There's No Place Like...

HOME.

I'm home. I was so excited to come home, I became a cheeeezball and listened to "Home" a lot before I hopped on the plane. I love home, I love it here, it's a vacuum of everything me, and for a narcissist that's like a gift baggie of smack to a junkie.

"Narcissist?" Igor gasps. He rushes into my head, checking around to make sure no one heard me. His voice lowers...

Igor: Uh, ix-nay on the arcicssism-nay. People don't like them. They're lame douche-bag assholes.
Me: Yeah, I can be a real asshole sometimes.
I: (waves away the point) So can everyone. Just don't call yourself a narcissist out loud.
Me: Why?
I: It's not pretty!!! (Catches himself. Breathes...) I don't think you know what the word means.

We look it up:
nar·cis·sism/ˈnärsəˌsizəm/Noun

1. Extreme selfishness, with a grandiose view of one's own talents and a craving for admiration.

2. Self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects.

Igor looks at me. He bites his chapped lip. "Just- shut up." I gloat in satisfaction. He sees me gloating and sneers. "You're not that bad."

He's right. According to a Dr. Drew's online Narcissism Test, I'm above average, but I'm no Jersey Shore.

Still, in the interest of my demons, I'll call a spade a spade, and I'll call myself an asshole when its true. Of course it's not true ALL the time, but probably more than I'd like to admit and that's okay. I think most people are crappier than they want to take credit for, and as long as we're able to realize it (hopefully in the moment), admit it (maybe to our audience, certainly to ourselves), and apologize for it (if you must, and I'll tell you right now- YOU MUST) then who cares?

Anyway, back to the notion of home.

It occurred to me that home has little to do with any demons and more to do with ghosts. I'm surrounded by the ghosts of everything that made me into Me. The ghosts of my childhood hide in the shallow eyes of the stuffed animals my mom still keeps for me and in the ritual of burying my head into my mom's arm when I feel like crying. The ghosts of my innocence call to me from places around Austin where I grew up too fast, vamping up and down Sixth Street or riding on the back of my boyfriend's motorcycle through the Hill Country as I fell in love for the first time.

These ghosts haunt my dreams, and people I haven't thought of in years visit me, love me, tangle with me, make-out with me. I see old friends and catch glimpses of past lives in stories I can't remember but they can. They ask me about other friends, people we both couldn't care less about, people I've lost touch with, people I never knew in the first place, and I shrug and smile.

It doesn't matter how anyone is, I realize. If they're anything like me, they're exactly the same as they've always been except in the exponential ways they've grown that you could never measure with a bank account or number of offspring. We're all annoyingly the same- except totally different.

On one hand, I never again want to see the red glasses I wore from the ages of 10-13 that meant I was nerdy and ugly (I thought). I don't want to see all the places my boyfriend's family took us to dinner where I would sit and laugh and glow with the knowledge that they would someday be my family, too (I thought). I don't want to drive by my dad's first apartment after the divorce and look at the sidewalk and remember how every time he and I would walk to the park, I would step on every crack and make the same wish...

 

 

But I do. I dig up the red glasses. I wonder if my ex-boyfriend's family still meets at E-Z's for milkshakes and burgers as I drive past. I look for that sidewalk and that apartment and damned if I can't find them. (It's honestly driving me crazy.) The insecurity, the desperate need to belong, the magic-disguised control issues of an 8 year-old... I seek this stuff out because they are my ghosts. Mine. They it made me who I am, and I love them for it.

The thought that my current life will become a ghost to haunt me in the future comforts me more than it terrifies me. Yes, I'm terrified of getting older. But, I'm comforted by the knowledge that I'll continue to grow and evolve (even moreso than I am now, and I think we've all decided that is pretty evolved, narcissistic tendencies notwithstanding... sorry folks, just a little ego humor.) - and maybe in my evolution, getting older won't be such a fat, wrinkly deal.

As an aside, not every trip home is such an existential exercise. Truthfully, I rarely think this much.

 

 

...That's a total lie. Regardless, I blame my spiritual transformation- Thanks, Awareness, this is almost fun.

Well, That Happened.

Demons.

Funny, part of the reason I started this blog about demons is because I've always liked the misunderstood. I believe there's good in everything, even the Tea Party, even Evanescence, even demons. The way I see it, they're all just doing their jobs. (Like the Tea Party's job is to keep me fighting for universal health care, equal rights, freedom of choice, and all my other liberal beliefs, and Evanescence's job is to make me stop listening to work-place radio.)

