CHAPTER 33

Meanwhile, Back At
Revelation Ranch…

 

   During the next few blessed days of aloneness — not loneliness! (big difference) I began to plan my escape party. Les arrived home, having backed off long enough for my face to return to semi-normal. No smile, but presentable.

   The recess served me well, as this time when I looked at him anew I felt no personal emotion. Neither attachment, love, hate nor pity. I had reached the Gate of Indifference en route to Liberty Lane.

   I only felt he was no longer on my agenda.

   It would be up to him to get help for himself if and when he ever felt the need. And then, up to fate to serve the opportunity for his healing and defusing his inner land mind.

   But I decided that I was no longer on duty.

   Though I was making a small fortune during our brief togetherness, Les spent it faster than Monopoly moola. Having enforced his demand for total control of our (my) bank accounts with “What! Don't you trust me!”-tantrums. I silenced my feelings for fear of a greater heart heist while nervously relinquishing knowledge of what bills were paid, or not.

   One day our landlord called to say we were two months behind with rent. Being a nice guy, he gave us 'til the end of the month to pay all back, and next month's, rent.

   I knew I paid the rent. Unfortunately, I gave it to Les who chose to pocket the cash.

   I gave the landlord notice that I'd be out by the end of the month, and I'd see what I could pay, once I got my career back on track. I also gave him a list of people who told me they'd love to rent the house just in case Les skipped.

   Our landlord's demand gave me the excuse to clear the house of all my artwork, to hide it with a friend because I feared Les would ruin my art as he did with my portraits of Tanya when he suspected I had any independent feelings.

   To squelch a scuffle, I told Les that I used my art as collateral to pay some of our bills.

   I knew Les would be pleased that I used me and that I might lose what meant so much to me.

   My familiar list making energy suddenly awoke… & all my lists birthed more lists, as usual. Seeing my plans set out logically on paper gave me strength to believe my escape would succeed.

   With a 7 day deadline, or make that lifeline, I contacted the phone company to have our lines cut by October 31st and to direct all calls to an answering service I retained.

   So too, all mail was to be forwarded to a post box I rented.

   Conveniently, CBC asked me to design a special media poster with a 2 day deadline for speedo conceptualizing and art work.

   How perfect! It was the “Snow Queen” special. Hey! No problem. Compared to my recent battles, this was a breeze. I so needed to be cool.

   During this Plot Slot, a twinge of guilt flared up within me. I so desired an in-home spirit of honor, trust and open communications, yet here I was, acting like an undercover agent. However, my guilt vaporized when I thought:

   Sure, honesty may be the best policy IF you're dealing with honest people. But when dealing with a liar and an ignoble warrior who would do, and did, anything to win, the best policy is to recall that survival depends on my ability to cover my assets.

   Why be forthright with him regarding my escape? Why tell him my survival strategy when I knew he had never been concerned with my happiness or emotional preservation?

   What lunacy would make me think that now, when I'm pulling me, the doormat, from under his frightening feet, he would suddenly be my supportive ally? What's in it for him other than reality?

   For some blessed reason, Les chose to skip off for most of the remaining days. Though not to work, as he'd quit his job several months earlier so as to “stretch his wings”, savor scotch, watch TV and “allow” me to support him.

   His sudden daily disappearing act gave me the freedom to make my needed calls, as one of his pastimes was to listen in on all my phone chats.

   As I ran an Olympian race with time on my art project, Les made nightly comebacks to engage in his new sport of perfume bottle tossing at my art table. When he ran out of bottles, he threw insults. But this time I felt no emotional reaction. Not even the shakes that I'd grown accustomed to controlling as I tried to work my fine line paint brushes.

   He suddenly became a holographic movie, I named: Brat Goes to War with Himself. Though the usual response to my ignoring him was more physical violence, maybe because my reaction was truly vacant, my energy did not fuel him.

   Awareness of my higher protection caused my increased trust in the power of Look, Learn and Let Go.

   Whatever it was, it worked as he retreated that night to his favorite pastime, polishing his gun holster wallet backed by the blaring sounds of the James Bond (his idol) theme songs

   My days passed quickly due to being jazzed by my soul goal.

   My in-studio radio kept me inspired with all the right pep songs: Too Many Fish in the Sea, I Don't Want Nobody Who Don't Want Me!, Got Along Without You Before I Met You, Gonna Get Along Without You Now! And most of all, Croce's I Gotta A Name!

   I used those last days to pack as discretely as possible, anxious for the 31st. I used my CBC advance check to open a new bank account and cover my new expenses. I also used that time to lunch with business friends I long avoided.

   To my semi-surprise, their comments on my planned split were: “It's about time!” and offered to aid in my escape and to help me move. Their reaction caused me to think: I was a good kid actor, but sure didn't do a good cover job with my marriage to Les!

