Chapter 4: Heart on Camera Lens

“The Other Cheek Part II”

Fiction. Based on a True Blue Tears of Mary. 35 minute read

“Through the innocence of my art; through the innocent rage of my writing and performance…that okay, ‘I’m angry, but I’m going to express this anger through my art.’ ” 

-kweisi gharreau

“The Other Cheek Part II”

Fiction. Based on the True Blue Tears of Mary.

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Dear Sonny,

When I called you out on your six months of gaslighting me and then I proceeded to threaten you that I would tell everybody about what you did to me, you smirked with a smug confidence and replied,

“Nobody cares.”

I was appalled. 

I tested this statement of yours:

I told my friends who met the news with horror and pity, but nothing could be done.

Then, I told my coworkers; most felt sorry for me and then they began walking on eggshells around me, because I had a cloud of heaviness around me.

Then, I told the doctor, and he prescribed me anti-depressants to shut down my sadness.

Sure enough, you were right.

Ultimately, nobody cares.

Yet, that was the key ingredient in developing this project called Artist-Inspired Journaling in Fiction, based on a True _____ genre I now call,

“Journal-Artism.”

Because the ugly truth is founded upon, “Nobody cares,” I was able to muster up the courage to speak my truth in plain sight, hidden in fiction.

Drama Queen

You were right.

Nobody really cares.

Because we are all self-absorbed.

Self-centeredness is the human default.

Those who do care are those who are seeking answers from similar challenges.

I’ve found my tribe by first speaking up and speaking out in ways that creates a space…  

to express the very things, that if suppressed, would have killed me…

and it almost did.

The image of your arms wide open, protecting the woman with your child, as if I was going to really do something.

You’ve forgotten who I truly am. 

You may think I’m a drama queen.

I probably am.

But I’ve accepted that I am a drama queen. Well, more of a romantic, a feeler, a touchy-feely little girl, with so much hope, so much poetry in her soul to sing for you about life and its promises. 

And this is the platform by which I can now express my drama.

Wings wide open. 

Flying in colorful words, phrases, rhythms of the words flowing, jumping, dancing with 

Thoughts, feelings, reasons, logic, and story. 

Naked

David Memet, in Masterclass, reveals that all dramas are based on lies.

That’s why this is fiction.

This letter I will never send you.

Yet, should you one day come upon it, you’ll know that I’m speaking directly to you, about you, and it will sucker punch you.

You will feel naked.

Exposed.

Ashamed.

But this letter is not designed to shame you.

It is, however, meant to expose you—expose us.

Turning the Other Cheek

I’m beginning to understand what Jesus meant by “turning the other cheek.”

I did not burn your house down.

I did not show up at your door.

I did not even take back the money that I gave you.

Everything I’ve given you—

my time, my depth, my poetry, my energy, my money, my faith in you, my love for you are now yours.

It is a gift.

You can’t steal the things I’ve freely given.

It’s Yours.

Hopefully, this organization will help those you love one day.

It’s the teacher in me that loves, that hopes, that someday this movement will help the ones you love learn how to transform pain into passion, self-destruction into self-expression, and transform tragedies into The Love Story.

You’ve become my herald, and whether consciously or unconsciously, you’ve been the catalyst to my spiritual growth.

Now I have fierce faith in the redemption.

Poison Ivy now knows how to produce anti-venom.

I met a man at a private co-creation group who was bitten by 13 different poisonous snakes and who now is immune to poisonous snakes.

13s are now face to face with 13s.

The symbols haunt until I integrate it into my spirit.

The 13 of death and dismemberment is now face to face with the 13 of love and redemption.

Face to Face

The Normal Naive Girl and the Crazy Genius Woman

For the times you pretended I was some psychotic, unstable, crazy girl when you were lying to my face, I’ve now utilized that energy and transformed it into fierce faith in the divine, thanks to the Holy Spirit.

