“The beating of his heart was Mercifully calming mine. His chest pressed resolutley against the outward frame of my lungs; and my breath of Life, Swaying to the Rhythm of his Soothing Heart. A Visceral and Psychosomatic Dance Between two People.”
-Jenny Miner McCombs- The Addict Empath
I was tired as I drifted off this afternoon. A rarity. I never actually fall asleep when I attempt to rest during the bright hours of the day, let alone drift off into a deep REM cycle that enables me to escape my present reality and to simply dream. Everyone loves that dream when they are flying. To feel weightless. A moment, even if it be nothing more than the overactive stimulation neurons firing in our deep subonscious, it feels as if it is some kind of escape from the mundane of our realities.
There are some who believe that our dreams have meaning beyond mere fantasy. More than a sequence of random events. I think my youngest sister keeps a dream journal by her bedside. Or at least she used to. Supposidly, when one feels the unnerving sensation of falling, they are suppressing a deep fear that could represent any number of life events. Insecurities play out in our subconscious. Repressed emotions can take a dark and twisted turn that may lead to actions we could never exceute in real life. As you will see, below is an exert taken from My Little Black Book of Secrets.
March 3rd 2012- Saturday
“I had a horrifying dream last night that I raged at (a family member) and beat her to a bloody pulp. I literally picked her up and swung her around, smacking her head and bashing against wooden posts. There was so much rage and so little remourse. It was scary. In another part of the dream, I had actually sent her some pornagraphic ( which were never taken, and something I would NEVER do. ) But it was a rageful, panic induced nightmare of a dream that was so unnerving. What is my subconscious acting out? This morning I thought I had misplaced my sleeping pills, and a wave of panic and desperation swept over me. I was so freaked out. Most of the time; when my son naps during the day and I have some time to myself, I prefer to snuggle up in the fetal position under my blankets. Safe and warm. And then I wake up.”
I remember being exhausted. My body felt heavy as I rested against a cool wall of some sort, my face pressed firmly against my forearm, weighing me down in both body and spirit. I was breathing deeply and rapidly. I can not recall if I was in immediate danger or if some unseen threat possibly lay before or behind me. But what I do remember was that I was devoid of all energy, my heart beating wildly in my chest. Gradually, I felt my body start to abandon my resolve to stay awake as I began to sink to the floor. I was alone. That much I knew. Alone for what felt like several moments before I sensed a presence behind me. I knew somehow that there was someone watching me. Yet before I had both the time or the strength to turn around, I felt a pair of gentle hands press resolutley against my shoulders as a man turned me face up. He swept me into his arms as he straddled my limp body and craddled me.
I kept my eyes shut during the entirety of the encounter. Not a single word was uttered. His hands were strong, and I felt myself being hoisted up with ease, my back pressed firmly against his chest, his arms caressing either side of me in a protective embrace. I remember feeling refuge. Safe in his presence and safe in his arms. The steady beating of his heart was selflessly regulating mine. Pressed against the outward frame of my lungs, and my breath, swaying to the rythym of his steady heart. A visceral and psychosomatic dance between two people, just as My Former Sweetheart once did for me in times of intense fear, steadily calming the raging panic of my altered physiology.
Since the days of my earliest memories, I have harbored an instinctual and desperate need to be seen both seen and heard. My teenage years adapted the widely known mentality of nearly every developing youth and teenager throughout the globe and spanning every decade of time. After all, it was us against the world, embracing that bitter notion freely. I found nobility and purpose in self isolation. Indentifying myself as a self-imposed martyr and finding solace in a quiet and forbidden energy that morphed in the ever increasing darkness that would someday define both my budding illness and my life story in Addiction and Substance Abuse Disorder. For we all want to be seen. For us, we just do not possess the much needed tools in our phcholological aresenal to make our voices heard, so we remain helpless. We remain defeated. We remain unseen.
I let my arm go limp over his left thigh . Stretched out and draped theatrically; dare I say purposfully, ensuring that the delicate curvature of my fingers representing the morbidity of a cold and lost soul crossing through the invisible realm of a pained mortality. A place where I could be free from the burden of my isolation. My breath deliberately slowed down to the slightest inhale. I let the remainder of my frame sink even lower into his embrace, ominous and inevitable as I felt his arms tighten around me. I felt safe and protected. I felt seen. I wanted that embrace to last forever because of the intensity of my subconscious and deeply rooted desire. He protected me. He was with me. And I was at peace.
Upon rising, I clung desperately to the sensation, fading far too fast and into a distant and unabtainable memory. I was not ready to abandon my peace. I felt free. In the last 72 hours that would inevitably follow, I have desperately tried to replicate both the ideation and the psychosomatic sensation. To relive both the peace and the calm. Yet it was not meant to be. I clung to the desire of a subconscious past that robbed me of living fully in my present. I was weakened. I was momentarily crippled. I succumbed.
First, there were ten. Then ten went to fifteen, and fifteen to twenty. The whole bottle. To feel so synthetically peaceful. The unnerving reality of finding myself justifying the forbidden illusion once more. For I knew better. We all do. My Little Black Book Challenge had lifted me up to a much needed standard of daily accountability. Thirty consecuative days. In the last couple of days, and only now in this very moment, do I find myself realizing that no matter how many seeds of hope that I wish to steadily take root in others. No matter how challenging it has been for me during those times, posessing no sure knowledge of what has grown within the hearts, minds, and souls of those I am so desperately trying to help. I have come to understand that I must be consistent. Not for them, but for me. Progress is never a static event. We ride with the storms of life. We regress and decline if we are not willing to muster up the strength to fight the raging storms that are to be found deep within ourselves. And to pray more fervently within our minds during a coaster of weakness, to please let my storm pass without further detrimental consequence, and to let my inner light that sustains both my passion and my Advocacy, to shine independently once more.
Love,
Jenny Miner McCombs- The Addict Empath
Drowning in Madagascar 