   Escape from the Wing Ding Dorm dawned at 5 a.m. and I couldn't sleep. I clock watched like a prisoner on death row — only this was life row! It was a very long day watch.

   That night, Les predictably scanned the TV Guide to see how he'd fill his night. Gee! Any available rerun Bond flick? Unintuitive as ever to my emotions, he never noticed me putting my art supplies in boxes in my upstairs' closet.

   Like a call to order, according to plan, the doorbell rang about 7:30 that night. I ran to the door. Owing to the other definition of the eve, the doorway was filled with a perfect undercover escape cast — many having skipped out on their Halloween costume parties to help me cross this lifal border.

   At first Les was startled into silence by the troop that entered the house and began moving my belongings:

   What a Group! A 6' waddling funky chicken, a pregnant guy nun with a mustache, 2 cowboys, a fairy princess, a flapper, a green guy from Mars and a few regular folks in work gear.

   Armed with a cowboy and the chicken, who was prepared to take no foul play, I told Les we were finished. And that I was simply taking my stuff and would be outta there soon.

   For the first time ever, Les was trapped. On one side he wanted to punch me out. On the other, he feared the pregnant nun edging closer with the giant screwdriver he brought to help disassemble my studio.

   Cornered by confusion, Les screamed his vilest obscenities to the not-to-be-pushed-around moving crew.

   He threw his scotch across the room and stormed out.

   I still recall his ironic exit line as he slammed the door: “Remember, kid, no one will ever love you like I do!”

   My answer was: “God! I hope not!”

   Aware that Les kept a gun collection in his car, and not knowing when he'd return, we played Beat the Clock and cleared out all that essentially mattered to me and left the rest.

   After a few hours of us all flying up and down that 4 level house, scored by my loudest Rock & Roll tapes, we filled a van and several cars, and declared that slice of night: Done!

   Shutting the door, I was vividly aware of how every exit was also an entrance. I closed that door without any regret. Not one if-only. I hadn't felt so clean in years.

   We all raced to the cars. The chicken, the nun and the rest of those angels-on-duty mutually deciding that a party was in order.

   We headed for a downtown club that went decoratively wild on Halloween.

   Aha! Another masquerade! What a perfectly fitting setup to celebrate this turning point. I toasted my green Martian buddy and the rest of the troop who all showed me the love I had forgotten to reach out and hug.

   I declared: “Here's to the end of tricks! And the beginning of treats!” I couldn't find more apropos words to sum up my escape.

   As Les stayed away until after we all left, I never heard his final reaction. But. What the hey! Though I love humor … that was one punch line I didn't mind ducking.

   Instant karmic footnote to our split:

   As Les had taken over the business side of my work, I had grabbed all the ledgers and checkbooks when I left. Sensing he had manipulated the money, my review of the records caused me to title the mess as: Booty and the Beast.

   Shortly after splitting, the bank manager invited me out to lunch to celebrate my splitship. Wow, another cheerleader! He told me that he'd long suspected Les of deal fudging and advised me to examine all the records I could tap.

   I did and discovered more o' Les. That being a list of contracts, deals, negotiations that I had “signed”.

   Les was more of an artist than I knew. And evidently my signature was his favorite subject.

   Though many companies forced me to honor that which I did not sign, several collection agencies made it their goal to track Les down.

   Aha! Opportunity! Not vengeful, but reciprocal. When we were to have our first divorce hearing, I sent out court invites with a BYOW tag, meaning: Bring Your Own Writ.

   One day the manager of a car lease company called and, with a smirk swirling through his delivery, I heard tell of a recall in the new sports car Les had leased in my name and not paid for.

   I wasn't called to pay, but to pass on a message that if I ever heard from him. I doubted I would as the last rumor had him fleeing to Florida with a very rich red-headed divorcee.

   The fellow's message was: “Les' car was declared lethal as the engine could blow up any moment. Bring it in ASAP!”

   Gosh. I honestly couldn't deliver the bulletin. Not that I wished anything bad on him but what's an ex-wife to do? I then pondered the possible karmical messages of that call:

   How his future would unfurl was totally up to the flags he chose to hoist and salute.

   The greater my ability to Let Go of Les, the faster I'd be free of the rubbish cans our past had packed.

   Ultimately, the higher forces respond to the actions of abusers with a far greater payback than any hire-the-hit-guy revenge could ever accomplish. Not payback as in harm, but in the chance for a spiritual resolve for the abuser to see the mirror of their strays.

   Letting Go was certainly working for me! And, most of all, I realized: I was not my brother's keeper!

   In time, I realized that no one is.

   Yet, that Toxic Tradition may be keeping more Cosmic Girl (& Boy) Scouts stuck in ugly setups. Even the strongest Scout who enters the ugliest setup with the healthiest self-esteem can be poisoned by that Tradition of I am my brother's keeper, especially when it's cited as if it is directly directed by God. With that Almighty inference, anyone can be susceptible to the sell.

