Slam. A steel door penetrated an uncanny moment of hotel silence, awakening anticipated sleep, and plunging me into the chaos of shared living. Fumbling in the darkness, eyes scanning, I realized nobody entered the room. A fear when living in public spaces. A real fear. One “housekeeping” away. Trust me.
An ensemble of slamming steel doors thundered from the hallway, as truckers, vacationers, and passing strangers vacated their rooms. Holiday remnants.
Reaching for my iPhone, I peered at the clock unfazed. Ten o ‘clock in the morning. Early….erhhh no…late… difficult to say when forced captive by insomnia. Life becomes a game of addition, mounting individual hours of sleep in the holy attempt to gain a full night’s rest, usually unsuccessfully.
Glancing around the hotel room, a relaxation caught my breath, replaced by gnawing frustration. Why am I here, what am I doing, what the fuck?
At least I knew who to blame. For what? For moving into a cockroach-ridden apartment, which my landlord Julie Calboli knew before signing the lease. How did she know? It definitely wasn’t the cockroach gel left in the closet, or the clogged drains with battery-operated flood alarms, or the broken-decaying dishwasher with moldy vegetable specs, or the dilapidated oven, or neighbors claiming “the bugs are better than before”, or her refusal to ever meet face to face, stating “this has never happened before”… from afar.
Morgantown, eight minutes outside French Creek State Park, cordially became home after an exodus and months of location hopping – and it’s not perfect. Weekends are bombarded with sport teams, drifters, and the attached expo center magnetizes crowds across the state. The increased foot traffic means the increased slamming of doors. Typically begins around six-thirty in the morning and ends around four o’clock in the afternoon.
A recipe for disaster when dealing with insomnia.
Why don’t you just go home? Home. Sure, and simultaneously sacrifice any emotional well-being for the comfort of my sociopathic mother and codependent father. Yeah, that’s a great idea. I’m sure nothing can go wrong. I’m sure my physical and emotional health won’t pay the toll. I’m sure they haven’t all ready.
Too many emotional and physical scars to return. A sentence to insanity at best.
The gaslighting, physical abuse to animals, invasion of privacy; the constant games of mental chess, unlimited lies, fear of retribution, and the wire-rope of conditional love. The pettiness of discovering your chargers unplugged from power strips.
I’m good.
Awoken for the fourth time, bloodshot eyes, fingernails digging trenches, I yanked my phone from the table and took to social media. An outlet for my anger – An immediate, short form response compared to the screwdriver forehead-fracturing tactics of blogging. I honestly do not enjoy writing. Lets make this clear. God, I’ve been avoiding it. With everything I have. Fuck. However, unfortunately for me, I believe I’ve encountered a few opportunities to communicate a story. Not entirely my story, but the stories of people I’ve encountered on the road. They individually mirror a theme or person(s) from my life, ideas and archetypes I’ve encountered during my process with modern psychoanalysis.
This healing process: modern psychoanalysis, simultaneously ignited the fiercest conflicts I’ve ever known alongside the liberation of my unconscious mind.
A natural reaction, the mind becomes aware of the programmings of the programmer. Does this always warrant a negative reaction, well how malignant and improper were the programmings? And how nearby are these people during this process of unravelling?
Unfortunately, in my case, the parental programming was malignant, improper, and the unraveling process took place within my parent’s household… primarily during COVID. Confronting my sociopathic mother and codependent father is the greatest life altering situation I’ve encountered, and I’ve fought a lengthy prison sentence for a nonviolent drug crime.
Punching the purple Instagram icon, my thumbs ambushed the internet. Drawing from my discussions about narcissism, I posted various public messages regarding the unconscious presence of narcissistic personality disorder, the absence of a biological cure, and the subsequent invasion of our families and institutions.
I pounded keys furiously, projecting my anger regarding forced living conditions into the heart of what I thought to be the problem. Narcissism. A biological surrender to the frustrations accumulated within a child typically two years and younger – when negative emotions have no escape, where do they go? Dr. Hyman Spotnitz believes negative emotions, primarily anger, are hopelessly redirected back onto the child’s ego. This tornado of anger and self-destruction formulates a spectrum of narcissism, ranging from healthy perceptions of the self, to the self-destructing codependent, or to the egregious desolate depths of the malignant narcissist, psychopath, and sociopath – A dense self-hatred projected against the world.
