I have been getting signs from the Universe that indicate I have some work to do. I am totally down with that. I know life is fraught with a plethora of lessons, once having learned one, sure enough, another one comes along. I want to be the very best person I am capable of being so I'm very open to seeking advice in the stars and from my confidant, my daughter, Jeanine, and looking deep within my soul to discover what it is that is making me incomplete, and face it, and reconcile it. Lots of things have happened to me in my life but almost every one of those things is directly related to my mother's suicide. Her suicide is something I thought I had dealt with long ago. Here's what I think of my mother. Not a day in my life, 17,799 days to be exact, have I ever not been in love with her. To me, "She walks in beauty, like the night..." I remember her beautiful long brown hair and her perfect figure, she was 5' 2", about 110 pounds, and fully a woman. She smelled like a spicy oriental lotus, deep and musky. She had sad, brown eyes. Sadness was my mother's forte'. I reconciled long ago that my mother was crazy and desperate and that her suicide, or decision to do so was exclusive of me. Or at least I believed that she truly thought I would be better off without her. Nevertheless, I thought I was good with this.
My work, however, is not done.
Six months ago, my daughter asked my why, throughout my life, have I continually found myself tethered to unavailable men. Great question. One I had to answer for myself. There is a part of my story I never really tell. I think I'm so embarrassed for my father I can hardly face the memories myself. I'm gonna tell this story because I know in my soul it is time to come to terms with what happened to me.
There is a very valid reason that this is coming up right now. In my years of researching why my mother left me and what that has done to me, I have, like any avid reader and writer, come to love the words, the tools, the advice of one psychologist in particular. I relate to his theory because it seems to match my spirituality. I have read his books in depth and when my psychologist says we all have a shadow self and we better learn to deal with it, and my tarot card, the Devil, which represents Capricorn says you must deal with your shadow and my full moon horoscope says there are things hidden deep within your soul that absolutely must be addressed and my person says, "I wanna look into your eyes and see what your soul tells me.", then it is time for me to address this part of my soul that is my shadow and in my person I see a reflection of that person, and while that brings up several difficult issues for me, I know that I am blessed to have this man in my life. He is my shadow, my other half and he is the only person I have ever known who actually knows exactly how I feel. He was on this journey, too. He knows I can relate to him, as well. That is a comfort and a connection that should never be denied, no matter the surrounding circumstances of our lives. I thank my Goddess for him, and I don't give a fuck if no one else on this planet understands why I am so drawn to him and why I love him so much. He understands, I understand. Sometimes, most times words are superfluous. There is just an understanding of who we are and why.
When I was twelve, my father had been married to his second wife for just about a year when the decision was made to ship me off to a children's home. Medina Children's Home, a place for orphaned children. A good place. Not a foster home. It was a great retreat for all these kids who's lives were shattered by death, drugs, abandonment, and here I was, an upper middle class girl with a father at home who decided that his dead wife's daughter was no more than a burden to him so he actually researched ways to get rid of me without completely severing our ties, a ploy to keep control of me, something he did when I lived with him with a wooden paddle with holes drilled into it for maximum effect. Here I was...
I spent three years at the children's home before I got kicked out of the lovely little Christian community for smoking pot. Let me say that those three years literally saved my life. I met my teacher there. His name was Mike Keeley and he introduced me to Shakespeare, the one act play, prose, DH Lawrence, Edgar Allan Poe, the stage, the smell of a dusty stage, the wood floors beneath my feet, the gel in the stage lights, the audience. He believed in me. He gave me a confidence I never had. I learned how to play the flute, very well, I might add, and I was a Majorette for my Texas High School Football Team, the Bobcats. Don't get me wrong, that children's home was my saving grace, but I've never really dealt with the fact that my father just threw me away. How does one do this, having buried this child's mother from suicide. Abandonment. Here is where my abandonment issues have led me. I love hard. I want my people to know that I love them on such an exponential level because I truly believe that if I love them enough, they won't leave me. I fear loss so completely that I will sacrifice my own convictions for another in an attempt to simply be loved. When my ex-husband would get home late from work, I didn't think he was cheating on me. I envisioned him lying dead, face contorted against a bloody steering wheel, sirens blaring. It's too late. Dead at the scene...I anticipate loss. I sort of compare it to when I go out for cocktails, the cab fare is already factored into the budget. I have learned, through allot of therapy and the love of my child that loss sucks, but some things are simply worth the pain. like my Bubby. I will happily cry at the missing of him every day for the rest of my life just to have had those ten years with him. My Bubby, one of those magical beings that the Goddess sends me as a reward for living through the damage my parents have perpetuated on me. Bullshit I'm still trying to clear up after all these fucking years.