   As I sense it, we are each born to be responsible for our own actions and reactions. And considering that Keeper means: chaperon, watchman, supervisor, boss, manager of another, and that we are each scheduled to fulfill a higher purpose, each equipped with the tool of our Free Will so as to effect our individual growth, this dichotomy tells me that we are not here to control, to nag, to be the dictator of another's lifal choices.

   Again, proxy maturing and evolving is as pointless as proxy dieting.

   And, who upon the planet has the ultimate spiritual clarity to know all the details of another's soular purpose and the picture puzzle each one of us is here to re-solve?

   Who has the supreme wisdom, the purity, the detachment to results and the Godian brilliance to be the supervisor and keeper of another's individual journey?

   I wonder if that advisory was written and propagated by a religious club's Controller wanting to herd the flock. Or, by a parent wanting to continue running a kid's life way after the kid's kidhood. Or, if the scribe of that manifesto sold it with sanctified undertones because they felt their desires needed a higher endorsement for social acceptance.

   Though I personally experienced why I'm not meant to be my brother's keeper, I can't believe the Godian plan intends for any of us to be a watchdog over another's kismet with free will. Then again, what does keeper actually mean?

   My Thesaurus offers such alternates as jailer, custodian and even owner! That offers more complexication.

   Why on Earth would any of us be meant to possess or take another into the custody of our personal convictions?

   My GUT Buddy tells me: optimistically, the most I can ever be to another is an ally and cheerleader, if they desire.

   But, I'm not to be the coach of another's Lone League or, the chief administrator over anyone else's NBA, as in: Natal Blossoming Agreement with our Godian Parent.

EXAMPLE:

   Imagine the toxic combo within this mortal/marital blend:

  •    1 Cup of I-am-my-brother's-keeper

  •    1 Cup of No-pain-no-gain

  •    1 Cup of Til-death-do-us-part

  •    1 Cup of Y'must-stand-by-your-man (or woman)

  •    1 Cup of Blood-is-thicker-than-water

  •    1 Cup of Maybe-I-didn't-try-HARD-enough!

  •    1 Cup of It-IS-gettin'-better (ain't it?)

  •    1 Cup of Selfishness-is-sinful (so I must love my abusers)

   Then simmer these 8 cups of Tradition in a bubbling guilt pot over the fires of fear, and all we get is 2 warts of toxic hell that poisons our spirit and deludes us into thinking we, the Cosmic Scouts, have no right to leave the Hell's kitchen of abuse. That we must stay, especially when we hear the Fear Flea Chef nagging us with:

   “C'mon! Look how much time you've already invested in this recipe! So, even though it has long smelled noxious, you can't walk away from the frying pain!

   BUT!

   If time segments were tangible moola funds in our Cosmic bank account (and possibly they are) and our funds were being drained by an emotional embezzler; if we discovered we were endorsing checks to one who was not returning the love and support meant to be exchanged for our time cash; if we knew our dream dollars were being extorted via threats of telling the world we are “love failures”; if that was the scenario, should we keep writing those checks until we are emotionally bankrupt? Until we have no more funds or funs, to offer life, not even to ourselves?

   If the answer is: I do it because I love 'em!, then the next quandary might well be: What is our definition of love?

   Sure, it was said in Love Story that “Love means never having to say you're sorry”. But, that makes me wonder whether that irresponsible idea was inspired by an abusive mate, as I never met an abuser who ever felt the need to say “I'm sorry”.

   “I'm-sorry” is usually issued by the abusee.

   Leaving on that fate-filled Trick or Treat night left me with a Halloween bag filled with material questions like:

   Where would I live? What would I drive? How would I refurnish my life and fully reactivate my creativity?

   From that Trick or Treat bag, I pulled the one answer that fit my all size questions:

   You arrived on the planet naked, sans any material stuff. You didn't even recall the language! And look at all you accrued: creatively, spiritually and materially, despite all who sought to retard your progress.

    So! Simply begin your launch by calmly imaging all the fun that's awaiting now that you are free to soar toward, fueled by your love, guided by your protection, inspired by your heart and directed by God. What better tour guiding team could you dream for?

   As I type that last memory, I realize we all have access to that Galaxial Travel Agency. The only thing that stalls us from booking our Freedom Flight is our fear of boarding without our reservations. The reservations of our illusionary doubts, the primo symbology of emotional excess poundage.

   The excess fear-weight that we always have to pay for — one way or the other, sooner or later — when we continue to ignore Captain Fate's advice to pack light.

   Light as in shedding past poundage of abusive memories attached to thoughts of revenge, and pack light as in illuminating our connection to the Godian Hope for us, the Children, to live and love our spiritual potential.

   What a flight plan we could travel if we choose to board without self-bumming boredom, if we elect to fly forward and not past backwards, and if we allow our headlights to be the Christ Light within our spirits.

Copyright © 2004 by Krystiahn