Stupid For Your Love

I just want to stop fucking things up.  I want to rest easy in my body, easy in the knowledge of who I am.  I want to be secure.  Secure in me, in who I am and what I can offer.  But the doubts bubble up, and I am no longer detached enough from who I am to allow them to pass by, so I embrace them and shoulder them and show them to others, and they, sensing my desperation, my insecurities, leave.

I get on my motorbike and drive to the ocean, to the beautiful Bali sea that once washed away all my troubles, all my fears.  I park the bike, shedding my clothes on the dark brown sand as I drift into the depths of the watery salt and ask it to wash it away, to remove the doubts, the fears, the insecurities, the leftover energy that I no longer need, the intrusions.  And it does what it can.  I climb out of the rollicking waves, gather my clothes in my hands, and drape my sarong around my body as I climb onto the volcanic rock.  I walk to the edge, my sarong blows in the breeze, my wet hair slaps against my shoulders, my back, and I look to the horizon.  It’s cloudy.  So is my heart.  If I could just pull my still-beating heart out of my chest and dip it into the sea, wash it clean.  If I could just clear it of the piles of disappointment, of disillusion, of heartbreak.  If I could just make it shiny and new and worthy of love again.  But I can’t do that.  And whoever loves me must love this heart with all of its past, its fear, its flaws and imperfections. He must love its sixth sense, its visions, its dreams, its ideals.  He must embrace its fragility, its aching tenderness, and bouts of neediness.  He must endure its sufferings, its periods of quiet solemnity , and its treacherous battles.  But first, I must.  I must love it, embrace it, and endure it.    And I must hold it and tell it that it’s safe and beautiful and loved, and above all, that it’s so very deserving.

I get back on my motorbike and drive to the villa.  It’s late in the afternoon, and I haven’t eaten.  I have no appetite.  No hunger for food, for the substance of life.  I go into the bathroom.  I strip down.  I wash my hair, my face, my body.  I slip on a sundress and walk outside.  I walk the edge of the pool and sit on the warm concrete, my face turned toward the direction of the ocean. I overlook the rice fields and the cows grazing nearby.  And the tears come.  The disappointment wells up and spills out of my eyes and I think of the message from David that I got on Tuesday, “Toughen up ole’ girl.”  And through the tears, I laugh.

I am living for Tuesdays right now. Tuesdays is when I get to learn.  David is my teacher, my guide into this world of Spirit that I have begun to discover and explore.  David is a medium.  The real deal.  He’s an unseemly character as he is a retired kickboxer, a 57 year old rough and tumble English gentleman.  But he is as real as they come.  And accurate.  So very accurate.  And I trust him enough that I have told him about a boy that I have met, that I sort of like, but that I fear that he may like someone else.  And David laughs on the other end of the phone and talks about how women’s intuition is often wrong, but he picks up on this boy that I like and says, “I just got that it was for a short time.”  And, of course, David is right.  A very short time.  A couple of weeks.  Time enough to remember what it’s like to have someone to share with, to talk to, to cuddle.  And time enough for me to get in my own way and let the doubts and insecurities sabotage it.   So, this guy and I decide that we really should refit our interactions and allow a friendship to develop instead of a relationship.  And, I’m good with this because he also reveals that he is scared of my psychic and healing ability, that it makes him uncomfortable.  And this is who I am at my core – a psychic, a healer, a believer in all things spiritual.  I am a person who believes in the accuracy and aid of dreams.  I am a person who believes that the aura will tell you if someone is lying.  I am a person who believes that there are no coincidences in this world.  So, how could I possibly have a relationship with someone who is afraid of who I am, of what I am?  So, I gracefully let the hope of a relationship go and reform it into the hope of a friendship.  Logically it makes sense.  Rationally, it’s a relief.  Spiritually, it’s the best thing for me.

But my poor little heart.  My poor little desperate heart.  She wants someone to love her so badly for all that she is.  So, my heart aches, and my mood declines, and I slide between the sheets with my wet hair and let the tears fall for my broken heart.  And I know that these tears are for all the breaks it’s endured, not this little recent nick.  These tears are for my multitude of fuck ups; these tears are for everything that I have given up to walk this lonely path looking for my soul’s riches.

