I HAVE A BRAND NEW PSYCHOPHANT!
Psychophant: A fan who is so over the top in her adoration that she comes across as an obsessed delusional lunatic, willing to endorse the object of her obsession to a psychotic and violent degree.
Yay for me!
Without further ado, I present to you . . .
Lindsay Briggs
Pretty All True’s Psychophant of the Month!
Just to remind everyone, Lindsay will be working to add 50 fans to Pretty All True’s Facebook Fan Page.
We were about 800 this morning, so at 850? Lindsay’s link goes up.
Lindsay actually has two links she would like to put up, so she is working to add 100 fans.
YIKES!
Help her, people!
Tell your Facebook people to love me.
Look at Lindsay! Look at how adorable she is with her dog Bobo.
How can you not want to help such a cutie?
YAY!
Back here on Pretty all True, I gave some thought to the fact that today is April Fool’s Day.
Weirdly, because it is April Fool’s Day? I am not in the mood to play the fool. I am contrary that way.
So a different story from long ago.
No joke . . .
The woman is concerned.
She wants to tell me her story. She wants to confide in only me, and so I promise. I will not tell her story.
So this is my story of listening to hers.
She considers how to begin, worried perhaps that she will not be able to make me see past the ending.
I fear that if I look away from this woman, she will disappear.
I do not look away from this woman.
She is beautiful.
She is nervous. She is tucked into a corner of the couch, and her long hair falls around her face as she picks at a loose thread in her sock. She runs a hand through her hair, dragging it back off of her face and then releasing it. She is revealed and then obscured . . . a flashing sign at a roadside hotel.
There is room?
Perhaps not.
We are silent together.
Her hair shields her thoughts from me.
She reaches up to push her hair back again, but this time she slides an elastic band from around her wrist, secures her hair into a messy ponytail.
She looks into my eyes.
There is room.
She starts to speak, quietly at first, of love and promises.
She plays with her ring, twisting it around her finger as she speaks to me. She wants me to understand. She wants me to see.
I see.
I see a woman who is the woman before me. I see her kissing a man. I see her leaning forward into that kiss, reaching and grabbing for the strength she hopes lies behind this passion. She wants that strength. She wants that strength to balance her own weaknesses.
She has always been invisible, but she sees herself reflected in his eyes.
She will do anything to continue to be seen.
I see her welcome his hands on her skin. I see her bend into his desire. I see him take. I see her give.
I see her want his strength. I see her invite his strength.
Their bodies writhe in the air before me.
The woman pauses in her story.
Looks to me to be sure that I understand.
I nod.
She continues.
I see a woman who is the woman before me. Doing for a man. Sacrificing for a man. Making him more. Becoming less.
Becoming less in the hope of being his all.
I see her welcome his hands on her skin. I see her flinch and then bend into his desire. I see him take. I see her give.
She gives herself in hopes of transformation.
She is nothing, but she will be his all.
She will do anything to continue to be seen.
The woman pauses in her story, her eyes filled with tears. She carefully smooths the front of her blouse, fusses with the stubborn loose thread of her sock.
Do I understand?
I nod.
She continues.
I see a woman who is the woman before me. I see her ask questions of the man. I see her stand tall and make demands. I see her insist. I see her point an angry finger.
I see her alone.
She is alone. She panics. She cannot see herself. She is invisible.
She will do anything to continue to be seen.
She begs.
I see her waiting for the man. I see her leaning into the emptiness his departure has left and grabbing for the memory of his strength. She wants that strength. She needs that strength to balance her own weaknesses.
Her weaknesses have grown and more strength is required.
I see her welcome his hands on her skin. I see her flinch and then bend to his desire. I see him take. I see her give.
She exists only in the reflection she sees in his eyes.
She will do anything to continue to be seen.
The woman pauses in her story, which is almost done.
I nod.
I know what is coming.
I see a woman who is the woman before me rise from the couch.
I see her close the gap between the two of us.
We embrace.
I hold her hand for a moment.
Bring my own hand up to her face, where she has welcomed his hands on her skin.
Trace the marks of his strength.
Where she has bent to his rage and his desire.
He has taken much.
She has given all.
She will do anything to continue to be seen.
And so she says goodbye.
I watch from my apartment window as she climbs into his car.
I watch her pull the seat-belt over her rounded stomach.
I watch her smooth her blouse.
She does not look up at me as the car drives away.
She turns to him instead.
And is gone.
Wow, Kris, this is beautifully written and heartbreaking. The small details–the hair, the loose thread on her sock, the rounded stomach revealed only at the end. Oh, I wanted to cry. And the poetry/prose style of this piece, the way the repetition of your words mimicked the repetition of the cycle of abuse…just perfect. Devastatingly perfect.
