Abandonment Part 3: Fire and Pain

       For years, my insides were like one big smoking heat sink, with small brush fires burning in selected locations and a few all out forest fires here and there. I would release the heat and the beauty of this fire through many forms of self expression. Music. Writing. Photography and film. And through simply being myself in the world.
        I did all of of this often enough, as friends of mine will attest. But I didn’t do it all of the time. And I wasn’t sharing my fire with the the whole world. And I wanted to. I wanted to be myself, all the way, all of the time. I wanted to release this beautiful burning light to the entire world. Not just to people and situations that felt safe.
        This went along with not showing all of myself in relationships. I never showed it all. I couldn’t be that vulnerable. I was too scared of getting hurt. What I did show was plenty, it seemed. I had many people in my life who knew me, and loved me, intimately and otherwise. And they always described me as unique. As out there. As deep. But I knew there was so much more inside of me that I wasn’t showing. There were depths to me that I dared not expose.
        All I needed to release this internal fire and turn it into a blaze that would ignite my life was a gallon of napalm. Enter my last girlfriend. Principessa. She stirred my insides up just by being herself, and neither of us realized it. She unknowingly stoked this massive, smoldering, barely contained cauldron within me. Then out of nowhere, she dumped me. It took a few weeks for that to hit. On the outside, everything was relatively unchanged. On the inside, it was chaos. The best kind of chaos. The kind that changes you.
        The pain of losing her triggered all of this other pain that I was storing inside of me. The pain, I’ve come to learn, was the napalm. The means for releasing all of myself had been within me the entire time. I just wasn’t able to access it. Her abandoning me put me in touch with that pain. All of it. KABOOM! My whole world was on fire. Burning with a reckless abandon the likes of which I could barely grasp.
        Going through the pain released my fire. All of my creativity and imagination and passion and desire and hope. It’s all burning brightly. All of the time. And I’m living it.
        That’s me now. My challenge is to let the fire burn with all of it’s brilliance and power and fury and passion and light, yet keep it harnessed for my highest purpose. Keeping it going is not an issue. There is more than enough fuel here to last my life time. And every moment that I live my life from my open heart, more fuel gets added. What to do with it all and how to do it is my challenge. And my life’s work.
        This website is just one piece of it. I’ve been exploding all over my life.
        And I will never again be so emotionally stingy. Whoever you are, if you want it, you are going to get all of me, all of the time, right from the get go. I’m not talking about inappropriately overwhelming anyone with how I feel or what I think. I’m talking about no longer hiding because I’m afraid of getting hurt. I’m talking about consciously aspiring at being 100% of myself 100% of the time. If you want to see me and hear me and know me and experience me and maybe even love me, I’m not going to shut you out. If you don’t want to know me, that’s fine. Don’t ask. But if you do, be careful for what you ask for. Because you are going to get it.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved.