Demons simply do what they do, whether its torturing humans or just acting ugly. They don't mean to be "evil", its just our perception of the effect they have on our lives- if you even believe in demons, because you can't get hurt by something you don't believe in... right?

Sigh. Let me tell a personal story and see if I can answer my own question.

The truly observant may have noticed I've been off the radar lately- particularly where this blog is concerned. It's a long boring story to everyone but my mom, but the bullet points are:
- I got my heart broken.
- Had a nervous breakdown.
- Haven't written a word.
- Am still recovering.

Because these bullet points are reading far more dramatic than I anticipated, I'll flesh each out a little.

Heartbreak: It's happened before, it'll happen again, but this one was the nastiest motherfucker to date. Not because of what any guy or girl did to me, but because of what I did to myself. I can't attribute this heartbreak to anyone but me. I broke my own heart. I'm my own bad boy.

Breakdown: I use the word flippantly. I didn't get a diagnosis from a doctor. But I did need help. Lots and lots and lots of help, and I found it with my spiritual practitioner. What I call "breakdown", she calls "spiritual transformation." Spiritual transformation sounds groovy, spacious, and smooth. To me "breakdown" more reflects the choking, desperate, writhing place I found myself in. I do like the movement and hope embodied in the word "transformation" rather than the dead-end that "breakdown" invokes... okay, fine, spiritual transformation.

Haven't written: I really haven't done much of anything beside reflect. And listen to endless TED Talks. For the first few weeks, being upright was a major accomplishment. My Type-A Barbie is doing her best not to whine and judge and remind me that writing is what we do! And if we don't do what we do all the time, how do we ever expect to get paid to do what we do?! ...she's trying.

Recovering: Sometimes I feel awesome, sometimes I feel stupid, sometimes I feel like I can conquer the world, sometimes I feel like I'm not good enough to eat. The point is I'm feeling. And feeling means I'm living. And living means I'm not still curled up in a tight little ball in my comfy chair.

...What was my point? "If you don't believe in something, can it hurt you?" was my question.

I hurt myself, I broke my own heart, because somewhere deep inside I believed I wasn't good enough. This belief was so deep and ingrained, I thought it was a fact of life, like my heart beat or my brown eyes. This belief was my default.

Over the course of the last two months I've begun to re-program my thinking. Contrary to what I would prefer, it takes longer than a weekend in bed to exorcise a demon I've had for a lifetime, but at least I'm aware now. For the most part. Enough to know "I'm not good enough" is total bullshit. And awareness is a wonderful gateway drug to healing, acceptance, and love.

So can something I no longer believe in hurt me anymore?

No. It fucking can't.

It feels good to be back. (Barbie just died from yessing too hard.)

D-bags and DOMINUS PENARUM

This demon is no joke. DOMINUS PENARUM (lets call him DP for fun) is a most rigid, controlling devil with a pimp cane. He's a demon used in love spells, but I'll get to that in a sec.

So I have this friend (not me), who's been putting up with a D-bag (you don't know him) for way too long. Why? Because, that's why. The point is my friend (NOT ME) cut ties and this demon still contacts her. Nonchalantly. Like they're friends. Like it's okay.

WHY? This, I don't know. But I have a theory, and it goes a little something like this:

Non-committed passionate relationships lead to non-committed seperations, so the door remains open where He and She are concerned. That's all well and good if both parties are on the same page, in the same phase of their life, and totally honest with how they feel - or don't - about each other, etc. This, however, is rarely the case.  So one or the other settles for less and/or puts up with more than they should, ignoring the nagging Igor that points out what's not happening and what they aren't receiving from their fuck buddy.

Why do I care? Because, that's why.

I care because people (yes, people, because women are just as guilty of assholery as men are) have become cowards. I don't care if you're only sleeping with me because it was better than what you had in your Netflix line-up, but BE HONEST ABOUT IT. Don't pretend it's something more. Don't say things just to say them and don't give me hope if there is none. Don't toss out phrases like "When we go to Palm Springs..." or "I can't wait to (fill in the blank) with you..." because they sound good. If you want to use me for sex, let me in on the plan so I can make an informed decision- otherwise you're lying to get me into bed and that makes you a fucking asshole coward.

People (again, people) are afraid to say what they mean, either because they're afraid of being rejected or they're afraid to reject or they just can't own up to what they want. You know what? Too bad. You want to be a big kid and do what big kids do? Grow the balls to talk about it.