The structural basis of narcissism being what? Repression, mainly. An inability to discharge negative emotions. Trapped psychic energy. Instead of being met with love, compassion, understanding, nurturing, an opportunity for self-expression, the child is confronted with an apathetic energy, uncaring, short of patience, demanding, or even downright unreliable. Relationship and career conflicts may also intervene with proper attention and development, preventing the child from meeting their emotional or physical needs. When the frustration or anger is unable to be communicated, the energy becomes trapped within the psyche. This is a lesson in the law of thermodynamics, Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred and transformed.
With my psychoanalytic education and my own distaste toward my current state of affairs, I decided to declare my unconscious conscious. Posting images littered with my psychoanalytic insights and personal history, I rejoiced in the revenge for my lost sleep.
Concluding my doctoral thesis, I grabbed my bong and medical marijuana, heading for the designated smoking section adjacent to the hotel. Finding a spot on the curb, I finished my post before getting medicated for the day. Still attached, I know.
Cementing myself to the concrete, I punctuated my final phrases for a few instagram followers and prepared to smoke the cannabis leaves, watching as a family unpacked from their travels. My thumb hovered over the “SEND button” as the doors breached open to the parking lot. A woman jolted from behind reflecting glass doors, blonde hair hooding her eyes, an inside-out sweatshirt stitched to her frail figure. The woman lit a cigarette, and the family headed inside.
Pressing “SEND” on my iPhone, I observed as she inhaled and tip-toed to the curb, positioning herself next to me. Exhaling the cigarette smoke, she brushed dirty blonde hair from her face and asked,
“What are you running from?”
“Is that the vibe I give off?”
The woman inched closer, exhaling cigarette smoke, which surfed the breeze directly into my face.
“I’m running,” she said.
“From what…”
“From my abusive husband…”
A crimson crust protruded from her nostril, bloody, battered.
“Are you okay?” I pulled the medical marijuana closer, nervous, observing her slender fingers like twigs clutching the cigarette upright.
“No… I’m running. I’m not going to stop,” she said.
“And how far do you think you’ll get?”
She didn’t answer, instead she sat idle, glaring into winter’s leafless horizon.
A silence lingered.
“What’s your name?” She asked.
“Nick, you?”
“Audrey”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Silence.
“I’m getting a PFA, she said.
“Protection from abuse,” I said, “are you getting that done here, at the courthouse?”
(I only just recently learned about PFA’s, and I’ll have another blog directly related to my brother and his wife filing a false PFA and hospitalization against me).
She didn’t answer so we sat in silence.
“Do you have kids?” she asked.
“No…” I answered.
“Then how could you EVER know what I’m going through?”
“I guess I don’t….” I responded, as she turned away disgusted.
“Where are your kids,” I asked.
“With my husband.”
“Umm, are they safe?” I asked confused.
“Yes,” she said confidently, before a frown smeared her lips.
“How many kids do you have?”
“Three…”
“And you’re sure they’re safe?”
“Yes,” she repeated annoyed.
An alarm sounded in the caverns of my subconscious, a tiny alarm. If your husband was abusive, why would you leave your three children behind? Why would you leave on your own… to find help?
And why so secretive, sketchy, and annoyed about topics you’re bringing up. You approached me after-all.
The man, previously unpacking the car with his family and wearing a Kutztown Cannabis Festival t-shirt, exited the hotel doorway. He noticed my attempted disposal of the bong, but reassured me, “It’s all good brotha,” before igniting a one hitter in the passenger seat of his Dodge SUV.
“I’m going to start running again, maybe right now,” she said, dramatically dropping her cigarettes and lighter, stumbling into the parking lot, and vanishing behind a row of parked cars.
In her disappearance, the gentleman and I discussed medical marijuana and the Kutztown Cannabis Festival. The contrast in energy between the woman and the gentleman were palpable. The upbeat, fuzzy intoxication of marijuana versus the cold, dire, and ominous situation presented by the woman. Talking to the gentleman, I noticed the lighter and full pack of cigarettes. She’d be returning. Do I leave? I took a picture of the cigarettes and placed a follow up post on Instagram regarding my strange encounter. Where’s the connection, abuse? Slightly intrigued, I decided to smoke a bowl of marijuana.
I’m in the middle of a scene, I thought filtering seeds and stems with my thumbs, and pounding diamond laced-gooey leaves into the glass slide. Ken Kesey would be proud.