I would follow my hunch and catch you in the act of cheating on me, and you would deflect by blaming me, acting as if I was the crazy one to be angry, to be hurt, to express anything beyond what a robot would express, would be too much. You expect me to act like a consumer product for you to consume, but I’m not. I’m a human being, with a heart, a broken one, that is now being and becoming broken open.

When you took from my parents, the money for the downpayment to the house you wanted so you can begin your multi millionaire real estate mogul dream instead of traveling the world and making a social difference, which is the dream I had, you did not flinch. You did not even flinch when I gave you 80% of my income every month for five years straight so our money could be saved up in some retirement account for our family—the family you said we were saving up for a family that you were actually building with another woman. Then, you told your parents that I tried to kill you, when you knew that I had put the knife over my own wrists, threatening to cut deep, if you did not tell me the truth of your two timing ways, because you and I both knew that you were making a fool out of me by lying, then acting surprised that I would not believe you, that I would react in hurt and anger. You had betrayed me, my family, and your own integrity.

Still, I wanted the truth.

I was willing to kill myself for the truth.

I wanted the truth when you took her out to our timeshare property in Hawaii that was meant for me and you to stay in while you told me you needed space. I wanted the truth when you left to go to your friend’s bbq when you were actually just making plans with her to move into her home. I wanted the truth when I first caught the email of her stating how she is looking forward to Roxy-chan and her dog having a playdate to see if they would get along and when I confronted you about this and you said that I’m acting crazy because she’s referring to another dog and that she was asking you for advice about a guy she’s considering moving in with—yeah…that guy was you….

Had you told me the truth when I first discovered the plans you’ve made with her to move in with her, I would have let you go sooner. But, you kept me stringing along, working two jobs, and managing the rent money of the two roommates I’ve procured so you can keep reaping the money from me. Money later you bought for a car you took for the baby you made with the woman who was willing to turn a blind eye when she had gotten pregnant by a married man who was sleeping with her behind his wife’s back.

I tried to Fix Your Shadow

Looking back, I realize that your shadow was a hungry, greedy, self-serving, self-centered addict for money and material gains. You were a former drug dealer. Drug dealers are by nature sociopathic. They don’t care if it’s killing the client as long as it slowly kills them so they are repeat customers to fatten your ends so you can drive a fancy car, wear the fancy jewelry, and buy the latest gadgets and gears.

I was just a means to the end you wanted. It actually didn’t matter who it was that you were with—as long as she was willing to be controlled and manipulated by you, as long as she turned a blind eye and became obedient to your whims and ways, she’s kept.

She’s kept to hide your sick sociopathy, so you can hide among people, blend in with the herd so they don’t notice what a sick self-serving, self-centered, two-faced, double-minded, double-tongued man you were. You lived a double life. The one where you were the kind, caring, and understanding lover and friend at home, and the other—the gangster, the hustler, the player outside the home. You had a shadow to contend with that you were not capable of integrating at the time we struggled to work things through.

Looking back, had I stayed, you would have killed me—at least my dreams, my soul, my voice, my purpose…which meant nothing to you except everything for me. I was trying so hard to be the person I was not, just to please you. But you can’t please a psychopath unless I’m actually suffering  in pain. You delighted in that. You secretly hate women and want women to suffer the way you suffered when your mother broke your psyche through her cold shoulder manipulation and controlling tactics. She was the all consuming, hovering, Jocasta mother. She had committed emotional incest. And you became disassociated.

Jocasta Mothers

I knew from the first time I met you that you were a broken soul and I thought I could be the savior to fix you. Broken girls look for broken boys so broken girls can avoid doing the inner work. That’s the pay off I got when I chose to continue the charade with you. I get to avoid dealing with my childhood traumas that’s caused so much mental anguish, long nights of being alone, with my pain unacknowledged—shamed and blamed for having them in the first place.

