Mr. Scabs, "detachment stinks"


It's been more than a year since Eat My Scabs came to life on the world wide web.  In this last year, you've  shared with me the ebbs and flows, the cycles, common threads, pivotal moments the umbilical cords that tie us together.  One of those threads is detaching, disengaging, disconnecting.

It was the first of my greatest discoveries.  The action that changed everything for me and one of my most powerful tools, a steel-toothed 106 cc gas-powered chainsaw.  Yep.

So, when it comes to detachment, how does Mr. Scabs feel?

Mr. Scabs and I have worked together to write this post.  Although I form the sentences  
many of these words are his own.  
Trying to capture raw honesty from the past.

I cringe and my teeth grind at the thought of her detaching. 

We weren't always this way but addiction, lies, control, resentment had us desperately entwined in a frenzied ball of bloody fish hooks.  Their spikes ripping our skin and jabbing into our most vital organs.  Clawing and forever binding us together in a selfish, defeating torment.  That was our cycle.

At the first signs of detachment, I'm in such anguished pain.  You see, as terrible as the fish hooks were, I preferred them to being cut off.   Abandoned.  Alone.  I wanted a partner in my misery.

Muttering under my breath, I encourage myself to get angry, to accept bitter resentfulness, to feel my heart go colder and blacker.  I whispered excuses and blame to my heart telling myself no one cares.  The lies ballooned in my head, my abandonment exaggerated and I searched for ways to act out, to sooth my self-hatred..

This is where the distortion mutates into the belief that nothing matters and there is no hope.

Although I made mistake after mistake and continued to cross clear boundaries and lie, lie, lie, lie I felt I deserved more.  I felt I deserved to have that which I did not earn and I wallowed and fell into a selfish tantrum of self-pity when I didn't get it.

That is when the crash happens.  The fantastic and terrible collision, a careening fall through hell.  And once I was laying there, dismembered on the rock-bottom of the world, splayed out I felt desperate for change.   That quiet broken moment gifted me the chance to choose.  Would I reach out and change or would I fall deeper and darker into my prison?

Sometimes, I'm still drawn to the cyclic ball of bloody fish hooks, but I've surrounded myself with safety nets.  Nets that remind me to stop.  To breathe.  To stop blaming everyone else.  To put my desperate feelings aside for a moment.  To validate.  To read.  To pray.  To empathize.  To reach out with kindness and warmth and compassion.

Detaching stinks.  I don't want to go through it.  But, if she hadn't detached so abruptly our cycle of jabbing fish hooks in each others flesh would have gone on and on and on.  It's an endlessly painful way to live.

Detaching released me from that cycle and put the power to choose recovery back in my hands.