When I was forced to return to the house of horrors that was the step-monster's home, it was another fucking nightmare. That bitch intentionally stripped me of any social graces. She attempted to psychologically destroy me, for her own pleasure, I assume, on a daily basis. How? "It's no wonder your mother killed herself. I hate living with you, too." I could go on, but I won't because I will say this, I praise myself every day that I did not kill her. I mean that. It has been said that approximately 85% of all those questioned in regards to homicidal fantasy have envisioned at least one murder. Mine is her. I would have stabbed her to death. She deserves no more than that. My uncle once told me that she would get her Karma, and she did. Her mother suffered a long, slow and painful (for everyone around her, including my father, who refused to visit his mother in law any more once she could not remember who he was) death from Alzheimer's. For the most part, Priscilla's mother did not know who she was. "Ha, ha, ha, cunt. How ironic you would have a mother who was incapable due to madness to be your mother, just as you did to me. Fuck you. I love justice!!!"
I left for the sanctuary of my dear friend, my uncle Frank, who always loved and accepted my crazy mother. She and Frank had a special bond, just another thing for my father, Frank's big brother, to be jealous of. Here's the deal with Frank, and I include him in my story because he is one of those magical beings that was supposed to be here with me in this life and had been with me in many lives before. Briefly, I honored Frank by attending his alma matter, not my father's choice, SMU. Frank has Phd. in Jurisprudence. A fine lawyer he is. Prior to attending U of H Law School, he attended UT and brought straight A's home to my Grams, just as he had done throughout his education. No doubt, Frank was my grandmother's favorite child, out of twelve of them. When my mother died, Frank was my person. When I had to escape my hell, I wrote him a letter. Words. How many times have they literally saved my life. I'm such a writer, even then, at sixteen, that I first wrote a rough draft. I then discarded the draft in the trash. Bear in mind, this was 1982. No computers. Just pen and paper. Priscilla dug it out of the trash. At about 6 pm on the night of January 16, 1982, I heard my father stomping up the stairs. He pushed open the door, took two steps, told me to stand up (from my desk) and then proceeded to slap me so hard in the face, I actually saw stars. He called me a slut. I was still a virgin. 
The next day, he took me to the airport, where I boarded a flight to Houston and never looked back. Frank met me with open arms. He perpetuated my talent and creativity, he taught me how to drive, he let me date, wear makeup, come on, it was the 80's. What girl didn't have 27 different pods of purple eyeshadow on them at all times back then? He educated me on spirituality, and the law and authors like Dostoevsky and Camus. He is smart and beautiful and tall. My uncle Frank stands 6'3". An admirable trait in my book. Yes, admirable. He represents the rising. The rising above, with your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground. Only tall people can really do that. I have only once even dated a man under 6' tall. Only once. Out of seven men I have shared my heart with over the years, just one, but he was born on Halloween, so he gets a pass. I wonder why that is. That I am only attracted to tall men. Not so sure Frank is the reason. I've always had an infinity for green eyes. Frank's are brown. He's my favorite family member. I feel kind of stupid talking about my abandonment issues in the same vain as my overly large immediate family, but I am not close with them and have not been since I graduated college, but my Grams had twelve kids who all have spouses and an average of four kids each. We, the kids of my Grams' kids all have an average of two kids and our kids are now having kids. Out of all of those people, I love Frank. Frank has been with me on many journeys. He's a Taurus. Not my favorite sign. Priscilla is one, as well, but Frank is a lover. He loves love, loves being in love, loves the concept of marriage, and is devastated by the very notion of a broken heart. He is smart and wise and strong and gentle and kind and compassionate and a democrat and a lawyer. He stepped in on my behalf as he had on my mother's before and he saved me. Had I not left my father's house, I would have become a sociopath, as Priscilla had hoped to achieve, and I would have killed her. That's who Frank is.
My mother left me. It doesn't really matter why. My mother left me. Here's what's up with that...
