)

After it happened, I planted two passion flowers in my garden.
To bring a new love to me. Bring true passion to me, healthy and vibrant. I don't know what the hell I thought they'd mean but it meant something to me would they grow, would they die, would the snails eat them overnight?
I put them out directly, daring the snails to try it, just try it.
They didn't go near them.

Today in the Indian summer sunshine, as I picked some parsley I saw, quite by accident, there is a single gloriously exotic bloom on them and huge buds waiting to burst forth. I was over the moon. An omen. A sign. My passion is back.
The spell is broken.

I can go back to it now.
My garden.

So what the hell was it all about? What was it all for? Am I back to where I was before Experience Week? Before that Wednesday when the earth shook and I fell for sweet gardener?

Not likely. But I have found out he had a message for me. The shaman who told me 'When we don't listen to our spirit guides, they make us fall in love or fall in hate to wake us up' - he was right. But that's a story for another day.

In the day to day world, the lessons of this last year are boundless. I'm listening.

To name but a few; I am no longer conflicted that I want a relationship, but I know the shit up with which I will not put. Now I tell the men I like that I like them. I am the first to send emails and I speak my truth. IM me why don't you. Want to chat? Am shameless. No prisoners, but mostly my gentle self is present, though not tonight, and best of all, there is no fear - or if there is, only of the void.

Some men can't take it. Truth is a natural weeder. I don't care. All bets are off in this dance. The cosmic iPod is downloading straight into me and has turned up the volume, belly dancing mix blaring. I am shimmying, screaming my tongue-warbling aye aye aye scream, or laughing my head off - coz it's no use to me the way it is. Get it out.

Stand well back, and mind the gap, it's pulsating in your direction.

My passion flowers
As I belly dance the world;
Kiss my jingling arse