Angie -
A friend for a short period of time a long time ago.
A woman who made an impression despite her belief in her own invisibility.
My post the other day and the comments that followed made me think of her.
Sigh.
Thank you.
Sigh.
I love the motel image with the hair.
Sigh.
So very… sad.
No words.
Thanks, you.
Your words are just fine.
So many sad memories you have, so many.
They wrap around you, and bring out a gentleness in your soul.
Then we have the days you rally back and write and cuss …
that other person you want to be.
Not always so caring, hurting some, but loving always.
But you are many things Kris. Many things that make you, you :)
Nicole -
Many happy memories as well.
Happy memories with this woman . . .
But that’s not where my mind has been lately.
Also?
I am that other person.
And I am this woman as well, who wrote here today.
All me.
All the time.
Some posts reveal more of one side of me than another.
But I am always all me.
All the time.
I’ve almost been that woman.
Beautiful depiction, as always Kris.
Yes . . . I always feel as though there was a choice at some point in my path through life.
I chose the other path.
But this one was also laid before me.
A possibility.
I hope her baby gave her some strength. It’s weird isn’t it? To read something non descriptive and descriptive all at once and hope for a stranger, knowing this happened years ago?
That’s because you’re an amazing writer.
Amy -
I always like to leave spaces. I like the emotion to carry the post rather than descriptions of the woman and her husband. I like for people to bring themselves to my words and fill in the gaps.
I know what those gaps hold for me.
That part’s mine.
Love you.
And thank you.
There was such a melody to the way you shared this story, the push and pull of friendship and love and pain. You shared so much without sharing so much. I hope that this friend found herself at some point and love the way you shared this moment with us.
Jessica -
I try to always only tell my story. My side of things. The way I remember them.
I recall some of the conversation that took place, but when I thought about including her actual words?
It didn’t feel right, even though my promises to her are now over 25 years old and long past the point of mattering.
But still.
And yes . . . I hope she found herself.
I hope she and her child are safe.
I hope motherhood helped this young lady find her strength.
It’s amazing the changes having a child can do to you.
Although I have met a few women who were affected the opposite way.
Hope she wasn’t one of them.
Sigh.
Sigh.
In my imagination, she is strong and powerful.
I like that vision.
I thought for a moment, when I was reading, that sometime, somewhere, I had talked to you & that I had just forgotten about meeting you, and having that conversation.
KJ -
Awwww . . .
Much love to you, babe.
So much love.
Me
You did what you were meant to do
You heard her.
You saw her.
You made her visible for a moment.
Renee -
I saw her.
And I see her.
Sigh.
Thanks, you.
i love that even now, years later, you are still keeping her story for her.
and i also hope that the baby gave her strength….the strength to fight, for love and for happiness.
beautifully written.
but curious….why the tag “I have not forgotten about Mr. Phil Torcivia”??? is there a phil update? ;)
I mentioned Phil only because I have used him (ahem) both previous times I posted about Psychophants.
I went another way for April Fool’s Day.
Unsilly.
But I have not forgotten Phil.
Love that man.
oh my good god. I have no words. I mean, your writing was lovely. the cadence and the prose were perfect. but this story? I have no words.
Not an uncommon story.
Not the only time in my life I have heard it.
Other versions, over the years.
But much the same.
The repition of ” I see him take. I see her give” was beautiful.
Your words have a way of reaching out and reaching deap.
Leighann -
Happy sighs at the thought of having reached out and deep.
Love that.
I’ve seen this too. Too many times.
Very sad.
I always want to rip them away.
It’s impossible.
I learned.
But it’s still very sad.
Haven -
This particular time, I let her walk. I listened and I argued, but there was not much to be done. She was older than I was, she was married, she was determined to do what she was going to do with her life.
Other times, I have tried to rip them away.
It’s impossible, as you say.
And very sad.
Once again I am speechless. So well written, so well told, so well heard, so well saw.
Rhonda -
Speechless is fine.
Thank you for the speechless.
Love that.
Thank you.
Our culture relentlessly teaches girls to see themselves only as reflections in the eyes of others.
I ache for the women who are not strong enough to tear off the blindfold.
Beautifully written. You didn’t just see her. You saw right into the heart of her.
PS – On a tangential note, I found this to be a fascinating read: http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/mar/27/the-science-of-empathy
The author is the cousin of Sacha Baren Cohen (of Borat fame). Go figure.
That is an AMAZING article.
Thank you for that link, babe.
Wow.