I had enabled all your bad behaviors from the very beginning. I did not understand codependency. Sick, enabling, codependency. I’m sure if you had killed a girl in our home, I would have helped you figure out how to hide the body because that’s how sick I was. I didn’t realize just how sick I was until I saw myself begging you back to work things out with me even when I knew you were lying through your teeth, cheating on me with another woman, and siphoning away the money.

Today, I discovered why I hated Maza so much, the Vox man who played the homosexual and minority Latino card so he can get YouTube to demonetize Steven Crowder for mocking him and calling out his gayness to make up for his journalistic incompetency. He was acting like a victim while actually a perpetrator.

When I had this breakthrough, I thought about the Hitler playbook in his autobiography, “Mein Kampf,” or “My Struggle.” He played out the victimhood status to justify genocide of Jews, gypsies, then POWs, then ___, then __, then on and on, the bloodlust would have continued had he gone unchecked. It was an addiction in and of itself to play the victim while actually being the perpetrator.

The #Walkaway Movement

You’ve cheated. You’ve lied. You’ve manipulated.

If I had a time machine and could redo 2011, I would have left you on that first email I caught. I would have shut all avenues of communication with you and left you reflecting on the silence. I would have left with all my dignity in tact, my self-respect, and my golden silence, revealed in creative expression.

My walkaway movement is this…this letter of expression.

Journal-Artism is my way of creating hate speech in fiction, because I hated you so much.

I wanted to express that which I’ve repressed for so long.

All those moments you’ve betrayed my trust by lying and those moments when you thought you could get away with it.

You thought you could get away with hiding the crimes you’ve committed against that little girl who trusted in you to take care of her.

It’s not just a betrayal of trust, but also a betrayal of all the sweet words you’ve said, the promises you’ve made, the values you’ve claimed to uphold.

I expected perfection out of you.

I had forgotten that like me, you are human, flawed, double-minded, double-tongued, warring between your wisdom and your whims.

You are the man sitting across from me on the subway, the volunteer co-worker, the guy I met at the nightclub, the tour guide, the dude I met online, the man I met in passing across the street. You are every man I’ve ever dated, slept with, been with—flawed, imperfect, and human.  

The Wounded Girl

I must acknowledge my own wounding, the inner child that was unjustly slandered by the shadow you—the false you—the vengeful, resentful, sociopathic man who delighted in the suffering of all women, starting with the suffering of your own mother.

It is that shadow I am now exposing—to expose yours is to expose mine.

I intimately understand your shadow.

I have the parallel shadow when it comes to delighting in the suffering of men.

In this way, I am sociopathic like you.

It takes one to know one.

Shadows pair itself quite nicely in the cosmic joke of our tragedy.

But see…when you left, you’ve given me the perfect victim story to keep the victim cover while I perpetrated men who resembled you.

I wanted to get close to them, then crush them with excuses, perhaps remind them of what a scumbag they are.

Set them up for failure.

The no-win scenarios make them feel terrible about themselves.

Then I would secretly delight in this.

Then the little girl would feel terrible, because a witch has somehow taken over and lies to the little girl that she must protect herself at all costs, even if it meant stifling her need to love again.

I hate the feminist movement because I have embodied the feminist movement by the way I have dealt with the blows of our breaking up.  When I see the feminist movement now, all I see is the same aims my false self have been directing the little girl towards:

Kill children.

Kill potential.

Kill men.

Kill intimacy.

Be alone.

It’s safer doing whatever you want, whenever you want, and without being accountable to anyone.

This false self holds onto the self-righteous victimhood status. The better part of me cringe and then I hide the false self as if it is something I needed to fight out there…but I’ve been to Auschwitz and the Genocide museum in Bosnia-Heztergovifna, and I saw it as the perpetrator and I saw how ridiculous it is trying to fix someone else’s shadow before integrating my own.

Even if I have integrated my own, I still could not fix someone else’s shadow.

Not even God can fix someone else’s shadow without the permission of the individual.