As I attempted to reconcile my daughter's question regarding my affinity for unavailable men, I realized that I don't deserve any more than that. I'm asking for all the love this man has and he can't do that because he shares some piece of his heart with someone else. I'm basically asking for the impossible. Somewhere down deep in my damaged psyche, I must believe I don't deserve love. How could I. My own mother didn't love me enough to stay. I will start with the beginning of my love affairs, so as to enlighten my readers of just how fucked up I actually am...
When I was in high school, summer before my junior year, I went to the mall with my friend, Ana. We went there to meet up with her boyfriend, Danny. Standing in the vestibule, Ana was facing me as I was facing Danny. Ana asked me how he looked. She hadn't seen him in awhile, as they went to different schools and such. "He looks good, Ana. Real good." I still remember those words after 32 years. It was love at first sight for me and Danny. In that moment, he forgot all about my friend Ana and we began a love story that spanned four years, through high school proms and graduations to separate colleges in a vast city of 7 million people. My next foray into the dating scene was my daughter's biological father. I met him while I was attending U of H, and I recognized immediately, he was the seed I required to grow my daughter. He was not really attached at the time, but I do know that the entire four years I wasted on him, he was still legally married to his wife, LeAnn. Then there was Lynn. Lynn is 6' 3", green eyes, blond hair, college educated, smart, fiery, an Aries. He was dating my best friend at the time, Ingrid. She and I have our own story. My beautiful Scorpio, love at first sight with her, as well. She let me have him. He fell in love with me on a dance floor in a little honkey tonk in San Antonio. He was a dear friend at the time. The band was playing James Taylor, we got drunk, went home, fucked, and stayed together from that point on and for the next two years. Lynn asked me to marry him. I said yes. I walked away from that impending ceremony about two weeks before lift off. Somehow, Lynn and I are still friends, as are Ingrid and I.
And then there was Arley. My knight in shining armor. Very early in, as I was making love to him, I looked into his eyes and I cried. I was 23, it was the first time I came like that. The love and passion radiating from this man...my second Scorpio, again, love at first sight. Arley was untethered. Very untethered. It was hard for him to completely commit to me at first, a characteristic trait of his sign, but he did fall in love with me and what we had was deep and mature. My poor darling Arley. He had the misfortune of knowing me when I met David Arzola. Arley knew from his famous Scorpio intuition that if I took that job that an alum of my college was offering me, it would be the death of us. Before I move onto David, let me just say, that just like a Scorpio, Arley could not let go. Even after I married David and went to Arley's home to discuss this with him, he sat me on his lat, looked deep into my eyes and told me that in his 50 some odd years, he had only loved three women. His wife, his ex-fiance and me. He begged me to stay. I had just told him I finally tied the knot with David, I just got back from Vegas. "Please just stay here with me. I'll take care of you...". Tears.
David. This story is the worse...
I met David Arzola on January 10, 1992. He was one hot chef. A beautiful tall, dark and handsome man in a white chef's coat. The sight of him, a perpetual orgasm. We flirted. Arley in the wings. Hard Rock sticker on a knife box, "Who'd ya go to Cancun with?", knowing one does not go there alone. "My wife", he mumbled, under his breath. This was around mid-February. He used to ask to hang out with my group after work. I always said no. I knew he was supposed to be my husband. I wasn't gonna begin the love affair of my life by cheating on another woman. I told him if he required the presence of my company, he would have to get divorced. Thing is, I knew he would. I knew he was in love with me, attracted, sexually in a very bad way. The request was the catalyst. He left her on March 8. We spent every day of our lives together for the next 15 years. One day, as we pulled into the driveway of our Castle Hills home, David looked at me and said, "I never actually left her, Dee. I was still with her when I went home with you that night. I fell in love with you that night so I never went back." I punched him in the face. We were trapped inside the cab of our Nissan Altima and I punched him in the face. I vomited upon entering the hallway of our home. My whole marriage was a fucking lie. And the kicker, David and I broke up because he cheated on me and I remembered a night in Jersey, with my best friend, Adrian in which I was lying in his arms, in the shelter from the cold January beach town weather. I wanted to make love to him so bad. It was 4 years prior to this moment. I looked my third Scorpio in the eyes and said, "I can't betray David. I love you, but I love him too much to betray my promise to him." If David could fuck another woman, he didn't love me enough not to, as I did. I couldn't live with that, I left. I walked away. It took us two more years to finally sever the legal and familial ties.
