I have learned -the hard way- a lesson, having realised at 60, that I have wrecked my life, in the (altruistic or forced) service of anyone else but myself, falling for the (probably) greatest mistake an intellectual/writer/artist can make, i.e. a culturally conditioned “other half” mentality, without ever considering that for us, the cerebral connection, the deep neural co-existence, the mutual admiration and understanding of each other’s unique or shared talent(s), creativity, art(s), must come before anything else, way before the “fell in love at first sight”, societally ingrained eye-candy trap…
I blame myself; yet I also blame my biological progenitor, delusionally having had called himself my “father”, and my “guilty by silence” biological herd pompously usurping the “my family” title, who thus together, nigh tou yto ortured out of me every innate, literature/art-related creative impulse, because “you must first have a proper job, you know, not play the singing, cricket-troubadour, while starve for lack of job-given resources”. This “curse” haunted my every effort, and yes, small, step-by-step growing successes in acting, theatre, folk music, dramatised recitals and live-show writing, production and directing, which I had the honour to enjoy despite my family’s lack of genuine appreciation and support, while investing all the efforts I was capable of, in securing a respected healthcare engineering “day-job” for my life’s necessities; yet leaving me to this day, with an imposter syndrome slowly but surely, dragging me through body and soul cutting shards of suffering, onto an oblivion as impossible to understand as the tragedy of birth, both permanent, despicably uninvited, gruesome characters to my lyre:
“SUICIDE FROM DEATH TO LIFE…
It’s all a lie,
our birth into this world.
Mourning should have welcomed us,
late, but perfect companion
for all the sweat, tears, blood,
and “doctor, doctor, the baby’s not crying…”;
tube in, suck, slap,
and that agonising human meowing
hoped to follow.
Blood all over, and that hideous, purple-bpurple
cut-away maternal lifeline,
drowning abandoned in a sordid tin bowl.
“What is it, nurse?”,
and the embarrassing silence
following a sob;
dad wanted ‘something’ else.
When in distress, or asleep,
humans have an instinctive reaction:
curling back in a foetal position.
Assembled into existence,
tiny, atomic conglomerates,
of biochemical memories,
embraced in a lightless quest for temporary shelter,
Something’s wrong outside, here,
in this limitless dimension of suffering,
where we are denied even our thumb’s suck,
because it’s “childish, you know, and silly”.
This is not what I have mindlessly dreamed of.
Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, brothers and sisters,
we are all dead;
toe-tagged, wretched food for an all-devouring Chronos.
Can’t you see,
your miserable clients of Freudian stock,
that life is the opposite of living?
I’ve had enough…
I’ll close my eyes, again,
pretending to be functionally:
blind, deaf, mute, numb;
and breathless, tasteless, heartbeatless,
I will stay calm, still,
until all material memories
of my mothers and fathers,
shall force my withheld senses to return.
If life’s the opposite of living, what’s death?
The opposite of dying?
It’s just the recipe for it…
our ongoing suicide from death to life…”
-from: “Upside-Down, Abandoned Heartstrings – Poetry from The Dark Side of Asperger’s Autism Vol. 2, Ed. 1, With Original Images & Artwork”, (Rev.) Romulus C. Kulik-Draco, 2023.
This is why it took a domino-effect violently devastating number of life-tragedies, to leave me with no other choice than to start acting on everything I was imprisoned away from, deep within myself, for nigh six decades.
I have deliberately left the bracketed “sexuality” term in the title, only as a temporary recognisance adagio, having coined “sapiointimacy©” instead, to become what I believe to be a much better defining term for a mutuality where ‘intimacy’ is the comprehensive, (yet non-exclusive) co-existence of individual humans who will have found in each other those elements which will turn their maybe- existential platitude into micro-universes of multi-dimensionality, in which ‘sexuality’ is nothing more than just another, colourful grain in the soil from which the unique, beautiful creativity fruit-bearing flowers, shrubs and trees could grow. And no, even risking anyone’s dismay, by “fruit”, I didn’t mean at all, children, because I can’t humanely wish anyone the slightest chance to live through the sadistic journey I was thrown into, without even a shade of consent.
All I have left, is hopefully some time, to ‘sapiointimately©’ bond with whose mind(s) and heart(s) my lifelong desire for such deep mutuality, can’t but hope, to find.