And I ask Spirit to show me that beautiful, blindingly, white light so that I may step into it, so that I may end this physical suffering.  Because I’m so very tired, and while the rainbow is beautiful and the colors many, there is no pot of gold at the end.  There is, instead, disillusion.  I no longer want to be here.  I no longer want to be where I am.  I close my eyes and wait for the light, but Spirit decides to show me Thailand instead, and I am whisked away back to Rawai, back to the Muay Thai Boxing gym.   And I see friend’s faces; I hear laughter.

We’re dancing.  We’re having fun.  Rob, Nosheen, Nat, Brad, Zak, Aleshia.  Cameras flash.  Smiles.  Laughs. Yells back and forth over the thumping bass of the music.  Nat and I stick close together.  English Nat. She’s lovely and funny; she makes me laugh, and her spirit is sweet.  I see Brad.  I step down and take his hands, dance with him for a minute.  He pulls me close to him, “I couldn’t have made you any more perfect,” he says.  And it’s so sweet, so, so dear. He kisses my neck.  But, it’s not what I want, and I shake my head and he looks at me and says, “No?”  “No,” I say.  And, in his drunken bravado, he smiles and dances away.  I venture back up to Nat, and explain that the night has gotten a little strange, and I’m ready to go.  She is too. We catch a ride back to the gym.  In confidence, I tell her about Brad.  We decide it’s all bravery from the beer and bid each other good night.  I wash the tropical heat and smell of smoke from my body, brush past the boxing ring and slip into my room for sleep.

 

Dancing in Thailand

 

 

The next morning as we’re gathering the gang for a late breakfast, Dutch Matt asks where Brad is.  “What do you mean?”  I say.  “He was with us last night, but when Nat and I left the club, he was still there.  Did he not come home?”  “No,” says Dutch Matt, “He’s not here.”   I go wake Nat and let her know.  I go to Nosheen’s room.  Ahhh Nosheen.  I adore this girl.  At this point, I’ve known her for a few days, and it’s already so easy to be in her presence.  She’s special.  I can tell that.  Nosheen and I chat for a bit, but she’s really tired, so she is going to skip breakfast.  I tell her I’ll come find her later.

Liz tells us that Brad doesn’t have his phone, so there is no way to contact him.  We’ve asked the other guys from the club last night if they’ve seen Brad. No one has seen him.  We’re a bit worried.

We head for breakfast, but decide to go to a different place this morning, a place right around the corner and across the main road.  It’s a skeleton crew.   MattE – the sweet Ozzy  with the exquisite spirit,  Dutch Matt, Liz,  Zak – fellow American,  Rob -from Dubai, a man I first noticed because of his physical appeal, but became infinitely more beautiful when he showed me the depths he’s capable of in a conversation about  love and relationships beside a quiet pool, Aleshia and Nat. We talk about the shenanigans of the previous night and catch MattE and Liz up as they decided to have an early night.    It’s nearing lunch time now, and we decide that if Brad isn’t back by 5:00 that we will notify the manager of the gym and contact the police.  We finish our breakfast.  We laugh.  And someone yells out, “There’s Brad.”  We all turn and look.   The motorbike is whizzing by, long, dark hair whipping behind the driver, and Brad side-saddling on the back, hunched over, looking like he’s been run over by a steam engine more than once.  We yell out, “Brad,” but he doesn’t hear us.  Then someone says, “That was a man driving. Did you see those shoulders?  Those were broad shoulders.”  And Dutch Matt takes off on his motorbike, following the path blazed by Long -Hair-with-Man-Shoulders and Painfully-Hungover-Brad.  And we’re sitting there at the table, some of us with mouths hanging open, some with tongues wagging, but all relived because Brad’s back.

Dutch Matt pulls back up on his bike and swaggers over with the information.  “It was definitely a man. I stopped him in the road as he was leaving.  It was a lady-boy.”  I look at Nat, “I feel bad,” I tell her.  “Yeah.  You know this is all your fault, right?  You drove him to go home with a lady boy.”  And I just look at her.  And we laugh.  “I do feel bad, though,” I say again.

So, it’s out.  Brad is being brought home on the back of a motorbike after a night of heavy drinking by a lady-boy.  And, there is no denying this because we all saw it.  And, we’re a ruthless group.  I hope that he handles it with finesse and just owns up because this group will ride the hell out of him for this.  There is no living this one down.  Not with us.  Not with this group.  Because this group is like family, and family is always the most ruthless.