Abandonment Part 2: CARDIOPLASTICITY

       Neuroplasticity is a buzz word in the field of neurology. It states that the mind is perfectly capable of creating new neural pathways at any age. At any point in our lives, new experiences can create neural “re-wiring”. Therefore, we are not “hard wired” by adolescence, as previously believed. The mind, both consciously and non-consciously, can learn to think differently. In other words, we can literally change our minds.
        The same holds true for the heart. No matter how old we are, profound experiences can shift us emotionally and spiritually. If the heart was closed but is now open, we literally “feel different”. Our attitude shifts and our emotional experience of life expands. This literal change of heart impacts our lives in amazing ways. It happened to me. It can happen to anybody. So I’m coining a new phrase: Cardioplasticity.
        I used to equate love with pain. Whenever I started falling in love with a woman, the inner turmoil was unbearable. I experienced so much anxiety and fear of abandonment, that I eventually retreated to a place inside myself that was safer. I felt so absolutely out of control emotionally that I had to do something. Because if she knew how out of kilter I was, she wouldn’t like me anymore. I couldn’t let her know how nuts I felt inside. How scared I was. Because nuts and scared is ugly. So to share this with her would be the kiss of death.
        Because all of these fears came true with my first girlfriend. More than once. And that was all the proof I needed, thank you very much. But really, it goes back much further than that. It goes back to my original wound of abandonment. My experience from day one was that to love with all your heart, the only way a child knows how, was synonymous with abandonment. And to be left was to suffer unbearable pain. So don’t ever love with all your heart. It could kill you.
        When I was a kid, feeling and expressing love was a mostly unpleasant experience. I experienced a constant yearning that was met with only sporadic episodes of joy. Or even more rarely, bliss. And when that joy and bliss came, it was so unpredictable and short lived that I learned to expect it to end soon. And it did. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
        In adulthood, I learned how to get love without risking too much. I learned how to give love without leaving my flanks exposed. This wasn’t a conscious plan or a calculated scheme. This was autopilot emotional survival. Which isn’t to say that I’m not responsible for it.
        I honed an ability to pull away emotionally, just enough to stay safe, but not enough to lose her or drive her away. Because abandonment was still the overriding fear. I gave love, but I never gave it all. It was a psycho-emotional tight rope that I walked so that I could love, be loved, be safe, be in control, and not be abandoned. And like anything practiced, I got good at it.
        I never grasped the truism that love is something you get more of, the more you give away. The key was to give more. Not try to get more.
        That formula got lost on me. Because I was getting what I wanted: love, sex, and companionship, without giving away the store. And because I was coming from my head most of the time then. “Give to get” just didn’t make any sense from there.
        The only place that I gave everything I had was in the bedroom. That was the only place I felt safe. That was the only place I really knew who I was and what I was doing. Because my guard was down between the sheets, all of me came out there. All the love, all the passion, all the wonder, intensity, playfulness, and excitement. I just couldn’t carry that over into the rest of my relationship.
        Until we become conscious of what we’re doing, we keep repeating ourselves. We develop coping skills and strategies to minimize the fear and the pain. But we’re always missing something. We’re missing true intimacy. That was me.
        Operative word there is “was”. Thanks to cardioplasticity, I’m not there anymore. I still struggle with abandonment, but I’m aware of it now. More importantly, I know, not just intellectually but in my heart, that the way out of that abandonment pain is to go through it. Not around it. Or over it. Or past it. The way out is always through.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a stupifying amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

Musex

Today is the second anniversary of my dad's death. Although I've written much about him, I decided that today's post would be a celebration of love and music. If he were still alive, my dad would be horrified to see me post something so graphic, sexual, and revealing as this. And he would have told me so. But secretly, he would would have smiled and said "Jesus Christ, John" (my dad called me John, not Clint. And he loved taking the lord's name in vain). Dad was a huge fan of music. And of love.

      Don’t try this at home. Actually, absolutely try this at home.
      One night, she creates a play list of songs. The next night, he does. For the next two evenings, this will be the music you play while you’re having sex. Here’s the twist: As you make love to all these various pieces of music, consciously notice how the music impacts you and your experience.
       The difference here is that you’re paying attention to what song is playing. It’s not just background music. You’re aware of what the song is, what it brings up, and how it makes you feel. It’s not distracting you. It’s guiding you. It’s shaping the event, enhancing it, right along with the two of you. Specific music becomes another active element, like scent, that co-creates the experience.
       Give the atmosphere a chance to develop. Choose songs that evokes similar emotions, setting a particular overall mood. To that end, you wouldn’t mix “Vicarious” by Tool with “Wild Horses” by The Stones. Unless you want some crazy, psychotically charged sex. Which is perfectly cool.
        Think about choosing the song “Love Gun” by Kiss. It’s a raunchy, sexist, absurdly macho, testosterone dripping, aggressive piece of music. Chances are, that’s what the sex will be like. Be aware of what the song is bringing up in you while it’s happening. Now put on “Something In The Way She Moves” by James Taylor. Soft, beautiful, tender, loving. An absolute musical temple for the woman.
        No matter what you choose, become actively aware of what the music is saying to you, doing to you, and evoking in you. Call it conspicuously conscious sex. If you like to talk while you’re making love, jackpot. Tell your lover what you’re experiencing as each song brings up different nuances and sensations and feelings. While keeping the motor running, of course.
        Sometimes, I've taken it a step further. I sing to my lover while we’re having sex. It’s more of a whisper type of singing, but it’s still melodic, and I get all the words right. More importantly, I really get into it. More more importantly, she really gets into it. Now, I don’t have a trained voice, but it doesn’t matter. Anybody can sing in this situation and sound just dandy. And when a woman sings to me, forget it. I died and went to heaven. And that’s before my orgasm. The absolute apex is to sing to your lover while you’re looking into each other’s eyes. One word for that: Magic.
        Singing to someone while beholding their glassy gaze, however, does takes some chutzpah. Remember the last time you played DJ at a party and nobody liked your choice of music? Musical rejection can hurt. You’re out on a limb a bit with this one. But it is so worth it.
        No matter what music you choose, make sure there’s nothing but love behind it. It can be a tender, soft, gentle kind of love. It can be a madly passionate, lustful kind of love. It can be a controlling kind of love. As in “Honey, where are the handcuffs?”. That’s fine. Actually that’s more than fine. That’s fantastic. Anyway, maybe it’ll help you work through something. With her. With him. Maybe without even talking about it. Most guys like that last part.
        Music can be the third in a beautiful menage a trois. And unlike the real thing, there’s never any radioactive emotional fallout. I’ve sung entire CD’s to woman just during foreplay. Then again, I have a tremendous capacity for remembering lyrics. And for foreplay.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and oh so many Wrongs) Reserved.

