Drawing Invisible Connections

On becoming our own saviors, or remaining our own torturers

Dear wonderful wonderer,

Have you ever watched a tv show or movie that totally changed the way you see yourself? I’ve been watching Lucifer lately. It’s mind-bogglingly amazing. The gist of it is, celestial beings, through their relationships with human beings and the help of a brilliant therapist, come to realize that rather than having their lives determined by God’s plan, they self-actualize. Of course, to do this, they must go through the nitty gritty process of recognizing the patterns that keep them stuck believing they are bound to God’s will. It’s really a beautiful metaphor. 

Which led me to thinking about… patterns. They’re kind of my thing. Yours, too? If you’re human, I suspect so. Patterns are how we learn (or not), and ultimately, the way we relate with the patterns we notice determines the direction we take.

Personally, I see them everywhere, in everything, and I tend to feel a deep urge to dig in. A curse, or a blessing? Sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes I think it’d be easier to be unaware of the inner workings of mine and others’ psyches - to not see what’s going on so glaringly - but then, wouldn’t that be boring? Without this awareness, would I be one of those easy, breezy girls always up on the latest fashion trends with 1000 unread text messages and a booming TikTok page?

Probably not. Though I am learning a lot about fashion lately - more on that soon.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve viewed the world this way. I see the patterns, and I choose to look deeper. There’s a veritable goldmine of information in the things we repeat, and investigating the repetition is one of the many ways we can connect with ourselves and learn how to morph and change. Not to mention, it can be quite entertaining. 

As for me, it’s not that I can’t be easy breezy, it’s just that, mostly, it bores me - to be on the surface, repeating the same day over and over again. Sure, I can stay in bed and watch movies. I can have a gloriously lazy day at the beach letting the wind tussle my hair and the waves lap at my feet. But I’d rather dive into the ocean and swim. I’d rather dig my claws deep in the sand, feeling for resistance in the otherwise fine grains. Buried treasure may be right beneath my fingers. What if I find a beautiful conch shell, a perfectly smooth red stone, a well aged piece of sea glass with which to adorn my proverbial sandcastle?

Perhaps this pattern -this quality of always watching, feeling, seeking to understand and draw connections to the otherwise unseen - perpetuated my days of self abuse via eating disorders and staying in shitty relationships that were crushing my soul. I always wanted to know why they or I were doing what they were doing. “Why must you torture me so?!” I wondered. And I stuck around to see. I wanted to figure it out. I was playing detective in dangerous territory. I was self-immolating. 

Eventually, I turned my always-searching lens firmly on myself, and saw it had always been me doing the torturing. 

It’s a long story that I’m not sure I need to tell, but suffice to say I almost married one of my self-assigned torturers. Until the night before my bachelorette party I realized, in true Roy Kent fashion,”Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I can’t do this.” In a single moment, I noticed I was not stuck; I had the same choice I’d had all along. Go, or stay. Self torture, or freedom. Starve yourself, or feed yourself. This pattern took me 26 years to notice. But once I did, a light flipped on for good. 

The light illuminating the choice each of us have in every moment: stay the same, or make a change. 

Want another example of a subtle self abuse we, as creatives, probably all suffer from a bit? 

Yesterday morning, I woke up feeling very bleh. I looked in the mirror: bleh. I moved my body: bleh.  I created what were arguably some very funny memes and accompanying writing: also, bleh.

Why did everything feel so BLEH??!! Even my erotic practice, which usually feels so OOoooOoooo mmmmmm YUM, felt dull.

And then I remembered, I’d felt this way before. On several occasions. “ohhhhhhhhhh,” it dawned on me, “I need to rest.”

As a woman who is usually bursting with creative energy, it is easy to forget that sometimes, I deplete myself. It’s just an energetic pattern. A creative wave. I could force myself to stay in the crest of the wave for too long, eventually crashing, hard. But things seem to go more smoothly when I ease my way into the trough. When I willingly lie back to recharge and let it all settle. (Though, rest is a work in progress… I’m supposed to be resting right now, but I am only half resting, reclined in bed writing, the wheels of my mind still turning). 

Why don’t I rest more readily? It pains me to not be creating. And like most humans, I’m not a big fan of pain (though I’m getting better at not fearing it). 

It seems a shame to not be connecting the proverbial dots. Seeing the patterns. To not be elbow deep in unraveling life’s beauty. But then, rest is part of the unraveling, isn’t it? Connections grow even when we can’t see it happening.

Speaking of invisible connection, I’m in the mood to reflect on the story of how I met Luke, because much of it was invisible.

