The Love-Bombing Of An Empath

I used to believe that the love bombing of a Narcissist was the nuclear option for complete disarmament of the soul, each time leading us with exactitude to mutually assured destruction. I have never been so wrong.

They say wisdom is what age gifts, and so, with time, dialectic after dialectic unfolds. I now realize there is no greater pain than to feel the love-bomb of an Empath. 

His pure heart and acute gaze peers into me, cutting through all the subterfuge to meet substrate. His pupils awash in heavenly pattern capture the spirit of my founding egg and sperm; And, by so doing strangling that zygote of its existential existence. 

I close my eyes and still see his piercing Hazel shown in full and directed at me under the sun’s glow. The light refracts into my soul pathways as sound waves tune. He shifts node after node in full glory, capability, and intention. He pries my heart open as a skilled archeologist handling prized cherished artifact. He effortlessly tears open its protective shell, ancient now and with pink organ tissue enmeshed. 

My body convulses in pain as he forces down my armor. He repeats and repeats promises of safety, containership, and trust – he the soldier of LOVE. 

And, we believed. 

He saw us. I mean, really saw us in ways our direct makers could not comprehend. He saw purity, complexity, and intensity. He declared he could hold my feral fire, the same one I had been forced to shackle for 39 of 39 years. The very same fire feared by my very makers, from an epoch when truth had not yet met compassion. With each successive demand for my light to be diminished, my child primitive obliged in impetuous deference with the type of swift that belongs only to childlike innocence. 

Exiled to the towers, and at times dungeons, the solitary journey assuredly became of one. 

To feel the love-bomb of an Empath is to witness total disarmament of every coping strategy robbing you of systems, models, and paradigms. I lick my wounds with my fear-stricken tongue, and with my mouth remove the poison Trojan horse, where the horse is comprised of word spells that glimpsed my deepest and highest self. 

In other words, to remove each poison dagger is to remove the earlier administered antidote of love, awareness, and witness. To return to a whole state of venom, thoughts coagulating.  To leave one tundra for a desert hell. To astral project into freefall. 

To feel the pain of an Avoidant that pulls you into unity is to next feel the pain of an eviscerated semblance of Self. To feel the pain of where the illusion of separation becomes the truest of reality. To feel the pain of being castaway, only to meet your Ugly.  To feel the pain of when your experience is swallowed by the forces of the void. 

To feel the pain of the cross between Avoidant and Empath, is to feel where the gaps are swallowed by your own heaviness as you taste your retched own stuckness. Self-hate the invincible, invisible prison so deeply activated. In a place where unbeknownst to self, I was cast as the main stage actor, under the illusion of a life lived out in true first person. Me now proficient. Me now self-qualified as broken and self-practiced as undeserving. Me now the painted leper of love, missing but only its scarlet letter. And the melodramatic scene is littered with remnants of heart, past, present, and future. 

To feel the love-bomb of an Empath conjoined with the Avoidant is akin to ingesting a torture chamber across dimensions in the Aleph. The Yin engulfs the Yang, and Shadow now total. And so polarity collapses at one dark pool as it swallows the interconnected portal. 

The image of the Sage dances in my waking eye. Mind oscillates between, on the one hand, the image of a deconstructed heart that no longer holds any traces of its image, and on the other part, a heart broken open to reveal a purer one beneath. A snake skin shedding moment, a game of Russian dolls, a cocoon breakout.

On the edge of Health and Insanity, she heeds calls for her full collapse. In full knowing that she will never know which is which, she dances between tragedy and comedy - compass in entropic spin. 

Another Ouroboros. Another death. Another day, but perhaps this time the dragon chooses to spit out its own tail in defeat. 

To feel the love-bomb of an Empath is to bare witness to the most painful of fates, where he awakens Hope in a human cast long ago to darkness. It is to watch every coping strategy devised to survive her original wound deactivated. With one long embrace from a cacophony of selves, the entire library of self-knowledge is burned, and with it, it’s human. They first burned the manuals on how to manage her living scars - those of abject rejection, abandonment, and neglect; And, then they eviscerated the souls. 

With breath so steady and emotions so wielded with precision, he opened her in play – in the same instant, she ingested truth as he learned his lie. In the moment he understood, he was already gone.

He used his purist soul to touch her’s, watching her ache amid its first bud. And, in the same moment, the fruit was poisoned, and summer fell to the coldest of winters. Conscience and guilt educed, both powerful sedatives, the façade unravels over months finally realizing this one moment where only he knew.

She believing him, her Twin Soul. Him already gone in the same breath of liberation that parted his lips. Like sliding doors, alpha and omega installed projections that traversed in perpendicular. A snowflake signature moment divined. A momentary break in a matrix harpooned by the purest of love. Fault lines shed open. Lifeforce and violated, damage of magnitude of the knockout punch. She taps in the present, white flag ominous. She, the “I” relegated to waking corpse.

In the throws of despair and anguish, she throws her feet into the wings of angels. I beckon strangers to help walk me home. Blinded, maimed, crippled, I beg: shield me from my Shadow, most adept and ruthless. The very same Shadow that is the envy of antiheroes and Lucifer’s first teacher.