I'm not blameless. I have my moments of swallowing questions because I don't have the guts to ask them. You know what that means? It means I'm involved in a bad relationship and I should go home alone. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Regardless, I'm aware of what I'm doing and making an informed decision- even if it isn't always the best one. I'm still learning..

This is why it fucking galls me when this douchebag tests the waters by texting an oblivious "How you doing?" after years and years of turmoil, broken promises, loving someone else, and disregard for any feelings but his own. Where is his consideration? Where is his awareness? Where are his balls? If he wants friendship, show some respect and call. If he wants sex, come out and say it. Don't hover on the fringe of a relationship by giving the least effort possible to forge some sort of connection.

"How you doing?" DELETE.
"Everything good?" DELETE.
"I saw a picture that made me think of you." DELETE.

Know what's maddening? The longer he's ignored, the more persistent he becomes.

How do you exorcise a demon like that? When you've already screamed and Julia Sugarbakered their ass (to which you received a dead-end "Sorry") and they still contact you and the more you ignore them the louder they get and they don't stop, what do you do? If it were me, I'd get mad and loud and destructive. (It's still not me.)

There is no undoing to the demon, Dominus Penarum, that I know of- all I have are his stats.

DP is connected with power and control. A magician conjures DP to completely break the will of his intended, i.e. who he's crushing on at the moment, so she will be bound to him and powerless. The demon torments the woman until she bows to her passionate compulsions, no matter how unnatural. A direct quote: "As the Lord of Torments, this demon would be well-suited to make the target's life a living hell."

Yup, that sounds about right.

~Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

The Me In The Mirror

I had a moment of clarity today. I spend lots of time avoiding moments like these because of how I feel now. Which is kinda sick, sorta crappy, and altogether terrified. What blows is this is coming on the heels of a great weekend.

I had the kind of weekend you wish you had every day: friends, dancing, laughing, even some precious me time thrown in for good measure. Then Monday came, and life came, and a few things I was expecting to happen didn’t happen, and I blamed myself because I control the world, don’t I? Well, I try to anyway.

This is all preamble to the real story that happens here: My day screwed up in five – yes, I counted FIVE – different ways that landed me at my grocery store at the same time as an ex. 

Mr. X haunts me- I see him around the city all the time. We've never spoken or even made eye contact because he’s in his car and I’m in mine. Yes, its always those weirdly random street pass-bys that I would have totally missed if I wasn’t looking up at the perfect moment. But I’m not talking about this when I use the word “haunting.”

Mr. X haunts me because he represents everything that’s wrong- er, challenging about me. All of my fears, my limitations, the ways I’m ugly are embodied in this dude. I think it’s obvious why I had to stop dating him.

So anyway, I drive into the lot, see his car, freak, and park. I consider sitting in my car and sweating my balls off until I see him drive away for a moment... then two.. then…

I check the mirror. I look like crap. It doesn’t matter. I’m going in to buy the damn honey I need to make the damn bread I need. I decided: I REFUSE TO LET MY LIFE BE DEFINED BY THE THINGS THAT ARE WRONG WITH ME– sorry, the things I think are wrong with me – ANYMORE.

I walk in with the determination and speed of a racehorse. I’m shaking. Honey, honey, where’s the fucking honey… I try to sneak glances around my blinders. The point wasn’t to run into him and have the awkward, “hey, how are you, feel like hooking up sometime?” conversation. The point was I was in control. I was in charge. Not my fears, insecurities, shame, limitations, unworthiness, doubts, etc.

I found the honey. I stopped by the fresh flowers and picked some out for my kitchen. I remembered I needed yogurt. As I walked to the checkout I saw him leaving and I almost threw up with relief-

He turned!

It wasn’t him. I almost threw up again. My hands were still shaking as I paid for my groceries and shoved them into my leopard print grocery bag. I was paces away from the exit. If I was every going to run into Mr. X, now was the time. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and kept my eyes open as I walked out into the hot sunshine.

I did it.

His car was still there. He was still inside. I walked past the car and let out a sigh of relief- my breath caught.

It wasn’t his car. Yes, it was a dirty piece of crap, but it was a newer model and had an entirely different nose- Whatever, it definitely wasn’t his car.

I slid into my hot car. I was okay. I was never in any danger. Of course, I was never in any danger, the whole damn episode was a figment of my imagination. And yet the feeling of gratitude and accomplishment washed over me.

I had just faced my biggest demon: ME. All the not-perfect things balled up into one person who I thought was buying groceries.