As I shared above, for much of my 20s, I was battling eating disorders. And though I eventually got over the depriving myself of food part, my habits of metaphysical starvation and physical torture remained for many years. Wanting to stay connected to that pain - wanting to reinforce my self-inflicted cage - I’d often scroll through eating disorder themed message boards on reddit, sickly admiring the girls who were still deep in the grasps of their torture chambers. 

One day, I looked at a particular post that brought me to a particular YouTube channel that eventually sent me on a journey toward bodybuilding, of all things. The journey was relatively short-lived, but in that time, I also came across a podcast Luke was a guest on, where he happened to be promoting his book. (He was very funny. I was charmed immediately).

At the time, I was in a relationship and still not quite ready to give up my mental restraints, but I bought his book, and I read it twice in a row, highlighting and underlining and deeply connecting with every word I imbibed. I got the feeling that this man… he knew things. I had a deep understanding that his words were important. That I’d remember them. 

Luke, without knowing it, was helping me unravel myself.

He was the impetus for me to connect dots I might have never otherwise connected. Yet… he had no idea who I was. Nor did I, at the time, think he’d ever know me. Though clearly, some part of me wished for him. Because through all the years after reading that book, and through several tumultuous relationships, I never forgot about it. I never forgot about him. 

Maybe I was just waiting till I felt worthy of his attention. Till I felt bold enough to make a move. Because of course, I was the one with the knowledge of him, not the other way around. This man would never slip into my DMs on instagram if I didn’t make myself known. So I did. In the coyest possible way: I posted a photo of his words, underlined and lying on my lap in the sunshine, and tagged him in it. 

A brilliant plan, I know. 

But actually, it was. He responded. And we started chatting, just a bit at a time. And a little flirtier with every message. What’s funny though, is that even though this connection was clearly building, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t let myself see it. My patterns of fearing love and doubting I could be wanted for who I was, by someone I respected, clouded my vision.

I was blind for quite some time, even though he was obviously pursuing me. Planning trips for us. Inviting me to travel with him. This must be a joke! I’d tell myself. He couldn’t possibly think of me the way I think of him. I didn’t believe someone like Luke  - someone who did not want to torture me (okay, I mean, love is torturous, but in the so good it hurts, heart exploding out of your chest sort of way) - would want me. But he did. He does. 

For a while, I thought maybe someday he’d read my mind and tell me everything I needed to hear to trust that, yes, this is real, this is happening. But love doesn’t work that way. In fairytales and blockbuster movies? Sure. But in real life, it takes real work. The real work of connection often lies in choosing between: do I endure the torture that is not being seen, or do I face my fear of vulnerability, share my hidden inner world, and open the possibility of creating the sort of love that feels nourishing?

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “there must be very two before there can be very one.” This is something all tortured lovers need to remember. We must learn to connect with the invisible threads of our own yearning so we can connect with our lovers from the inside. So we can build a love that is an expression of who we are in our hearts and souls, rather than who fear directs us to be. We must learn to listen to the subtle urges of our souls that help us communicate the depths of our particular flavors of longing; our desires, our needs for nourishment. And we must learn to allow that love that is our longing to flow freely from our bodies to touch the ones we love. 

It can be difficult to ask for what we need. We can feel selfish, sure, but I think mostly, we fear being rejected, hurt, in some way unmet in our yearning. We’re afraid of what that means about us. We torture ourselves about it. Tell ourselves if we don’t get what we want, we’re unworthy of it. This is what is meant when it’s said attachment is the root of suffering. It’s not desire itself, but the meaning we attach to getting it or not, that causes our strife. 

Desire is. Period. It’s not right or wrong or anything. It just surfaces, and we tend to it, or not. 

This is perhaps the single most life-changing piece of wisdom I’ve ever come to understand. It is what has made me bolder in love and in life. Willing to face the unknown of expressing my desires and emotions even when I feel like I might die being that exposed. 

Love is a complex beast, isn’t it? Terrifying. Life-giving. It sweeps you into its embrace and asks you to open, and open, and open some more. It asks you to be seen. To reach out, pour out, unzip, rip your heart out of your chest and feed it to the one you love - the one who will devour it. Love asks you to connect in ways you’d never dream of. In ways you’d never dare to. Except you do, because you want to feel more of it, always. You want more depth. More of those glorious waves of intimacy. More long soaks in the deep dark waters. More stillness. More silence. More breath. More everything. Love feels your starvation and asks for your fullness. Love takes you to the beach to explore the tide pools, then fucks you like you are every treasure buried in the sand beneath.