Tormented

“Tormented Girl” by Pablo Picasso depicts… well… a hilariously grotesque tormented girl.

I’ve never really been much of a Picasso fan. I guess I just don’t get it. I’d love to spend time with a true Picasso connoisseur who could answer my questions about this painting. Like, does she have four eyes? And what’s that on top of her head? And what’s up with her breasts? What’s wrong with her teeth? Questions like that.

Is the girl in the painting ME?

Today, as I sit here and type, I am not tormented in the least. I’m pleased with just about everything – my hair color, the bowl of pasta I’m eating right now, my relationships… I’m even somewhat comfortable with my own body at this very moment. (I may edit that sentence after I finish this bowl of pasta.)

As of this writing, I've been sober for over 14 years. That counts for much.

If someone were to walk up to me right now, engage me in conversation, and then evaluate my mental health, the last thing they would say would be, “Wow. Karen sure is tormented.”

Okay, so maybe not today. But am I EVER the girl in the painting?

I admit it. I go through times of torment. In fact, the truth is, I’m usually smoldering. Coals perpetually glowing deep down inside. The kind that flash when least expected, setting off raging, destructive forest fires.

Why the torment, huh?

The torment I feel is—and always has been—the result of broken connections.

There are people I encounter along the journey with whom I deeply long to be connected in a way that actually means something. In a precious way. In a way that’s worth thinking about and writing about.

At those times, with those people, I long for connections that make me laugh and cry at the same time. Ones that won’t snap at the first sign of trouble, but will weather the fiercest of storms. Ones so honest that a particularly poignant encounter might result in both pain and pleasure.

I crave people who won’t shrink at my bold disclosures of self—who can tolerate all I have to dish out without running for the hills in fear. And more than that, I crave people who will disclose who they are to me. All of it. Or as much as they can possibly muster. Nothing fills me up more than that.

Above all, I want to laugh with someone. I want to laugh so hard that I cry and pee my pants. I want to pass out from laughter-exhaustion. I want my side-muscles to ache the following day.

These kinds of incredible connections are extremely rare in my life. And when, for one reason or another, they become broken, I suffer deeply.

Tormented? Yeah, I guess.

There’s this “push/pull” thing going on about intimacy with me. I crave it/I fear it. I can’t live without it/I have no idea how to have it. I want the real thing more than anything/I am absolutely certain I will never really have it. More torment.

Will I be the girl in the painting tomorrow?

Maybe. That's okay, I guess... as long as my breasts never look like that. I wish I could say I will forever be mentally strong, healthy, and enlightened. But there's a mighty good chance that, eventually, my longing for such impossible connections with certain special people will torment me bitterly.

Karen