The Blood Bath Tent

Strangely enough, as jaded, cynical, and bitter as I can be, I seem to have escaped all of the bullshit without too many unresolved trust issues; however, I’ve definitely got at least one: I don’t trust the request for complete honesty, because as much as people ask for it, they usually can’t handle it. I possess, and frequently use, a level of honesty that makes people extremely uncomfortable. Based on this, I’m too often labeled as intimidating, bitchy, or whatever negatively-denoting moniker people choose to fling at me. Plenty of people claim that they want to know the truth; they want to receive the information that makes the cogs turn in other’s heads. Yet when they get it, the reaction is much closer to that which would be produced had one gotten a bizarre form of sheep AIDS.

In any case, for the sake of my current thought, I really couldn’t care less about those people. Sadly, they probably comprise somewhere in the range of 90% of the general population, but I say fuck ‘em. What seems to be currently bouncing around in my gray matter, are the ones who have the balls to listen to and accept what they ask for. I’ve recently gotten closer to someone who can do that with such a level of maturity, sensitivity, and understanding, that it blows my fucking mind. So lo and behold: I’m NOT intimidating. I’m NOT too honest. Everyone else just happens to be scared shitless of the truth. I’ve not only been lucky enough to encounter someone who is brave enough to handle honesty, but who also clearly accepts me for exactly who I am. The result is the most open, bullshit-free, peaceful, thought-provoking, line of communication I’ve seen in a VERY long time.

So to a point, I’ve been consensually stripped. I’ve opened up more than I do on a regular basis, even within the common context of my blatant honesty. I’ve admitted weaknesses, I’ve spit in the face of the stigma regarding how people are SUPPOSED to interact with one another, and have been allowed the freedom to just be.

In the absence of trust issues, I’ve still admitted that I’ve got plenty of others; most prominently, commitment issues. Stemming partially from the hatred of unwanted obligation, the real core of the issue can be visibly seen upon my proverbial sleeve. My heart sits on the outside, and it resembles the cutting board in a butcher shop, after all the valuable parts have been swept away and put up for sale in a fingerprint-smeared glass case. Bottom line, my heart has been stabbed, obliterated, lacerated, walked-on, tread-through and smeared as much as anyone else's, and eventually, I mopped it up, shoved it all back together, and decided that another instance wasn’t worth the risk. I put the walls up, and put the heart in a tomb that even the most torqued-up chainsaws haven’t been able to penetrate.

So what happens when one comes along with a skillful scalpel? One so sharp, shiny, and precise, that I spread my arms, look the surgeon in the eye, and allow them to cut?

Palahniuk said, “In order to be truly happy, one must risk being completely cut open.” For so long, I held the armor in place anyway, because I didn’t believe the happiness was worth the risk. I’m happy with who I am, and I really questioned how another boot heel to the heart could potentially alter me too greatly.

Free from the drama, free from the bullshit games, I was given the chance to consider within my own twisted soul, whether or not I was right. And I was. The risk has never been worth it. And I’ve never let myself be cut open; until now. So I’m lying on the cutting table, with a few incisions, and I’m wondering what to do next. Because the scalpel is so skilled, and so brilliant, that I wonder if I may let my skin be stripped off, piece by piece, slowly and methodically. It must be slowly. And looking the surgeon in the eye, I’m not scared.

At times, I may still jump off the table and cover myself back up, like a frightened child under the covers. Or I may shiver a little at the thought of a particularly difficult cut over some previous scar tissue; but for once, I’ve allowed the cut to be made and I’m willing to bleed. I think I'm willing to lie on the table, willing to risk the pain, if the surgeon decides to continue cutting.