The Marsupial Troopa did not count upon the fact that one of the very first things he’d be writing about in 2014 was abused roos & the abusearoos who abused them. But life tends to bring about things unexpectedly, and so it was that on New Year’s Day he found himself calling a domestic violence hotline. Mere weeks ago he couldn’t have foreseen that he’d be making such a call, whereupon from the other end of the line a femaleroo’s voice would say, after almost 10 seconds of his unexpected silence, “Hello?”, to which he’d quickly exhale syllable enough (“Hi…”) so as to communicate that she shouldn’t hang up. Doubtless she knew this silence from many a caller; it wasn’t out of the question she knew it from experience, a long or even short time ago.
Now his pause was over, & now he was talking. He listened as he heard himself saying things like “textbook codependent relationship,” “schizophrenic alcoholic,” and “glass vases thrown at her face,” all of which were facts. Like paint is a fact. He would say all of these things, all of these facts— they were tangible, real: for however manipulable in form, they were nevertheless indisputable in origin: as a paintfact, a red smear was always red, and an orange smear was still a smear that had red in it, however softened with yellow it may have been. Both paint & facts had certain inarguable qualities (from which could be deduced histories) about themselves. “Threw her onto the floor” and “grabbed her around her neck, choking her,” were also sentences he found rolling calmly from off his tongue, all said with the same matter-of-factness he might have used standing in front of a painting, remarking upon a particular “green in the foreground” or a certain “gold around the halo, in the upper left.”
Yet in his mind’s eye an interesting thing happened when he watched the analogy run into the following limitation: the canvas, the surface by & upon which these facts came to life as forms, simply didn’t exist: all he saw were paint dabs & brushstrokes suspended in a vacuum, slowly gathering themselves into various shapes & textures, and then those said shapes & textures inching towards other shapes & textures, gradually becoming like a painting— except that no canvas existed beneath, and so in places could be seen through: consequently seeming more imaginary than real.
As he spoke on and described to a gentle-voiced strangeroo the violence— violence he’d never seen but had recently learned of— he could not readily picture the face of his rooette friend Maybelleroo in pain & with fear. He could not see her crying, couldn’t see her face twisted & with tears rolling down the sides of her gentle snout & then falling down upon anotheroo’s violent & clenching fists— so foreign was the idea of her image being affected by anything but love, joy, or positivity generally.
But what was unimaginable for him was lived daily by her. And, it wasn’t changing: she wasn’t leaving her abuseroo, whom she said just needed help, and whom she said she could help to help. Other specifics of the situation could be found— it has to be said— in most any of the many articles on domestic violence published in any of the many womenroos’ magazines published monthly; he’d read a few of these before, which often ran pictures of the authoroos. Having read the entirety of text he’d glance back to the image of the kangaroo from whence they came, and wonder: “Why would— how could— a rooette like that put up with being treated that way by such a bastard fuckeroo?” Unable to answer the question, he’d at least rest assured that none of the ladyroos in his circle of friends would ever stand for such abuse, all of it being considerably beneath their intellectual level.
Yet the situation wasn’t a purely intellectual matter, and as such: measure of “intellectual level” was irrelevant. Other than intellectual tools were required. And not only other than intellectual tools, but moreover whatever tools were taken to the task, the regions of her psyche they’d need access to were ones to which Maybelleroo would never grant him permission. So, here’s where he stood: if breaking down & presenting to her her situation as it objectively appeared wouldn’t get her to leave— a description of which took note of her situation’s a) regrettable commonplaceness, b) indisputable dangerousness, and how c) leaving her abuseroo was the only solution that ever worked for the millions of other womenroos who’d been there before [whereupon he supplied hotline & related counseling numbers]— there seemed little he could do to help her, and it was extremely depressing. For never before in his life had he 1) sat beside a kangaroo of intelligence & listened to her tell of her problems, 2) recognized immediately & expressed to her that these problems-as-described comprised an identifiable situation with a name, having support networks offering help to kangaroos in her position, only to 3) listen to her maintain “No, my situation is different— he just needs to get better,” straight-faced save for a slight frown.
MC K-Roo, like many a roo, knew about facts and how to weave them together so as to make a narrative. Yet more to the point & as presently seen: in life, certain facts were plainer than others, and when they accumulated past a certain point— especially in proximity of other related facts— virtually assembled themselves into narratives sans assistance. Whenever as much happens, accordingly are created narratives in kind: familiar narratives, in short. Maybelleroo’s situation added up to the familiar narrative of codependency. It’s here worth noting that part of the point of narratives— what with their readily-identifiable beginnings, middles, and endings & all— is that if you can identify which narrative you’re in and you don’t like how it ends: you can take steps to change it, if not remove yourself from it altogether entirely.
