Some Broken Hearts Cannot Be Healed
The life of a motherless child.
Really all I wanted was for someone to love me. I trashed most of my life trying to get a female to love me. I felt so cursed in life, because the only females who would fall in love with me were just like my mother. Sexually traumatized, male hating, abusive females. Just like my mother they had perfected the art of pretending to be something they were not. No “regular” female would ever have anything to do with me.
I went into that dirty motel, and made all the appropriate vows. I surrendered my life. Really I just wanted to heal myself so that someone would actually love me. What monkey does not want this for himself? Every single thing I did was to heal myself, so that I could get that love I needed.
I even learned to love myself, whatever that means. I healed that hole in my chest. I did that by learning to love someone else, whom I loved with all my heart, that was never going to love me back. I just did it anyways. That broke my heart like nothing else has.
That act gave me, finally, access to my feelings. That’s what all the literature says to do, bridge the gap. Close the mind/body gap. Open your heart Monkey Boy. Guess what that actually means? That means I now fully feel the wound that cannot be healed. That means now I sit in torture more than ever before.
Life is cruel.
Then the day comes and a Brother tells me I’m Chiron. So I look it up. I’ve only just begun studying myths. There are so many of them.
Chiron was a god that’s mother cast him aside because she was repulsed by his appearance. This is exactly what my mother did to me. She hated me for being born. My appearance in the world was repulsive to her. She only kept me around because it was expected of her, otherwise she would have thrown me away. I always knew as a child my mother did not love me. It was always fake. I did everything I could to get her to love me and nothing ever worked. I ruined my life trying to get that love. What wound could be greater than this?
The gods took pity on me, or whatever that is, a curse is more like it, and blessed me with the arts. I did everything that was asked of me, and in exchange I can now do things others cannot. I don’t think this makes me special. I think this makes me cursed. It only ever gets it rubbed in my face. I’m stuck for it.
When I looked up Chiron in my natal chart, it’s in Aries, in the third house. Chiron in Aries is the core wound of worthlessness. It’s a feeling that something is deeply wrong with who one is. This is exactly what it feels like when one’s own mother does not love them. We didn’t need a natal chart to know I got that going on in life.
Being in the third house makes it one who heals with the Words. We didn’t need a natal chart to know this about me either. I know it probably doesn’t come through in my writings. No one cares. Not even those closest to me read what I put down. I’m plagued with this never ending feeling of never being good enough. I only know, because others tell me, that my words healed them. It’s not up to me when that happens.
The issue has been that everyone thinks it’s something I could “fix” about myself. Instead of understanding my plight I only ever got cheap advice. Just do this Monkey Boy. If only you would do this Monkey Boy. If only you could see what I see Monkey Boy. On and on. Nothing but cheap advice from those who haven’t even made the vows, who haven’t done the homework at all. Those who only love me because of what I have done for them. They don’t even take the time to actually get to know me. Everyone has just added suffering to my suffering, as I have only ever added suffering to my suffering; thinking I could heal this wound.
This most recent accident seems to me to have been an act of the gods, because there is just no reason I shouldn’t have seen that car coming. I still cry most days wondering how I could have failed myself so badly. I really let myself down with this one. I had a new career going for myself that would finally allow me to pay the bills. Bam!
I had just spent an entire year only riding my bike. I didn’t even have a car. I don’t take certain risks when I’m riding. I wasn’t even running late for work. I cannot make sense of how I didn’t see that car coming. Even as I laid in the street screaming, wondering how I didn’t see that car, I felt the gods had played a cruel joke on me once again.
My life simply is not my own. I have really grown to not appreciate whatsoever anyone who thinks I should have some kind of control. If I had control I’d have been healed long ago. I’ve never met anyone who has put their force into it like I have.
No joke folks, in Greek, Chiron means hand. Again, no one needed to look up any myth to know that me and my hands are a thing. I love my monkey hands so much. My hands are my life, and in this accident I lost a hand, at least symbolically. I now have a physical wound too, like Chiron, that will never heal. My left hand will never again be what it once was.
I put my whole Might and Will into healing myself. Only to have failed. Only to have been wounded even further. In the myth, Chiron willingly gives up his immortality to end his own suffering.
I feel that. I do not know why I am still alive. After this accident so many people have cheaply said that I am lucky to be alive. I don’t think so.
No pity will suffice. No words of encouragement are appropriate. There’s nothing for it. I’m liable to bite the next fake hand that tries to feed me some more cheap advice just so they can feel better about themselves for having said it. Do something useful instead. Keep your cheap advice to yourself, and try harder in your own life.
Embodied hopelessness on deck.
