Niko’s Eye

Chapter 69.

Sergio.

Sergio stepped out of his car and was ushered in by Alejandro’s house helps. In a few minutes, he had already gathered that they weren’t home. In fact, they were on their way to see Aisha.

The news sent ripples down his spine. He got into his car and sped off in a frenzy.

When we become great teachers of emotional intelligence we will delete the alt-right. When we explain how their new linguistics is acting as an catalyst for emotional indifference - the biological opposite of love - people will start to question how these subcultures are recoding and reprogramming their brains into isolated emotional spaces where they cannot access the love they need for good health. "Wrongthink" is made of "wrong" and "think" and will both ping the amygdala and (in some people) the PAG. This changes brain chemistry and traps people into their primitive brains, the parts that will prepare them for g******e and war, the parts that are incapable of empathy, logic and self control - all of the most desirable traits in humanity. Thus they unwittingly destroy that which they claim to seek - now, that is stupid, that is really, really f*****g stupid. Alt-right delete. Let’s do it.

When I’m feeling triggered the world and everyone it is behind fifty feet of glass. Loving bonds become inaccessible. In this mode I have to take great care not to damage bonds of love, the relationships and people who are everything to my heart and soul. For in time the glass disappears and my love returns. I wish I could stop the triggering, but if I feel unprotected or left to fend for myself it returns - it is survival mode, cold and indifferent. Yet even in these times I am cognisant of my morality. I still make good choices. I can still imagine what the better version of me would want me to do and then carry that out. I can’t undo the trauma I’ve been through, but I can adapt and overcome.

Our fears can be triggered by real threats and by memories of threats. Humans find it challenging to unlearn fears. Thus when we realise that we are scared we must ask ourselves how real the threat is or if we have begun to generalise fear and seek evidence to cement it rather than challenge it. To remain well balanced and with good perspective we must always remain willing to ask ourselves these difficult questions, hone into our true emotions and see people as they really are. The prize for doing all this right is a well functioning society, the punishment for getting it wrong is run-away-paranoia. The former makes friendships, the latter makes enemies whom could have been friends. That said, if after analysis you find the threat to have real force and impact, take action to protect yourself, to protect those you love and call in allies to provide support. In summary, my love, fears can be real, ghosts of real fears, or entirely imagined. It takes courage to figure out your own fears, to face them and question them, but it is worth it.

I’ve got to get to Croatia.

Aisha.

There she was. Sitting there, looking at me straight in the eye. Society can only function when we honestly mirror one another. We can have two mirrors of emotional indifference in a dog eat dog world, a hell. We can have two mirrors of love in a cooperative world, a heaven. My trick is to hold both kinds of mirrors in my heart and see whom each reflects, treating them accordingly; for otherwise the mirror of love is shattered by icy paranoias over time and the mirror of coldness becomes seen as a bleak truth. I wish I could go back to that time of childhood innocence, the time when mirroring love was enough, but this world is far to messed up for that and I owe a duty of protection to the young.

As she walked up to Isis, a flashback flared in front of her eyes.

Once again my emotions turn jagged and my insides tight. I cry out to those in reach, "I love you, please help me. Come sit with me; hold my hand. Eat chips with me. Call me friend. Look into my eyes, connect, because I’m falling."

I wait, wide eyed, heart in my mouth, hoping for kindness. I need a hug, even if it is just words. I need soothing like a child. Instead they balk, "This isn’t a great time. So much on at work and Greg is away on a trip. Let’s just say I’ll call you when I have the time."

"But I need help now, I’m lonely. I feel so abandoned. Just come, just help me. Won’t you please, please help me? Say I can come see you; we’ll just be together. I need you, need company. It would help so much." And then there are hot tears, ones they will never see, falling fast and thick onto my sweater. I feel the wetness of my skin and each drop as it emerges from open eyes.

"You know, sweet angel, I’ve always appreciated your spark and zest, you’re a go getter, a survivor. I like that, you’re gonna be just fine."

That’s when I know. That’s when the penny drops. Though I’m all grown up I’m a kid in time-out again. So I know what to do, this is familiar in a way that is traumatic. I swallow down the pain, eat it up into my belly and wear a passive face, a tentative smile and act meek. Tara can’t see it, but the acting out takes me to where I need to be. "Yes. You’re right. I’m so sorry, I’ll be ok. I have some exciting new projects coming up. Give my love to Cindy." It works. She is satisfied - still thinking I’m errant, not quite right, but at least showing a will to fit the mould.

Everyone in her life always left her. Her friends, her family, everyone. She couldn’t quite understand why Isis was back to see her. Even if it wasn’t a happy occasion, the mere fact that she came, moved her.

I feel so raw today; like there is no skin over my pain and the wind makes it bleed.

"Hello", was all she could manage, as she sat down in front of Isis and Alejandro.

She still found it weird that they were acquainted.

Like, how? I’d really love to know.

Belvia.

There is a point in trauma when empathy from others has healed all it can and the rest is up to you. Then it is a time to release the hands that held you when you were in free-fall. This part takes courage; leaving dependance is hard, even when the desire for recovery is strong. It takes a lion-heart to walk past fear as if were a simple ghostly vapour. Yet how do you know when to walk alone?

Once the smallest warmth reaches your heart unaided, when you can sense the light, feel the dawn, my love, it is time. Even then, your first moves will be backwards toward the abyss - trust yourself, this time is different, you will make it. Though every footfall feels like a funeral, and the world carries on like a movie without a script, and the birdsong feels as if it comes from another place and time - hold on to your own soul, to your own self.

I know there are days when the brain feels naked, like a wintry wind blusters in icy chaos. I know there are days when it would be a blessing not to feel at all. I know there are days when the need to curl up in strong arms is greater than the need to breathe. Yet I can say with honesty, that this is the time to believe in yourself. Love those who have supported you and still do; be thankful for the help they have given - for it is a form of love; keep these bonds strong.

To walk alone means to gain your independence, true freedom, a rare gift - isolation is something different, wrong and imposed by others, a cruelty. When the choice is truly yours the mind and body are ready to heal, to find true and full recovery. Believe. Be brave. You can.

I’m old. I’m going to die soon. I need to make things right. I have to confess.

Belvia rested her eyes upon the leaves, fluttering in the garden. In the light of day you could never tell of the restlessness that she had suffered the during the night, of the winds that howled and tore their brethren from branches to ground. They reflected the soft sun rays, gave of their colours with that quiet joy nature sings of, that silent music we love to hear. Yet she also saw the plucked leaves, swirling in the gusting wind, the subtle "tells" of the hardship only recently passed. In that moment she wondered what people would make of her and her truth; would they see "tells" of her storm? The way her eyes were slow and mouth heavy at the corners? Would they see the tears un-cried? And if they did, if they saw that emotional debris, knowing how the grief hurricane returns over and over, would they shine for her like the sun on the trees or treat her like she were on the other side of glass, ensuring that her storm never chilled their own skin, much less clipped at their souls.