I got fired up. Fuck my imperfections, my ego, my shame, my selfishness, my fear… None of it matters if I can stand up to it and risk staring it in the eye. I mentally high-fived myself with a “fuck yeah!” and drove home.

I wish the story ended here. But it doesn't.

When I got home I began the recipe I needed the damn honey for and listened to a Ted Talk I found on vulnerability. The speaker talked about knowing you are enough. And I cried.

Because 10 minutes after my biggest win to date, my mind still drifted to what I didn’t have and why I didn’t have it. The things I wanted so badly to happen that hadn’t happened yet, and why it was all my fault. I realized that I couldn’t even ride the wave of being enough for 10 minutes before I returned to beating myself up for things that were beyond my control.

So how do you do it? How do you know you’re enough? And how do you keep knowing it over and over in the face of everything you’ve been taught since you were born that suggests the opposite?

I don’t know. I’m just going to keep trying to remember and know I'm enough, because its all I can think of. But I promise, when I figure it out, I’m going to tell you and my friends and strangers and the world until everyone knows what it feels like to win all the time, not just for a 10-minute drive.

Intimacy Issues

That's me. I love you or I don't care- there is no middle ground, no delicate dance of compromise and finesse. Tall, thick walls compartmentalize the different arenas of my life: love, family, work, expression...

Even my baby-blogs. Uptempo Plum is where I post my mushy personal musings; Demon Sauce, is where I work it like a school project. Or so it started anyway...

Lately, I've found life getting kinda blurry as my demons blast through the heart-shaped wall I so fervently bricked and cemented, spraying pink mist and mush over my perfectly pressed outfits and ruining my make-up. It's a good thing, people tell me, to explore your yin and yang and lose your mind and put yourself out there and let people in and all that crap. Therefore, in an effort to be a more fully realized person I'm taking a HUGE step and...

I'M MERGING MY BLOGS...
...crickets...

I said, I am merging my blogs. Together. Intimate-like. Like the Brady Bunch.

Still nothing...? Huh.

It's kind of a big deal. Walls are coming down, guys! Songs are written about unions like this! My Type-A Over-Achiever Barbie is letting my sensitive, brooding Emo Ken move in to the Barbie Mansion with all his knats and baggage and- stop rolling your eyes!

Well, I think is a big fucking deal and I'm pretty puffy about the whole thing. Uptempo Plum is on hiatus, past Plum posts are now integrated into Demon Sauce, and Demon Sauce will serve as my only blog until further notice. I'm choosing to go with hiatus rather than straight retirement because I'd have babies with the name "Uptempo Plum" if I could, but also in case Barbie and Ken don't work out.

Baby steps, y'all...

The Victoria Jackson Principle*

There's a reason I don't necessarily follow trending news- most of it is annoying and pisses me off. Consequently, I'm generally late to the party on the newest viral videos or what Charlie Sheen said today, and I'm okay with that. Yesterday, though, I clicked...

Holy Victoria Fucking Jackson. Talk about demons. Am I seriously qualifying Victoria Jackson enough of a demon to merit her own demon blog post? Fuckin' A. With her ignorance, press, and Tea Party backing (not to mention the huge hair bows and the voice) she's scarier than Satan.

I'd seen tweets and updates on the former SNL star "blasting" Glee for days-  It wasn't until I saw that she objected specifically to The Kiss that curiosity won, and I checked out the whole story because I really liked The Kiss.

The Kiss of course refers to the latest gay kiss milestone- or not... is it even a milestone anymore to show a good gay kiss on primetime? I hope not- regardless, I didn't hear about The Kiss beforehand and was surprised and thrilled to see it finally happen. NOT because it was another milestone but because Kurt likes Blaine soooooooooo much and Blaine finally saw the great love that's been before his eyes all season! I squealed through my happy tears and sighed- The Kiss was effing hot and GO KURT for getting the perfect first kiss scenario every teenager dreams about (yes, I believe, even you straight boys.).

So when I heard Victoria Jackson shit all over my own teenage dream, my first reaction was to get FIRED UP. My inner Dixie Carter sounded something like, "Are-you-fucking-kidding-me-how-dare-she-spout-hatred-and-intolerance-I'll-shove-the-gay-thing-down-her-throat-and-if-Muslims-kill-gays-they-can't-be-any-worse-than-the-Christians-who-do-the-same-she's-batshit-I-hate-her..." And so on, until I realized exactly what I'd thought:

"I hate her."