The discovery of the film, the scene within our own lives, and the cannabis too.
I began to smoke but was viciously interrupted.
“You asshole!” The woman descended upon me, arms extended, fists flailing, tearing at my hoodie.
“What?”
The woman reemerged, striking me by surprise, hands clasping my wrists, tugging close…and closer.
“You asshole… just… hold me,” forcing my arms to the side, Audrey closed her eyes, maneuvering her lips closer to mine.
“Whoa, whoa… what’s going on here?”
“Please… just come closer. Hold me. Kiss me. Please…” Alcohol vaporized my nostrils as I carefully pushed the woman away.
“Hold on, what’s going on. Is this the best idea?”
Frustrated, the woman pulled herself away.
“Why won’t you kiss me? Is it because I’m ugly?”
“No it’s just – ”
“Then why won’t you kiss me? Please.”
“How about we sit here and smoke instead? I’ll keep you company.”
I positioned myself next to the lighter and pack of cigarettes.
“What?” She answered disgustedly, “COME HERE,” the woman said throwing herself into my lap, melting, burrowing her head into my chest, yanking me to the warmth of her limp body.
“Will you come up to my room with me?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I responded, gazing nervously into the parking lot.
“Please,” she said while clutching both of my legs.
“Its just — ”
“You don’t want to sleep with me because I’m ugly.”
“Trust me, its not that. I’d love to sleep with you, I just don’t think its a good idea. It’s early, why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I’m literally asking you to go to bed with me.”
“Yeah but… without me….”
The woman snuggled into my being, alcohol permeating the winter breeze. An overwhelming desire to comfort Audrey ignited my veins. A desire to hold her tightly, to reassure her, to place a kiss atop her forehead. The desire for a man to be with a woman, to provide and care for her, and yes, with the possibility for sex. It’s been years since I’ve really been with a woman, four, maybe five years? I discontinued relationships and dating to focus on myself and the analytical process, to eradicate myself of codependencies and the Madonna Whore Complex (blog coming soon).
Of course I miss sex, who doesn’t?
In the intensity of the moment, I snatched my bong and held it to my chest. A shield. An escape. The alcohol stung my nostrils and watered my eyes.
“Are you coming up with me?” Through frazzled blonde locks, the woman peered at me with puppy dog eyes, a whimpering scarred lip, and the crimson crusted nostril.
“I’m sorry….” I said.
Immediately she unfastened herself from my embrace, snatched the pack of cigarettes, the lighter, and stumbled for the glass doorway, departing as quickly as she arrived.
I stood, seemingly naked in the brisk winter breeze, bong clutched in my hand pants down.
The realization dawned on me, quite suddenly, that I’ve met this woman before. I’ve lived with her, and therefore I’ve all ready slept with her. The ghosty white flesh, slender frail figure, menthol cigarette sucking, succubus. An ex-girlfriend.
During my furious posts to Instagram I mentioned narcissism, sociopathy, psychopathy, but I failed to mention another Cluster B personality disorder, borderline personality, BPD. And here arrives the universe with a dangerous and callous reminder.
If you’re familiar with The Sopranos, you’re familiar with borderline personality disorder. Tony’s god awful, wreck of a mother who auditions herself as the star of every tragedy. Gloria: Tony’s short-term mistress with an erratic, drama dependent, conflict-causing, seemingly irrational personality. Gloria in particular, who literally stalks trouble, following Tony’s mob-boss wife, chucking roast beef at his skull, and the never ending supply of temper tantrums, the “why me?” After intentionally sparking conflicts.
Borderline personality is a “splitting disorder” where people are viewed as entirely “all good” or “all bad”. This is a defense mechanism developed during childhood against a difficult primary object. The child divides the primary object (typically mother) into two separate classifications which extends from the child’s perception of the mother during breast feeding. The “good” mother and the “bad” mother… the “good” breast and the “bad” breast. This theory was developed by psychoanalyst Melanie Klein, who observed how the child preserves the image of the primary object through a process known as “splitting”. Important to note that one doesn’t require borderline personality disorder to exemplify “split thinking”.
“Jews run the world”, “All Muslims are terrorists”, “Trump supporters are racist Nazis, “Democrats are paedophiles,”. These are examples of mislabeling an entire group of people based on tribal classifications. His tribe…bad! My tribe… good! Tribalism.