And so there held in K-Roo’s paw was a very sharp point. So sharp it caused him to bleed, and as he bled, he mused: “If this point is sharp enough to make me bleed, might it not also be sharp enough to sever Maybelleroo’s ties with that fuckeroo? That fuckeroo I have to remember not to call ‘fuckeroo’ in her presence (per the advice of the womanroo from the domestic violence hotline), lest she get defensive of him?” It was worth a try.
And so he tried.
But she did not want to leave him; and so he failed.
As K-Roo’s head sank down in dejection, Platy’s rose up from out of his pouch in response, intercepting his gaze before it hit the rockbottom below; over their shared lifetimes she’d developed a bit of a sixth sense for his need of her. Straightaway she asked if his friend Maybelleroo was a romantic and when Poochypouch [one of Kangaroo’s akas] replied “Yes,” Platy followed by asking if Maybelleroo also thought she could help her abuseroo get better or change, to which K-Roo sighed “…yes.” Platy then asked K-Roo if Maybelleroo had other friends who were pressuring her to break free from her abuseroo, and the MC answered “Most of them. Not all. Most.” Then Platy spoke.
“There’s the saying Love conquers all and there’s the saying History repeats itself— both of which make promises about the future. Each, however, uses a different mechanics: the first is voiced from the emotional present (like an encouragement, almost a battle cry of “Onward, ho!”); the second is voiced from the known past (like a warning, or a crossroads sign pointing towards an alternative path).
“The power of ‘Love conquers all’ is drawn from the emotional energy a kangaroo feels about hisher imagined goal; often less emotionally, ‘History repeats itself’ instead draws its power from recollected facts. You could say that the former has all the force of an (inherently) emotionally-charged mental image of a desired outcome, and that the latter’s force is restricted to however a kangaroo might feel about a particular photograph of something he/she wished never existed. Moreover, whenever ‘History repeats itself’ gets said, there’s usually a situation unfolding behind which there’s already considerable momentum towards likelihood of repetition.” Mentally reviewing Maybelleroo’s current dilemma, Poochypouch concurred with a nod.
“And if you don’t mind my being subtle,” which P-Pouch did not, “when ‘Love conquers all’ plays through a kangaroo’s mind, it’s typically as if the roo is saying it oneself— whereas when ‘History repeats itself’ plays through, it’s often instead as if the roo is hearing it said. Given this slight-but-critical difference, one could argue that the first saying arises from a subjective perspective, the latter from adopting a more objective one.”
Like anyroo, Kangaroo knew which way rooman nature tended towards when the options were between subjective & objective truths, and he didn’t entirely like the implications. “So you’re saying history is more powerful than love?”
“No,” replied Platy with some surprise, “almost to the contrary: history is nothing less than the record of love expressed alternating with the aftermath of love withheld (or even love misdirected).” While this made sense, K-Roo also furrowed his brows a bit.
“Love will conquer all— except for when it’s called upon to conquer the wrong thing. My concern for your Maybelleroo is that she’s expecting love will save her relationship with her abuseroo— and it won’t because it’s not a viable relationship. This is also to say: it seems Maybelleroo is confused about where the love is needed in her life: and since she’s being physically beaten & verbally abused, and is moreover believing receipt of these attacks is her own fault, I think it’s safe to say she doesn’t really love herself.”
Here is where The Rooster said “Okay,” but with an extended pause to either side of the word.
For he had some reservations. Primarily: he had a level of mistrust about— & subsequent caution around— too-slick sounding (often armchair) diagnoses of a psychological nature, of which “X doesn’t love himherself” could very well be. Platy understood & didn’t disagree with his policy of wariness, adding that she indeed often felt the same. She also & importantly went on to say that her analysis of Maybelleroo could hardly be considered complete: other factors neither of them knew about most certainly existed, factors Maybelleroo would likely never share; notwithstanding these limitations— as well as citing the danger of waiting for “complete knowledge” before acting— Platy stood by her assessment.
“I know Maybelleroo well enough to see she has some issues with her self-esteem that are excluded from the persona she shows you. With that there, we can deduce that at some level, she’s not the kangaroo she wants to be, and accordingly doesn’t feel she’s the sort of ‘whole, total-package rooette’ who deserves to be loved completely. This being the case— & without pretending the preceding comprises a complete, causal explanation for the problem— it’s pretty clear she, at least at some level, doesn’t love herself.