The day passes and the night arrives, and our friend Diana is prepping for her fight.  We all go out to dinner to support her, to encourage her.  The gang drags in to dinner in pairs, in fours, and Brad is one of the last to come to the table.  It gets quiet.  We all look in his direction.  “How are you feeling?” I ask.  “Okay,” he says.  And I don’t remember exactly how it came out; I don’t remember the words that were spoken, but Brad completely fesses up to having gone home with a lady-boy.  “I don’t remember a thing,” he says.  “Does your bum hurt?” I ask.  “No, thank God,” he says, “But I woke up naked on his couch, so I can only assume something happened.”   “Maybe best to get tested when you get back to Wales,” I say.  He agrees.  And I just want to rush over and hug this sweet, sweet man.   Just hug him for all that he is, for his beautiful innocence, for his honesty, for his self-acceptance.  But, since that’s not completely appropriate in the middle of dinner, I hug him with my soul instead and hope he feels it.  And the group digs in and details fall about.  And we laugh.  “I don’t remember anything,” he says, “but something must have happened.”   Zak looks over at him, “Brad, is that a hickey on your neck?”  We all look.  It is.  We laugh and say, “Oh yeah, something happened all right.”  “What was it like this morning?” I ask him, “Was it uncomfortable; did you talk?”  “Oh.  There was no talking,” he says.  Zak leans over to him, “Hey, Brad don’t worry about it.  Talking is for girls.”  And we erupt in laughter of course.  Brad continues, “I woke up.  I was naked.  I put on my clothes.  I asked her, him. . .  it if it could take me home.  It agreed.  It drove me home.”  “Yeah.  A taxi looks like a really good idea in hindsight, doesn’t it?” someone asks.  “Oh yeah,” says Brad, “A really good idea.”

And just like that Brad becomes my hero.  A man who is honest and accepts what he’s done, where he’s been.  A man who doesn’t hide behind lies or denial.  A man who is simply himself – and knows that that’s enough.   And the jokes continue.  And Brad endures.  And he laughs at himself.

And I, safe in Bali, come out of this memory.  And I come out of this funk that I’m in.  I dry my tears.  I dust myself off.  At least, this guy I liked was really a guy.  I mean, it could have been worse.  But, more than the laughter, what brings me out of this funk is this memory of my Thailand family -a bit dysfunctional, at times dramatic, sweet, loving, lots of laughter.  And this is what family is, be it blood born or created in a time of need.  Family is acceptance; family is love.  And I still have this family.  Granted, we are scattered all over the world.  But we are connected on Facebook, and the really important family members, the ones I cherish, we still talk.  We encourage one another, we inspire one another, we laugh with and at one another, and we divulge our real selves to each other.  Because we know we’re family.  And family listens, and family understands, and family counsels.

I skype Nosheen.  Nosheen, who has become my sister.  I talk to her about this guy; I pour out all of the details and my insecurities. She listens and she brings me back to my senses. She tells me to look at him not as a person, but simply as energy.  When I do that, the entire situation takes on a new light.  This person is not necessarily energy that I want to be around; this person is not an energetic match for me. Nosheen and I talk for a while and her love and acceptance allows me to get out of bed, put on a sundress, get on my motorbike and drive back down to the beach.  By now, the sun is sinking in the sky, beginning its descent in order to rise on the other side of the world.  The ocean is fierce, the waves crashing against the rocks and the temple steps that I am perched upon.  I feel the spray from the pounding sea and I taste the salt on my lips.  I look to the golden sunset lighting up the horizon and I wonder – when did I begin caring so much about romantic love and so little about myself? When did I begin to feel like I had to settle for something or someone less than I deserve?  When did that shift occur?  And I make a vow to my beautiful heart that I come first, that I will correct this, that I will bring my focus back to me.  I will discover my own desires.  And I rest assured that those desires don’t lie in the grasp of another person.  For I have love all around me, in my given family, in my chosen families, and in myself.  And that love is enough.  It will always be enough.

 

Bali sunset

 

 

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~ by Dana Childs: Intuitive on December 25, 2010.

2 Responses to “Stupid For Your Love”

  1. The finest thing in the world is knowing how to belong to oneself.(Michel de Montaigne)

  2. I was so thrilled to hear from you!!! You obviously have an amazing group of friends who support, listen and love you! If you were giving me advise, you would tell me I needed to love who I was before I was ready for someone to love me. It took me a long time to feel worthy of being loved, and I still have to work at it. Enjoy Dana…she is an extraordinary person who only deserves another extraordinary one!!
    I love you huge,
    Weezy

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