What? I don't hate (unless its related to vomiting.). I don't even believe in hate. In my spiritual practice, I subscribe to only love, unity, peace, creativity... you know, the good shit. Hate doesn't exist in my world (except for vomit), but fear does. And then I realized- she's afraid. Jackson's understanding of what's right and good is so tiny that anything outside her grain of sand-sized definition scares the shit out of her.

Okay, whatever... understanding washed over me and the veins in my forehead relaxed... and then bulged again-

She waved the Bible around. It absolutely galls me how much hatred and judgement people get away with by playing the Bible card. The Bible is just a big book of stories with a huge reputation. I believe the Bible is as divinely inspired as EVERY OTHER WORK OF ART from the Qur'an to Mona Lisa to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. By that reasoning, Jackson may as well be waving around a DVD of "All in the Family" and spouting her beliefs in white supremacy- that's how seriously I take her citing the Bible.

Jackson dressing up her ignorance and judgement with crucifixes and scripture doesn't hide what it is, just like Palin's poor pig in lipstick or Pretty Woman in shoulder pads and diamonds. The pig will always be smart and tasty, and Pretty Woman will always be Julia Roberts (until they remake it with Megan Fox or some nauseating shit). And ignorance and judgement will always be dangerous, polarizing, a defense mechanism for terrified people and a waste of time and energy.

We're all one: God and love and gays and pigs and Palin and Pretty Woman and-

Sigh... dammit... yes, even crazy Victoria Jackson's judgemental ass. And my judgemental ass.

I'm willing to accept we're guilty of the same snap judgement, but the difference is this: I can open my mind to consider her fear (of absolutely nothing) but she either can't or doesn't want to extend the same courtesy to those she sees as different. Jackson revels in ignorance- and if the only positive that comes from listening to her and other like-minded homophobes and fear-mongers is that the rest of us get even more sensitive, tolerant and open-minded-

Well then, that's actually pretty spectacular, isn't it?




*As a child of the 80's I couldn't resist alluding to Victoria Principal, Pam Ewing of "Dallas" fame. Just so you don't get confused, Principal is the beautiful brunette actress, entrepreneur and environmentalist. Jackson is the blond in the big hair bows.

~Thanks to Victoria Jackson for being outspoken and batshit crazy.

Could it be... SATAN?!?!

Oh yeah, I'm going there. No more dancing around with Boys' Town glam-demons and infernal middle management. I'm profiling the baddest of the bad, the star of Hell... SATAN.

Why? Because I'm dealing with my own personal Goliath demon: The Judge.

The Judge sits heavy on my heart like cancer. He's silent, unlike his cohort Igor- I imagine Igor is to The Judge as Chester is to Spike (and I never reference a link, but in this scenario, I'm definitely Sylvester.) The Judge doesn't have to do much- he just has to radiate his tsunami waves of disapproval as he arches a questioning brow and I stutter, backpedal, and mentally pummel myself. Then, the What-Ifs descend in a cloud that blocks out all sunlight while Igor berates me, and I go blind and crazy. It's ugly.

The antidote? Perspective and angels in the form of great friends who love you unconditionally.

Enough about The Judge, you all get it. So without further ado... IN THIS CORNERRR... SATANNNNN*.

First off, "Satan" is derived from a Hebrew word meaning "the adversary" and morphed from a function in the Old Testament into a proper name by the time the New Testament came around. Throughout the Old Testament, generally Satan is "the adversary" that tests faith- usually doing so by the Lord's command. In the New Testament, Satan graduates to Lord of Demons and God's arch enemy. Ensuing demonology supports Satan's evolution into the leader of all devils whose mission is to torture and tempt humans. In these accounts, Satan is an equal part of a gruesome foursome made of itself, Lucifer, Beelzebub (or Leviathan, depending on the text), and Belial (all of whom at some time/tradition or another were the big boss) who oversee all other demons.

So there. Honestly, I'd shied away from even reading the Satan entry until now because, as cheeky as I am about my other demon buddies, I was raised Catholic and went to church every Sunday for a loooooong time. That stuff sticks. However, dealing with The Judge these last few days, I knew there was no match for him but Satan itself. (And frankly, I think The Judge is still scarier.)

As an aside, I feel the need to cleanse my pallet after all the Fox News BS I sifted through for links. Penguins, joy, unity, kittens, Muppets, love, dancing, and cheese... that oughta do it.

*My apologies for The Church Lady scratch. I couldn't help myself.
~Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010