Who am I to even think I can fix yours?

So here’s my twisted false self:

If my shadow is unchecked, I would rather see you wither, cry, and rot into a broken, bruised, and dismembered non-entity.

After I got baptized, the devil came to tempt me with a kind of red and black power as the woman to be feared because this woman has the power to exact pain on men. In this dream, I was the prison ward, overseeing the capture and dismemberment of men, at the top floor of a barn that was covered by a mirage of a phallic corporate building from the outside looking in. But inside, it was a house of horrors.

At the top of this phallic building, there was my dominion—I was the warden, in charge of overseeing men behind bars, in charge of overseeing the dismemberment of their bodies, with parts on hooks, hanging from the ceiling like pigs in process of becoming prosciutto.

Perhaps, that’s why you were so scared when you ran into me. You knew what evil I was capable of becoming.

Hell knows no fury like a woman’s scorn.

So they say.

And I became venomous.

Yet, somehow, my reality in this realm did not turn out to be a nightmare the devil had intended for me.

Something very important and drastic shifted so that I was able to contain the shadow.

It has to do with the Holy Trinity.

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Grace

It came in 2013, when I was being gurneyed into the ambulance, after Jesus Christ intervened when cops showed up at my front door seconds before I was determined to end my life.

There was a moment, when I looked up at the sky, and I had envisioned a helicopter above, zooming in to capture this moment. I saw you watching me, from a bird’s eye POV, look down like people watching a car chase, except you were looking up at the TV screen, at a sports bar, at some airport, in between flights, and seeing me being gurneyed.

That moment, I shouted at the sky, knowing that you were watching, and so I shouted directly at you, “Sonny, I forgive you!”

Sulfuric acid was burning me up, down to my bones. I was in pain, so much burning pain…it was a transcendental consummation in fire…but at the time, it was pure pain…so much, I felt like I was being burned alive. I couldn’t breath. I had so much anger, pride, and hate.

A few months later, I’m hiking on the Inca Trail, at Machu Picchu, Peru.  Tears falling down the slits of my almond eyes, while I laid on upon a huge rock, looking directly at the sky whilst I cried in joyful sorrow. I knew that I was spared by the sacrifice of the insatiable gods of ancient moons. I was the goat that was spared. The Capricorn. The Saturn, Capricorn.

It was on that Inca trail, that a benevolent spirit whispered, “The Love Story,” in my heart.

The roller coaster of extremes were heightened. I cried tears of joy and cried tears of sorrow.

It was all there—knotted, like the scars inside my uterus, like the eyes of the wizened Ceiba tree.

I cried and cried and laughed and laughed.

That very trip, I was also at the highest Irish bar in the world, jumping on the bar stool, singing with international strangers, singing and singing, singing sober, singing in the presence of the present.

In moments of self-love, I also realized why I loved you so much.

I loved the true you.

I always saw the true boy inside the hard shell.

From the first time I laid my eyes on you, I saw who you truly are.

The boy inside the hard shelled old blind man.

Perhaps, that’s why I enjoyed playing RPG games with you, watching you read all your favorite manga books, and I cherished all those nights I would cuddle up next to you watching our favorite anime movies and series.

You were no longer the shadow-man during the golden years of our love story—you were once again safe in just being the boy who dreamed, hoped through the hero of your favorite adventure stories, and you smiled and laughed with me.

We played and wrestled together.

We were money poor, but spiritually wealthy.

We were in love.

The Hidden Desire of Two Villains

For the time being, we were just two kids enjoying each other’s company while enjoying the stories of heroes who overcame tremendous adversity. You always knew I loved traveling, adventuring, and inspiring others. I am a romantic —a drama queen—and you loved all of that.

You tapped into the very tenderness of a young girl’s expression, you loved my creativity, spontaneity, my ability to intuitively sense things—things that awakened the hardened parts of your heart, softening, revitalizing, awakening.

