Before I begin to write, I sometimes stretch my fingers outward, pointing them to the monitor in front of me – as if to reach longingly for the right words. And then I close my fingers, making my hands into fists. It’s just a simple exercise really. Then I begin writing, and even though my fingertips press onto the keyboard with relative calm, I might as well be punching it with fists. That’s the gravity of this moment.
Fists pummeling. Tears streaming.
I’m not supposed to be here. None of this is supposed to be happening. Authentic love, genuine effort and epic patience were supposed to see me through . . . yet, here I am with a wild, rabid dog at my ankles. Were it not for my fists I’d be no more than one last bloody bone in the jaws of a sick dog. And the rest of me, bitten and chewed and swallowed, would become red nutrition for an army of ticks burrowed in the skin of that same mutt. The dog may fuss and howl and scratch, but the parasites will not stop.
We never seem to stop.
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| A hand-painted tick illustration from a naturalist book published in 1790. Beautifully framed, this image hangs on my living room wall. |
It’s much different to say parasites feed off of me than it is to say I feed parasites. The former assumes a distinct lack of permission, whereas, the latter assumes I give permission willingly and without a thought of self-preservation. My ilk is, by no means, that of the latter. I give no permission to parasites; they simply take and take, some engorging themselves until their bellies are full of someone else’s good nature.
And so now . . . it appears my good nature sits in the belly of another. My uncanny effort and tact have been squandered and ignored. Oh, there are plenty of solid arguments as to why this happened, some lean this way and some lean the other way, and I’m certainly ok with not having all the arguments sit in my camp. Lucky for me, however, all of my shortcomings can stand in the open for all to see. It’s easy for me to be truthful when I say, “I have nothing to hide.”
I have made many mistakes. I’ve confronted people when I should have walked away. I’ve burned with seething anger when I should have glowed with respectful indignation. I’m wrought with imperfection.
And therewith, I continue to confront my weaknesses. I know my parasitic tendencies; I need no mirror to see them.
To know yourself better consider the different kinds of parasites:
The worst kind of parasite is the one who takes and takes and takes with indiscriminate greed and with as much frequency as possible. In many of my writings I’ve referred to this kind of parasite as a blood thief. They care for nothing, save for blood. They will wither away and die should it ever become impermissible to create hurt and havoc. The distribution of pain is as important as the air they breathe.
THE HIDING OPPORTUNIST
And then there are the opportunistic parasites. They know the monsters they are and mostly they take only when it’s convenient. Their main goal is to parade a façade of good nature, while keeping their greed and ill will inconspicuous.
THE NEGLIGENT LIAR
Another kind of parasite is that of negligence. Some argue this kind is more dangerous than blood thieves as they are so difficult to identify. Unlike blood thieves, who are openly parasitic, negligent parasites lie to themselves, truly believing they are not the bloodsuckers they actually are. These feeders, at the root level, care very little for others, save for when they need to feed. They consume without contrition, often oblivious of consequences, blame others for their vile actions and are incapable of admitting their parasitism because of their wild egos.
THE ACCIDENTAL BLOODSUCKER
The last kind is called the accidental parasite. These parasites are authentically altruistic, yet through their imperfections they still occasionally and accidentally feed on others with misguided actions. I’d like to argue most people are this way, but one would be hard-pressed to find consistently solid evidence for such these days. Although, standing in a more positive light, I constantly search for this evidence and I do find it on occasion.
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| Leeches from the same 1790 naturalist book. Also hand-painted and hangs in my living room. |
In varying degrees, I believe most folks exhibit the attributes of all kinds of parasites. Yet, for each of us, one type or another dominates our psyches. One parasitic tendency screams the loudest.
And how does one deal with a parasite? You give. For the love of grace, you give. For fuck’s sake, you give. After all, such is the opposite of taking, is it not? One cancels the other out. Compassion replaces hate. Generosity reclaims selfishness. This effort comes at a cost, however, and one must know when to walk away should the parasitic recipient be too blind to see their errors, let alone admit to them or even work on them.
This is my current conundrum. Compassion, which is a driving force in my life, dictates I should continue giving love no matter what shit sandwich someone hands me, no matter what disrespect I might face. My fervid emotions, however, dictate confrontation, which simply breeds more taking, a cycle unbroken. And both of these attributes are oddly governed by the same thing, an ancient system of titanic morals. But which of these two factions wins?
I have been at this juncture several times before and I’m still occasionally haunted by moral compunctions from long ago, situations that should have been crushed by time and the weight of being present.
So the questions remain.
Should I pummel with my fists? Shall I beat off this sick dog? Or should I embrace the mutt and give it my arm to chew on? I go back and forth, reasoning for erring on the side of kindness and then rationalizing an act of confrontation. At the very least, one thing is certain; I must rise up and commit to a coup de grâce that will alleviate my suffering, a final blow to help me walk away.
And I should do it soon . . . for the ticks are hungry and the next parasite is waiting in line.
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