Burdens and Laughter
Enmeshment: How the dysfunctional function. Intertwined. Spun together so slowly they don’t notice, they never notice. They heat and they fuse without notice. Where does one end and another begin? Been too much time to know. No one knows.
How the dysfunctional stay in orbit. The balance between sadists and masochists. A delicate balance. To take in, to release; to pull forward, to push away; to resist, to succumb. Unstable, shaky orbit- Barely suspended- Suspended by need, the insatiable need to use, to be used. A way for one to get what one lacks. Give and take relationships. Maladaptive.
You understand.
Happens all the time.
Oh well. Dad: Impulsive, short tempered, needy. Always whining, like a fussy child pulling on the mom’s khakis. He needs a nap, he needs a drink, he wants to smoke, his head aches, he is lonely, he is hungry, he’s anxious, he’s belligerent, his shirt’s too small, his shoes are too big, his tag itches, he’s a big messy ball of need and greed and five-year-old tantrums in public places. A hair-trigger. He is triggered by bright light, by storm clouds, by loud music and crowds and criticism and praise and deadlines and bright colors and springtime- especially springtime-and holidays and great ideas and books and babies and sunsets.
He is excessive--
--too loud, too angry, too sad, too happy, too easily distracted, too quick to jump the gun, to play with fire, to start a fight, to feed the hungry, to starve himself, to give in, to give up, to start over. Too full of life, too full of desire, too full of spiritual things. Fall makes him talk fast, leave his bedroom, overeat, throw parties, celebrate, kiss strangers, take it all in—‘enjoy life,’ he says, ‘it’s precious.’
And so it was.
But was it?
‘So selfish. Such a tragedy, such a shame. So young.’ ‘Not that young really.’ ‘But his family!’ ‘Yea that’s true…’ ‘Doesn’t matter now.’ ‘Oh well.’
He is too much, spilling out everywhere, all the time. Smothering and permeable. Everyone else is fine with this. They don’t mind that much, but she did. Just ask her.
‘Really’’ they say, ‘we don’t mind that much. He’s fine; he’s funny, happy to have him.’ They laugh and laugh and laugh.
Mom: Cool, aloof, unscathed. No survivor basements for mom. Not one. No way. Not with those people. She is certainly not one of those people. Forget it. No apologies, no guilt. Totally uninterested, unconcerned, untouched. No need to touch, to be touched. Untouchable. Stable. No how’s, why’s, no could’ve-done- something’s. No sir. Not one. Who cares? Not this one. This one here is just fine, thank you. Just ask her.
Detached.
Perfect lipstick. Perfect posture. Perfection. Symmetry. The woman you want to set on fire just to see if she’ll scream, then set yourself on fire when she doesn’t. Admired. Respected. Feared. Envied. The enigmatic aura reserved for those who do not need and have mastered the self containment of saints.
The coquette. The deeply shallow woman. Two dimensional. Flat. Self-absorbed. Powerful. She levitates.
Always facing the other direction, driving Dad crazy, making Dad cry, making Dad scream, making him go away and come back and lose his footing and regain his balance and he’s always trying to fly to reach the heavens. Trying to get somewhere great for her. He cares. Just ask him.
Oh wait-
How to Break the Cycle: Son, Feed the dog. Water the plants. Take out the garbage. Don’t let your grades fall. Be smart. Be cool. Be patient. Don’t laugh too loud. Don’t think too much. Dream only when you’re sleeping. Please. Love, Dad
Lynn, Q: How do you extinguish a fire? A: Ignore it. When it dies on its own, it’ll never come back.
This is what we thinkers like to call The Theory of Irreversibility, Darling.
ha ha, I win, Daniel
Narcissists: These are the estranged cousins, twice-removed, seen once at a family reunion, very distant, who live on the other side of the universe and fly in with a need to be needed, to be important, to take up space, to be heard, to be a savior, a martyr; the classmates who suddenly care, the cheating wives who wanted out, now they’d give anything if they’d of done something, anything, they say; the mother’s of friends, the complete strangers who could’ve done something-- a smile, a complement, a sign of human decency. Just a shred. That’s all. They believe they could’ve done something, would do something now if they could do it all over again. Reversal. Can’t do it again. Can’t take it back. Irreversible. Permanent. The drama queens. The somber faces masking the glee that comes with irreversible permanent things. Can’t go back if you tried. Wouldn’t try if you could. (If you’re honest. You can be honest.)
Liars.
Narcissists.
Oh well.
Son: Twelve years old, youngest one here, always the youngest. Feeling small, feeling suffocated, feeling the need to puncture his skin and let the insides run out when it gets too tight, feeling everything at once, feeling like he wants a vacation. Lots of survivor meetings in basements. How appropriate. Basements. Too many basements, everyone has basements, he thinks. He’s plenty sick of basements and that’s for sure. He must admit he’s proud of dad. For once, dad succeeded. Dad won. Go Dad. In the basements, lots of hugs, lots of whisky tears, plenty of coffee. Most take it black. He takes none. Plenty of ears ready to listen. Interruptions. Always interrupting his time to talk, to share, to purge the excess. ‘Back to my story now,’ they say. Lots of how’s and what- the- hells and how-didn’t- I- see- it’s. ‘I mean what the fuck,’ they say, showing strangers their palms. Hands go up- defeated. ‘Bizarre,’ they say. Just absolutely bizarre. A few say: ‘I could’ve done something. If only I’d done something.’ If only... Please.
As if.
Yeah right.
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