I was what you might call....hard to handle. A handful and then some. I have a lot of "punny" descriptions. I took a self-help/self-improvement class once and this phrase has stuck with me: "She's fun to date, but hell to live with." Well, I was certainly the bestower of living hell on my family and I was not one iota willing to share in any sort of responsibility in the matter.
I often wonder if this is a product of a black-hole-soul. I've known for eons already that my soul is a black hole. Suck-you-dry-and-leave-you-wounded-and-begging-for-a-reprieve kind of hole. The one that can never be filled. No amount of love, pets, alcohol, drugs, hate, adrenaline, sex, or thrill-seeking can fill it. Nothing. Every single thing leaves that Black hole unfulfilled and begging for more. Eventually, it also does this for the family, friends, support circles, and even acquaintances of the one who possesses the black hole in their soul. Because no matter how much one gives, the BhS (Black-hole-Soul) is never renewed or refreshed. And everyone knows that one can't pour from an empty vessel. So those in relationship to the BhS are drained, waiting for their giving to produce fruit and be returned. But it never, ever happens. And everyone in the wake of this tornado is damaged and broken. Not "just" the owner the BhS.
This is me. Owner and operator of a BhS.
So having been born at the tail end of the 60's, raised in the 70's (and 80's), I was full of the whole F.U. culture that women's liberation was rolling out. (Please don't insert politics here, there are whole other stories we can debate conservatism or liberalism in). As I type this, I have Joan Jett on replay in my head.... "I don't give a damn about my bad reputation...." complete with guitar riff and even a little head banging action. Yep. As a teen, I carried this around like a badge, just daring someone, anyone, to fuck with me. Do not step on my toes, I will fuck you up and I will not care where the carnage lands. Your reputation. My reputation. Your nose, my toes. Your house, my family. Carnage. Destruction. Because if you somehow manage to offend me.... you know, maybe you look at me wrong, or you got out of bed today..... then my black hole is raging and that in turn angers me. With that insatiable anger that rolls out like desire but with a side of deadly destruction.
I have a friend that talks about how he may not love himself today, but he no longer loathes himself. Ahhh. My brain lights up at this. Self-loathing. Loathing. Black and vile hatred spilling out of the BhS. I can relate. Occasionally today I can relate with the learning to love myself piece, but in all reality, my brain perks up at the phrase "self-loathing." Because hatred is just too benign of a word to describe what the BhS does to me, makes of me, creates in me.
As a person who possesses a BhS, hatred of my own self is such a roiling, billowing cauldron of hot and stinking shit that it has no choice but to spill out. It stinks up every corner of your BhS life. My addiction to pain, to adrenaline, to anything that might make that BhS less formidable and more tolerable somehow, is real. Overwhelming. In my life today, I have stopped trying to either soothe my Soul or kill myself, taking as many down with me as possible, in the form of drugs or alcohol. But make no mistake, the residual affects of the BhS are still present. Strong. It lurks in self-destructive relationships, in brazen thrill-seeking, in larger-than-life self-pity and one-up-man-ship, self-sabotage, and just general irresponsible behavior.
It's not something I've never worked to improve, but it IS at the very core the cunning, baffling, and powerful part of my addictive nature. The yin and the yang of my desire to protect my Soul from hurt and danger and hardship and the precise inability to recognize anything that is good for my Soul because of that damn blackhole.
When I see other people's BhS spilling their stink onto me and my life, I am appalled when it is pointed out to me that I am not so different from them, that I have wreaked untold amounts of havoc on every life I touch.
The BhS story is never-ending, but because this kind of honesty is exhausting, not to mention stinky, I am drawing this post to a close. I didn't tell you all this so you can send me hug emojis and emoticons and ask me if I am alright. I wrote this out for the sake of 1) purging it, and 2) trying to sum up unexplainable behaviors that accompany the life of this woman with a BhS.