“Now, conveniently for her,” Platy continued with a darker sarcasm, “she seems to have found anotheroo who’s all-too-happy to not love her completely— yet who’s careful enough to express kindness enough to make her feel wanted just enough to stick around… until he blows up again, whereupon she leaves again… until she returns to him again (since he ‘just needs help’ & she just wants to help)… whereupon he apologizes & becomes ‘nice’ again… and they get close again… until the tensions-largely-by-his-calculations build again & he blows up… again— with this cycle repeating ad infinitum until it can’t.
“P-Pouch: we’re talking some textbook douchearoo behavior here. We’re talking about a situation in which the guyroo knows his good-looks alone— serving to allay the ladyroo’s doubts & insecurities about her own body— make it so he almost doesn’t need to use verbal manipulation to keep her confined to his orbit. And you know what else? It’s entirely possible that that detail there— how it’s she who repeatedly chooses to return to his abuse— helps keep him from feeling guilty about his doucheness. Even as we & anyroo else can see how at the end of the day he’s repeatedly abusing anotheroo— not something that roos who love themselves do— that’s the level of complete & total sociopatharoo we’re dealing with here.”
And so there before him The Rooster saw a confusion of planets & suns: a pair of planets orbiting each other, and a pair of suns meandering vaguely in orbit of the orbiting planets— yet with each sun slipping off a little farther away with each revolution, leaving the pair of planets in increasing degrees of darkness & cold. “That’s not love,” mused K-Roo.
So he then reached into the vision and separated out the planets, gently setting each one into orbit with its proper sun. Now spinning about in his imagination were a pair of distinct solar systems, each being self-contained & -sufficient units— whereupon Platy herself entered into his vision, reaching out & gently nudging one solar system in one direction, and the other in another. With the two self-contained systems now orbiting each other, thusly was created a greater & heretofore unseen system. In this newly revised vision the planets shone brighter in some orbits & darker in others, but as a totality were always more closely bound together with each revolution, were ever warmer each time— just as they’d be for forever & until death; and “That,” blinked K-Roo, “is love.”
“I won’t disagree,” remarked Platy,“but will add that another measure of as much— to call attention to your latter vision’s even distribution of love upon both lover & the loved— is in how neither collapses into darkness if the other leaves, be it for a time or for a different forever, should some significant shift occur in one life which isn’t reciprocated in the other.”
“So, basically you’re saying that part of what’s necessary is like in that one Katy Perryroo song where she sings ‘I found I had to love myself the way I want you to / Love me’?”
“Better yet would be the next verse when she kicks it up to ‘I’m gonna love myself the way I want you to / Love me,’ but, yes: if we’re considering Maybelleroo’s predicament & those planets, I’d say that following Ms. Perryroo’s lead is where we want for our friend be.”
And so Kangaroo & Platy ended their conversation in agreement. What they had agreed upon was the nature of anotheroos’ problems; the fact that Maybelleroo still had problems wasn’t lost on either of them. For while the disjoint of “theory & practice” was trouble enough already, it paled in comparison to that of otheroos’ theory as regards otheroos’ practice. This is also to point out that even if Maybelleroo were witness to her friends’ conversations & visions just now, high were the chances of her continuing doing as she did, for roos will generally do as roos have usually done. Suffice it to say, this is owing to the fact that roos quite easily get confused: hence the well-known term confusearoos, of which more will be spoken at another time.
For the day was long enough already as it was. And while K-Roo had a sense of closure in theory which felt good on the one hand, the sharper sense of closure not existing in practice— viz., for Maybelleroo— was a salted open wound on the other. As often happened when he felt conflicting things to the degree he didn’t know what he was feeling, he went outside to the streets. Many a roo were out & about as well, the City was alive and breathing. It was good to be in a world with a pulse. It was strange to be in a world with so many different pulses, and as such it was strange, in a way, to be in the City; the City was where you chose which world you wanted to inhabit, neighbor to otheroos who, bouncing along right beside you, lived in worlds far apart from yours & yet shared all the same.
But tonight he wanted to live with Maybelleroo, who was very far away & who wasn’t doing well. He walked into a bookstore and picked up a copy of Helping Her Get Free by Susan Brewsteroo, per recommendation of the gentle-voiced stranger from the hotline. Outside through the trees the stars were out, and he could readily feel the imminent change of season in both air & dress. He didn’t know where he would live in 5 years, let alone ten. He didn’t know whether she was being hit right now, or else if she was crying. And if she was crying, he didn’t know if she’d tell him why— really why— she was; as much as he loved her, their relationship was now different from what it was once. He knew very little about certain things, and how odd it was that some of these seemingly many things pertained to a few of the ones he cared about most.