We are not enemies.
The last time we talked
You told me I couldn’t make fun of the one thing that mattered most to you.
That you had dedicated your life to.
I was just getting to know
that I could.
Ridicule the cult that broke me.
And not by accident.
I wasn’t me.
Getting me back, ridicule was my first crutch.
While I grew back into
It was a start.
Rebuilding from a pile of rubble
I had, for a long time, shaped myself into something very small
Something that would fit into a devotee lady shaped hole.
It didn’t work for long.
Once after i had started growing out of that, but still thought
‘I have to serve!’
I asked you if I’d need to squeeze myself back into that small shape.
With all the depressing consequences.
(I only felt that last bit.)
We are not friends.
We have spent a lot of time together.
Well, I’m a a lady, so mostly not together.
Not so much actually talking.
But we were part of each other’s lives.
Lately we had hot choc in St Pancras
And Pizza in Oxford.
We talked on Skype. You came to mine, although that was weird.
But while I was still stuck in ‘you are the perfect servant of God and I have to serve you’ madness
I couldn’t treat/see
You as a person.
With the final disassembly of my cult mentality
Came the break from you
Because you do have priorities.
(I had never seen you put down your foot about anything before.)
Finally we could
have learned to talk
like normal people
who care for each other
We are not lovers.
You are a monk. (I still don’t know if life-long – but pretty much.)
I’ve loved you for a big part of my life.
I somehow still do.
Is this like an abusive relationship?
The abuse was done by others.
My love for you was the reason I was there.
Doing things for the cult.
So it was used to motivate me.
I made money, lots of it, all for the ‘temple’
But only because
The ‘Temple Authorities’ decided to allow me to ‘keep’ 10%, then 5
to buy a van
for your travelling preaching plans.
We built a temple. You visited. (Remember the gold taps in the bathroom?)
I was high, excited, running around.
That wasn’t love.
It was love.
I don’t know what it felt like to you.
You were the same age I am now.
I can’t imagine what it’s like being a guru. Having disciples.
I think it’s wrong, can’t take that responsibility.
I still think
You did it in style. With patience, calm, culture.
The last thing I said to you
Was that I’d want to be around
To talk like normal people.
When you need someone ‘normal’.
I see now that I couldn’t. Still too hurt, too loud about everything,
Not actually able to engage.
I’m still confused. But if you miss me a little,
Know that I miss you too.