When dating somebody with borderline personality, you fluctuate between being a savior, hero, and dream partner to dictator, tyrant, and abuser. One of the most prominent weapons utilized by somebody with borderline personality disorder is sex.
The amount of phone calls and sit-downs I received from friends regarding how my girlfriend was cheating, the spontaneous fights causing her to “disappear” for days on end, only to find she’s been shacked up with somebody new and temporary, the sexting on snapchat, the “don’t worry about him”, the refusal of sex for months even years, and especially intense fights before intense physical sex.
Many times this would be an act of self-destruction, especially right before a vacation, concert, or birthday. The borderline person has a “splitting” disorder, which means they have a problem connecting, just like somebody was unable to connect with them as a child. Borderline individuals mimic a childhood revulsion from connection and love by self-destructing and pushing people into the “bad” identity. This identification preserves the child from ill perceptions of the primary object or caregiver, and mirrors the the history of detachment.
For example, a mother brings her child to the park, where the child picks flowers and excitedly presents them to his mother. In response, the mother does not show appreciation, maybe she ignores the child, empties the child’s palm and washes his hands, behaves in a particular way that undermines the bond and boundary dissolution of a loving relationship. This splitting behavior symbolizes a deeply rooted fear within the borderline and narcissistic person, the fear of love and the fear of dissolving one’s ego and self. Another example of this phenomenon occurs during the psychedelic experience. Narcissistic and borderline individuals find themselves bait to “bad trips” caused primarily by the exposure of their trapped, anger-stricken subconscious, and find difficulty “letting go” into the ethereal realms of love, bliss, and the other.
“Audrey”, raised many red flags: The alcohol abuse, sexual promiscuity, abandoned children, discombobulated story, the desperation yet annoyance I won’t partake in her scheme, Audrey leaving when the Cannabis shirt man appeared, the anger and departure upon refusal of sex, even her blowing cigarette smoke in my face. This was all telling.
“You asshole,” I’m in a time machine, watching a woman pound against my chest, slapping me across the face and accusing me of cheating, before she disappears with her friends, destroys our plans, and books the nightly dick-down from one of numerous disposable flings. A creation of conflict, where I’m suddenly the “bad boyfriend” and she’s suddenly pardoned, immunized by victimhood.
The problem arises when the borderline person discovers a malleable partner, a prey. Judging by the cuts and scars trailing the woman’s face she had discovered just the partner. The predator is searching for an emotionally weak, fragile individual whom they are able to control. This is why emotional intelligence is so important. If you are unable to recognize the mind games, you’ll actively find yourself on the losing side.
The costs of losing? You’ll find yourself slowly decaying, dying, or even imprisoned like a coworker friend of mine, with your bank accounts recently emptied, and your lover on the run with somebody new.
A narcissistic, borderline person requires a partner in their game of charades. How well do you think an emotionally weak individual will take to the news of infidelity, manipulation, or cunningness? The woman of your children is whoring herself and its entirely your fault! The narcissistic, borderline individual screams “abuse” after they’ve intentionally incited a terrible reaction. The borderline person is counting on this.
Here strolls Audrey, claiming she’s been abused, abandoning her children who she probably has no real attachment, drinking at eleven in the morning, and convincing a much younger stranger to sleep with her after inciting violence, most likely caused by a similar situation of infidelity. The excitement she twiddles, debriefing her husband about the twenty year old she fucked in a hotel room outside Morgantown, PA.
How did she know to find me, so quick for discussion, did she spot me from the window in her room? Predator and prey.
Within milliseconds of posting to Instagram, I encountered Audrey. A sign from the universe, or am I forcing my delusional, isolated perspective of narcissistic invasion down your throat? Did I misread the encounter?
Am I making this up for attention? I’ll leave that up to you.
When my friend asked, “How do you smoke with your medical card,”
I replied, “Smoking section near the parking lot. Honestly, I’m interested to see if I meet anybody over there.”
A joint lesson in manifestation and narcissism.
Palming through double glass doors, I emerged below mountaintops and a star threaded sky. A glass pipe dispelled from its holster, emerald trees packing the cylindrical slide. The parking lot still, asleep beneath the nightlight of McDonalds arches and a single stuttering lightbulb. Resting my bottom against the cement curbside, I drew the lighter and fastened the pipe. Alone, I thought, spotting the butt end of a Marlboro Menthol cigarette.
Or maybe not.
THE BADBOOB 