Painting With Water

I want it to be lyrical.

I want it to be powerful.

I want it to be a warning, a klaxon on the path of life, an irresistible demand, that you stop, pay attention to my warning, so that you can avoid the pitfall I fell into, so that my own experience isn’t in vain.

I want it to have an impact.

What is this all-encompassing story, that fills me with the need to share it?

Once upon a time, I fell into a narcissist’s trap.

I want to make sure no one makes the mistakes I made, that no one has to feel the pain that I did.

I know, I know, it’s not going to work.

But I’d still like to try.

My dreams are Not Halping.

In my dreams, it’s the Perfect Script. It’s flowing, it’s eloquent, it’s all the things that would go straight to a victim’s heart, wrap around them, comfort them, lift them up, get them out.

And then I wake up.

Yeah.

I try, I really do. I have pen and paper tucked under my pillow. I have a computer right at the bottom of the stairs, ready to go with a few taps and a password.

I cannot count how many times -

waitaminit hold on lemme go look-

TWENTY??

I’ve managed to get twenty snippets down, and nothing that I can combine into a fully unified theory about my life, the universe, and everything?!?

Bleeping sanguine hail.

When I’m awake, I know I’m chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. But when I’m asleep, it’s so real, so tangible, so right there in front of me, all I have to do is reach out and slap those words on paper.

There are others much more qualified to explain the twisty turns and corners of a narcissist’s soul. They are all over Facebook, for crying out loud. I’ve liked and forwarded enough of their awesome advice and warnings on my own feed.

So, why? Why am I so invested in reinventing the wheel, without upgrades, racing stripes, or even bicycle streamers?

Pride, I’ll bet.

I consider myself a reasonable person. Intelligent, even. And I got taken in by a piece of trash with a tragic back story. If it can happen to me, it can to anybody, right?

But I can’t forgive myself.

To my credit, I challenged them when the cracks started to show. When the lies and gaslighting got blatant, I walked. When the abuse became clear in the court case, it was noted.

So why do I still dream about saving other future victims? So much so, that I’m left scrambling for my notepad, snuggled under my pillow like it thinks it’s the Book of All Wisdom or something? (The Salmon of All Knowledge is knocking on the door, asking to have a word with it. I think I will let them hash it out while I sit here, struggling with words, and my psyche, amidst the background of a seriously unstable political environment.)

I think I’m dream-searching for the Cut Direct.

I want that bastard to pay.

I want that bastard to hurt, the way they hurt me.

I want them to be so wounded, so hurt, that they now get what it means to be wounded, and stop hurting others.

But, really, come on. They’re a malignant narcissist. That’s never going to happen. They’ve had opportunities, even a ten year prison sentence, and they can’t get their act together. Instead of disavowing their father and all his heinous activities, they’ve become him.

Disturbing, on so many levels.

Very disturbing, when the mask came off in court, and I saw the pathology. It is scary, and it is chilling.

I am not afraid for myself, because as pathological as they are, they’re also terrified of going back to prison. Well, they will, one way or another. The world they were dumped into, after being in prison for ten years, is a very different world than they lived in beforehand. There are now ways to track online behavior, and the tag of third degree sex offender doesn’t go away, just because they’re under the radar. For now.

Eventually, the shell will crack.

But I fear for the string of victims between then and now.

I wish I had the words to save them from the pain I went through.

Or the words to flee.

Or the words to have that piece of shit give me my sapphire earrings back, that they stole, as a trophy. Fuck you, you sniveling piece of shit.

At least I have the words for that, though they’re more than a bit vulgar.

Honestly, I don’t think there’s any salvaging this situation.

Narcos gonna narc, and if ten years of prison time didn’t change them, then one tender-hearted woman won’t change the balance in the slightest.

But, please, tell my brain that exact thing.

I would prefer dreams that are exciting, and entertaining, and will become some really awesome stories for people to read.

Not this twenty-and-counting list of scribbles that don’t even connect to each other.

If my brain wants to work out its issues, it should do it on its own time. (Yes, I know, that time IS when it’s “sleeping.” Hush. This is my rant, the part of me that doesn’t have time for toxic former friends. I have a lifetime of stories to write that aren’t focused on the “what might have beens.”

If there is, or ever was, a Salmon of All Knowledge, there should also be a Salmon of Correction. (This part isn’t mine – this brilliance comes from my friend JPV, who is freaking awesome.) A salmon which, when applied correctly, is the equivalent of being beaten by a Clue Bat. A Clue-By-Four, if you will. (Also not mine, I think early internet?)

We have determined that the best way for Correction to be applied, is to place the salmon, whole, in the freezer. Let it sit there till it’s stiffer than a board. Bring it out when the stupid piles up, especially at holiday dinners. Grasp firmly right in front of the tail fins, and whale away till the person sees sense. Or lots of fish scales, depending on how much force is applied.

Either way, the offending person is silenced.

If I turn away, can you give me a whack or two, while you’re at it? Parts of my brain need to shut up.

I need to channel all that creative force for good, not beating a dead horse.

The metaphoric equine is certainly deceased, can we move on to greener pastures?

If I’m going to be lyrical, I want it to be positive, uplifting. Well, maybe cutting as well, because some characters need it. I swear, none of my bad people are based entirely on one person.

But some days, I feel like I’m painting with water. This beautiful, elegant, script flows onto paper… and is immediately dried up in the heat of reality. I catch glimpses of something deep, something meaningful… and then it vanishes. No trace left behind. And I sit there, tears flowing down my face, wondering at what profound teachings for myself that I’ve missed.

I can’t live like that anymore. Maybe those snippets will come back around; maybe they need to cook. Maybe, someday, I’ll read through them, and try to make some sense of it all.

But not today.

Today is for looking forward.

To my next story. To my next Top Story, or challenge placing, if either of them are in the cards.

To my family, to my proto-flutters, sleeping in their chrysalises. To the next hatching, which should be in a day or two. To staying healthy.

To ignoring the narcissists, who hate being ignored more than anything. I’ve got better things to do with my time.

To my hubster, who is kicking serious electronic ass at his job. No AI could do what he’s doing right now, and I’m so proud of him.

Even to my country, though just about all I owe it right now is a safe space for my LGTBQIA+ friends.

But, for a moment, I’m going to listen to the song “Monsters” from All Time Low.

Sometimes it works better than a salmon.

And then I’m going to go enjoy the heat, even if it dries up my words.