Principessa

       Columbus Day weekend. The quintessential fall getaway here in New England. Last year, I went to western Massachusetts to see the foliage. I went with...well, I shouldn’t use her real name. I could refer to her as “The Woman who changed my life”, as I have elsewhere on this website. But that moniker would get cumbersome after a while.  
       I used to call her “principessa”, which is Italian for “princess”. She actually turned me onto the word. She had gone to Italy when she was in college and picked it up there. I loved how the word sounded, and it fit her. She didn’t act like a princess. But she looked like one. Beautiful, with a casual elegance, and an earthy yet chic fashion sense that a modern princess might possess (not ever having met a “real” princess, I can only speculate on this). Think Princess Caroline of Monaco meets artsy, hip, urban yoga instructor .
       Whenever the word principessa left my lips, it vaporized like a mist, and made it’s way towards her. The mist then embraced her, like an aura, and she would wear that glow. That’s what I saw when I called her that.
       Sometimes she would say “I’m so not a princess”, wanting me to acknowledge that she wasn’t a prima donna. I knew that. What she didn’t know was how often I wanted to respond “You’re a princess to me”. But like so much of what I felt back then, those words got stuck in me and coagulated. Like I had swallowed a wad of glue. The toxic buildup of unexpressed emotions and words would just stay trapped inside and reek havoc. Trouble breathing. Trouble sleeping. Trouble being. I was choking on my own feelings.
       But that weekend was one of the best of my life. We drove out along scenic Route 2 and got lost. We always got lost when principessa had anything to do with directions. She was, by her own admission, “extremely directionally challenged”. The funniest part was that, when she gave directions, she always sounded like she knew what she was talking about. She would say “I’m sure we take a left here”, and there would be plenty of conviction behind it. So I would take the left, even after we had been together for a while, knowing that she was probably wrong. I wanted to believe, so I did. It was a rare case of a couple being in functional denial.
       I found this idiosyncrasy of hers absolutely fucking adorable. She knew that. I never got mad at her for not just saying “Look, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about here.” She would apply her false bravado not just to directions, but to virtually everything that she had no idea about. As if admitting she was clueless about something was a crime. That part of her fascinated and intrigued me, and I always wanted to know more about it and where it came from.
       Anyway, after we got back on leaf peeping track, we went hiking, walking, talking, and soaking in one of those beautiful, picturesque, "Norman Rockwell painting" type autumn days. We stopped at the Red Lion Inn, in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where old Norm lived. We had a drink on the porch. Actually a few drinks. Probably shouldn’t have driven. That one’s on me.
       We stayed at a bed and breakfast owned by a couple of gay guys from New York city who quit the rat race and decided to open up a B&B in South Barrington, Massachusetts, another absolutely gorgeous little town. Talk about a culture shock. But they seemed like they were adjusting fine and they were great hosts.
       There’s something else about that weekend that I will never forget. Saturday night, I dropped principessa off at a restaurant and went to park the car. On the walk back to the restaurant, I encountered a handicapped woman walking, with a metal walker, towards her apartment. She moved very slowly, each step requiring gargantuan effort. It was going to take her fifteen minutes just to get from the street to the elevator inside. I asked her if she needed any help, and she just shook her head. I stood there for but a moment and looked at her. The words “There but for the grace of god go I” flashed inside my mind. As soon as I heard those words, I started walking again. Because I had started to cry, and I didn’t want anybody to see me crying.
       When I got to the restaurant, I couldn’t hide the tears from my principessa. She could tell I was upset. She held my hands from across the table and we talked about what I had just experienced. Her gentle gaze, soft touch, and caring ways always comforted me. Gratitude filled me from deep within as I sat there with this beautiful woman, in a beautiful town, at the end of a beautiful day. I felt guilty that I had it so good.
       I can’t say that when I’m in my shit, I always think of that moment and it shifts me. But I am thinking about that moment right now. And I’m grateful. Grateful that I feel so much these days. Because for so long I could not.
       But that weekend, I did feel. Contentment. Happiness. Joy. Sadness. Love.
       I miss principessa.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