It took me five years to work through that. When I did, however, I gave myself a treat. I moved to Oregon. I came here with the purest of intentions. The only relationship I wanted to have was the one with myself. This was apparently not my journey. 
I met my shadow on April first, 2013. I have known him longer than anyone else I know in Oregon. I recognized him immediately, just as I had with James and David. One caveat to that...I had known them both briefly prior to falling in love with them. Prior to knowing what there role in my life was to be. Not my shadow. I knew I knew him from a place so deep in my soul that when I did meet him, the recognition was like a puff of opium. Sweet, warm comfort. So intoxicating. I tried to ignore this. That desire lasted about 5 weeks, until one day I spent an entire day with him in a small room, and while I was hearing everything he was saying, I was lost to the point of him recognizing that and snapping me back to the current affair. Something happened in that room. My life has never been the same. I went ahead and accepted my wicked desire to be completely consumed by him, for all of the things I was learning him to be. Scorpions were all around me, the numerology would not leave me, 11, 8. When trying to understand the numerology, being shown a synopsis of his life, sort of like a movie, but almost uncompleted, still needing content. Content that would be with held from me for a long time, I knew. But the outline was there, nonetheless. That I could see that so clearly shook me to my core. I became completely reticent in his presence. A subsequent outcome of how powerful the connection was. I guess I've tried to express my feelings before but the magnitude of what was really happening was so overwhelming for me, I didn't know how to cope. For a year and a half, I have been trying to figure this whole thing out. Here's what's up with me and my Shadow...
He reminds me of the picture I carried around in my soul of this yellow lab. I had had other dogs, and I loved them all, but all of them, in my own evolutionary process were leading up to Bubby. Bubby's mama was strawberry blonde, with green eyes. Yes, all the correct attributes, however, in my man, not my lab. All those boys, so much like him. The first thing I really should say is that my physical attraction for him is interstellar. There are a couple of things about him that I will never be able to accept from another person. He's THAT good at it. He is the most amazing kisser, ever. His words mirror mine. To read them is not only to understand them, or appreciate them. To read them brings a physical reaction to me something like this...I can feel them in my soul, when I see them, I am happy, when I don't, I am sad. The kisses and the words I know come from a very deep place. I am keenly aware of most of his demons and I understand fully that he kisses to escape and this he must do often, his drug of choice. His kisses are still filled with passion and fire and fear and anger and I can always feel all of those emotions of his he keeps surreptitiously to himself. That being said, after having read Carl Jung's theory on the shadow self and deconstructing the doppelgänger theory myself, it's easy for me to recognize myself in his soul. He has that other half. He makes me keenly aware of several things. That Joshua NEEDS to be loved with special care. He's a Scorpio. He's sensitive and exponentially loving. He makes it quite easy for me to recognize the kind of love Joshua is capable of providing. That Jeanine is the person who healed my broken heart, and saved me from a life of sociopathy and serial murder...(I only jest a bit...). I can see how his daughter is healing him, too. Let me tell you, the art of loving is something mostly learned, mastered. If one is never shown that lesson, how is one to learn the art of love? My daughter did that for me. Again, a mirror. That I still have work to do. Only he can make me truly see the damage my mother's suicide and it's subsequent consequences. Only because I can see my shadow in him. When I do look into his beautiful green eyes, I see a person I have shared my journey with. When I see that, I am not so afraid that I can't face my own demons. Somehow, because he understands, I reckon, I am not afraid. I'm safe. He inspires me to be creative. To persevere. A beautiful quality of his is his perseverance. He's strong and tough and has the other quality or luxury, if you will, of being tall. He has the rising. Most people I know either have never needed to use it or have failed to rise to the occasion. The rising. His acceptance of my belief system has never been in question. That all of my spiritual advice dictates I look deep into my soul and transform myself so as to be the person I deserve to be, and that I face my shadow self to get to the bottom of things, six months after I wrote my thoughts about my shadow, my doppleganger, my beloved is just a little too confirming for me. 
Sometimes I think I'm crazy. I know deep down I deserve the full heart, love and attention of my beloveds. I know this, but I don't practice this. I need to practice this. Tell me I'm not crazy. Seems, now, that that's just one more thing to rattle my confidence...

-by Deannalynn Arzola