Musings
From The Heart
An
Essay A Day For A Year
By
Roe
Day
126 May 5, 2012
Life
Is A Fetish
Have you ever had a tiny
splinter-like spine, just in the right spot, where it actually felt perversely
good to rub it? You say: “Ouch!” Then: “Do it again!” Ouch!
Do it again! Well . . . . Life is
like that. It is not an exaggeration to
say that we are all in pain, and it is not an exaggeration to say that we all
love to get off on and indulge our pain. Ouch!
Do it again! All of our
compulsions that give us perverse joy are joys that are perverse. What an obvious statement right? How many of us see all our compulsions as
perverted? Everyone thinks that perverted related to sex, but in fact anything
that is torqued and twisted and altered and changed, is perverted. When we are
in pain, we obviously have a wound, and one might think that lovingly covering
and treating and dressing the wound would make sense. Yet we love to put just a
little salt into our wounds, just for that perverse little sting that just
feels oh soooo good!. How interesting we
are. But what could be so interesting
about our fetish of perverse pain?
Have you ever met a person
who drinks alcohol every day? (Oops, you and me). This perverse fetish,
alcohol-ism, is the most popular of them all. Another drink or beer? Ouch! Do it again!
How about all our drugs? We have
the drugs at the drug store, that we are supposed to take because the doctor
said so, ouch!, And then the drugs that we are not supposed to take, because
the government said we shouldn’t, oooooh!, do that again and again. We toss the
dice onto the table with so much perverted hope, ouch!. We tell everyone about all our illnesses in
perverted detail, ouch! We commit
crimes, we lie, we cheat, we betray people, we quit and run away, we repeatedly
fall in love with the wrong people, we compulsively begin things that never get
finished, ouch, ouch, and more ouch, do it again and again! We “get off” on our salted wound ouch delicacies
every day, large and small. We harbor become our depression, we go off to war,
we plan our own suicides, and countless others.
We all have our way of hurting just so little that it hurts just right,
in being mean, in being nice, in being alone, and even in just being. The perverse joy of hurting and feeling bad, and
making others hurt or feel bad is perversion of the heart at its saddest, the
art of being in pain and hurting, and passing it on to others, in compulsive
repeat, for perverse joy.
We haven’t even spoken of
what comes to mind when we say perversion, which is only a very small part of
the definition of perversion, sex. Any
and all sex that is not elevating to oneself and our loving other is
perversion, and we all indulge in our sexual perversions in feeling them, in
living them out, in denying them, and in using and abusing ourselves and others
sexually perversely. We also live out our sexual perversions by denying our
sexual others our sexuality, and we are perverted in our ideas of sex and
sexuality to not recognize all our non sexual perversions, since we transfer
our perverted sexuality to other aspects of our lives in denial and repression
of our natural sex. It and we get off on this redirection of our sexuality, and
it is our clever perversion.
When we eschew our pain by
transferring it into belief systems and religion and behaviors other than our
pain, were are perversely getting off on sidelining and sidetracking our ouchy
joy from supposed immorality and counter culture into the servitude and
obedience to “other”, a perversion of ourselves, and a joyous pain
nonetheless. Evangelism and activism and
workaholic-ism, like every other ism, is an escape from pain into an act that
give us pleasure, though defensively, and nonetheless a perversion of
ourselves. Politics and economics, academics, and gastronomics, along with a
myriad of other “ics”, when used as maintenance systems for our pain, give us
perverse pleasure in hurting in a way that feels good. Our illnesses, slight to
terminal, are the height of pain that we define ourselves with, declare and
own, like a morbid trophy that defines our suffering and we deserve it, right
up to death, the final perverse joy that we never admit to ourselves.
Why are
we humans so perverse, and why do we enjoy our perverted pain so much? The
irony is that we are in so much pain, and so we play with little hand grenades
to distract us from and scare us away from the 500 pounders deeper down. The truth is that we are simply defending
ourselves, we are self loathing and self martying so that we don’t ever find
out what was done to us or what happened to us. Ironically, if we ever lock
ourselves in a room alone for a month where we can’t indulge ourselves in our
perverse, joyful pain antics of all kinds, we immediately break down into primal
convulsive tears and hysterical panic when faced with the pain that all the
little salt in the wound has been keeping at bay. If we don’t drink we cry, if
we don’t run and deny and medicate and get sick, if we don’t get to hide from
ourselves with our compulsions and addictions and coping mechanisms, we fall
apart. So we ambulate around like cripples, and cripple others, for perverse
joy, to not have to face the fact that we have been amputees and quadriplegics
since long ago.
A fetish is something that we
do that is pleasurable pain, and we like it despite the fact that we wish we
didn’t, and we all know that we aren’t supposed to, but we can’t help it. All pain and all perversions are healable by
crying and grieving, but we have to surrender to the fact that our parents and
caregivers and society perverted us, and we have to accept that the real pain
is further down, and it makes little slivers and a bit of salt in the wound
seem like Christmas. And that is what we
are all afraid of, that the nuclear bomb is going to go off from within, and
that the boogey man and the skeletons in the closet are finally going to get
us. Drink! Snort!
Kill!, Run!, Do whatever is
necessary to outrun the skeletons in the closet. But you cannot run from the wolf, for the
wolf runs within you. So we have no
choice but to say; Ouch! Yeah! Do it again!
forever, which is sick and sad fun and harmful to us and others, or we
have to haul out those 500 pounders and nukes from within once and for all and
try to heal.
The truth
is, the war is over, and whatever happened a long time ago already happened a
long time ago. Mommy and Daddy and all those sick people cannot get us now, and
we no longer have to fear that the pain of all we suffered will kill us like it
would have if we had faced it then. Our hearts are crying out for help, with
every shot of alcohol or shot from a gun.
Our inner children are calling out for help with every indulgence in
pain, it is their way of saying “help, help”, and that is why perversions turn
into perverse addictions, and why they escalate and escalate until we are hated
or incarcerated or dead or crazy. Help,
help!
So let us send help by
realizing how much perverse joy we get in doing the wrong , perverse things
that we know we should not do. And let
us try and feel the pain of the pain, and all the way back to what happened,
instead of the pleasure of pain, just for our defensive jollies. We may be loathe to give up our porn or
cigarettes or teasing and torturing of innocents, but we should be far more
loathe to go to prison or die, and it is sad and tragic how most people end up
in prison or killing or being killed, rather than cry, and be in mourning and
grief for what happened to them as children.
Let’s make healing and coming home to the pleasure of pleasure our
favorite fetish, instead of the defensive pleasure of pain.
See you tomorrow.
yourpersonalmuse@gmx.com
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