Getting Into...Not Falling

        In my past intimate relationships, I always resisted falling too hard. That’s probably a common male phenomenon. Many men look at love as something that happens to them, not something they happen to. I don’t feel that way anymore, but I used to. When a guy believes that something is “happening” to him, there is usually an automatic, primitive response: Fear. Men believe that they are always supposed to be in control. It’s a fucked up mind set, but it is present, to some degree, within the deep recesses of the male mind. It’s evolutionary. It’s primitive. It’s survival based.  And it’s constantly reinforced by society, by culture, by other men, and even sometimes by women. This paradigm has functioned, or disfunctioned, for thousands of years. But it’s an outdated model.     
       When I did fall in love, it felt just like that: falling. I fell yesterday. Off of my bike. It sucked. The best thing I can hope for after a fall is to get my ass up and say “I’m, okay. I’m not dead.” I pull myself up from the pavement, brush off whatever is stuck to me, lick my wounds, and hop back on the bike. There’s usually some short lived euphoria and gratitude that I’m still alive. But that’s it. “I survived” is the best I can do. Ya-Hoo. Why the hell would any man look forward to that?
       What I need is a new phrase. “Falling” In Love just doesn’t work for me. If I can metaphorically compare the greatest experience on earth with taking a spill off of my eighteen speed, then the analogy is tragically flawed.
       How about “Getting Into Love”? That’s much better. Like “getting into”
 a Ferrari. Or “getting into” a great song. Tell me that doesn’t sound better than “falling” off of a ladder.  When I “get into” something, as opposed to “fall” into something, everything is different. First of all, “Getting Into” implies that I have a choice, even if it’s not a completely conscious one. And I believe that as adults, we do choose, consciously and unconsciously, who we love. “Getting Into” is something to relish, to look forward to, to savor, to enjoy. “Falling” is something I try to avoid. And when it starts happening anyway, I usually hurt myself even more by trying to stop it. “Getting Into” is a wonderful, beautiful, spiritual process. When I “Get Into” a piece of music, or a movie, or any work of art (which a woman definitely is), I’m completely enthralled. I show up, as myself, one-hundred percent. That’s a much better experience than wiping out on my bike.
       Guys love to “get into”...well...you name it. A band, a car, a new piece of loud machinery, a sport, their lover. A guy who’s “into” something is happy, energized, passionate, attentive, open to the experience, present, content, and himself. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be when you’re in love with somebody? Isn’t that what men want to be? Isn’t that what women want their man to be with them?   
       Maybe “falling in love” doesn’t work for woman anymore either. Either way, I’ll stick with “Getting Into Love”. It’s a far more user friendly description of what is essentially a spiritual experience. It's more from the heart, and more in tune with my male psyche. And it doesn’t suggest that I’m taking an unplanned, unwanted free fall into a pool with no water.  
       “Getting Into Love” is similar to anything a guy gets into, but far more intense. Like the best thing you’ve ever dreamed of, amped up even further. Past ten. Past eleven. Think about guitars, cars, drums, motorcycles, football, power tools, boats, and countless other things guys get into. They stay into them for life. And these are only things. The woman a man truly loves is infinitely more beautiful, alluring, fascinating, passionate, sexy, fun, challenging, wonderful, awe-inspiring, sensitive, responsive, and life-affirming than anything else a guy could possibly imagine. With the possible exception of a metallic purple and copper 1967 Corvette convertible with a 427 and a window shattering, 500 watt stereo system. No wait, scratch that. That's just my primitive brain talking. My heart knows the truth. A woman I’m completely in love with is infinitely better than anything I ever dreamed of. Even the ‘Vette.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

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