Then, you saw my shadow.

It was ugly—super ugly. Monstrous. Evil.  

Still, when you saw my Shadow, you did not make it wrong. Instead, you gave me grace by accepting the good, the bad, and ugly parts of me.

I had forgotten to do that for you.

In my bitterness, my shadow aimed to swallow you whole.

But I re-directed it, and it almost swallowed me.

But there was divine intervention.

Jesus Christ.

“The Love Story,” whispered in my heart while on the dried blood soils of the Inca Trail.  

The Dove, illuminated

It was Downtown Los Angeles Thursday evening. Art District was opening its doors at night for all to peruse in and out of its buildings. It was a painting of a boy who released a dove, or maybe the dove was flying to the open palm of his hand. He was resting on a hill, underneath the Ceiba tree. I bought that painting, which later I commissioned an artist to turn that painting into what is now the logo for The Love Story.

I realize that the silhouette of the boy in the painting is the soul of you that I had fallen in love with. Funny that it was a silhouette…perhaps it represents the presence of the void you have left when we parted. Your shadow met my grief, as if to say….it’s not goodbye…it’s see you later….alligator…and I would answer you back, in the usual way, “in a while, crocodile.”

And it hit me…

It finally hit me.

You knew all along what I was missing—I needed to grow and I could not grow by your side.

You knew that for me to grow, you had to let go.

You knew that you were becoming a hindrance rather than a help in what I needed to do next in my journey.

You knew that I had to confront my daemons on my own, without using you as an excuse, a punching bag for blame, a crutch for avoidance.

You knew that I must fight this on my own because had you stayed, I may have drowned in my own misery.

So you let me go, to let me grow.

You gifted me with a narrative so I could start out as the victim—and grow a non profit from that wounded state.

And as I started growing with this project—I mean truly growing—I began growing out of the victim narrative.

I realized that I was also a perpetrator—we both were.

And we were both the heroes.

Then as I began realizing that we both were the perpetrators—I begin realizing the hidden desire of the perpetrator…

it’s always the dove.

—the last thing inside Pandora’s box.

And the hidden desire between our twin shadows, has and always is, to redeem ourselves in the silver lining, in the white dove.

The silver lining I found from the time you said, “Nobody cares,” until now is the missing piece I discovered behind your sweet lie….

The truth behind your words, “Nobody cares,” is “Nobody cares…except for me.”

The ugly truth is that you care.

You deeply care.

So much so, you now hide in silence.

You now hide in absence.

You now hide in propriety.

You now hide in pretending and in pretension.

You now hide in apathy, business as usual, nothing new under the sun, resolving to return to the persona you assumed when I first met you.

And that’s okay.

I’m now understanding that while you let me go to let me grow, you are doing your own growing through your own process.  

I’m here today to let you know, nine years later, that it’s okay to take off the tight suit, the tight mask, and the tight armour.

I’m here today to let you know that I love you more than I hate you…finally.  

My bitterness has become betterness.

The Gift You’ve Given Me

You’ve gifted me 6 golden years.

Then you’ve granted me a reason to go deeper within while exploring without

Without you…

Yet with you at all times.

The presence of The Love Story while in the absence of our love story is the miracle I discovered after you’ve let me go.

I’ve been living on a prayer you made to God once upon a time ago.

And it’s working.

I realize that The Love Story would not have existed without you saying goodbye, finally.

The Love Story would not have existed without your strength, your courage, and self-sacrifice to say, “She’s ready to fly again, I’ll open the door.

You’re free to fly—flow and grow.”

It’s okay to fly now.

From “nobody cares…” to now truly understanding what you meant by that:

“Nobody cares…but me.”

Thank you Sonny.

I will always love you.

Near and far.

Thank you for your silence.

In that silence, I hear your heart…

And in that silence, I know, in my heart of hearts, that you’ve always loved me more.

Love,

Angelie.

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