Soul Matters Volume Six: Bondage Battleground

After Phil checked in with family and friends, he relaxed. Everybody was fine; all were warned. There was a fleeting hope the demons would go after his ex-wife, but he canceled the thought as soon as it popped into his head. Savoring revenge was a sure road toward disaster. Forgiveness was hard, but he knew that forgiveness was something he did for himself, so that he no longer carrier resentment about the marriage. He still fell into resentment, but not as much as before.

With his new insights into healthy community, he opened his laptop and began compiling a corporate structure based on those insights. He tried sorting the problem into different categories. What he quickly determined was education, pretty much, was the only category. The prerequisite for healthy communities was education. The proper education brought citizens up to a level where abstract reasoning, respectful debate, and consensus building was the norm. Since that was currently not the norm, he began looking at why, what needed to be fixed, and how the fix could be accomplished. Near 1am the well ran dry on pondering the ramifications of all that, and he went to sleep.

He didn’t sleep long before Pam called.

“Another nightmare,” her halting voice announced. “It was worse this time.”

Phil was having trouble awakening, so he moved to a sitting position on the bed, “Worse how?”

“Remember I told you my Mom died when I was young? Well, we lived near my grandparents. I stayed with them a lot because Dad became a workaholic. In my dream, Grandpa is sexually abusing me.”

Phil had no idea how to respond. All he could manage was a whispered, “Wow.”

“I don’t want to know if it’s real or not. I think it might have happened, but what if I’m wrong. I never liked him and tried to avoid him. But I feel awful thinking he might have been a bad man. And the demon was there, in the dream. Azazel. He was laughing.”

“Do you want me to come and get you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. What I want is to get loaded. I don’t want to think about this.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and her voice was weak and unsure -- like a ten-year-old.

She was mostly unresponsive when he drove her back to his place, which was fine because he still didn’t know what to say. Pam was wearing pajamas with a white terry cloth robe wrapped tightly around her. She climbed into bed still wearing the robe.

“Do you want me to sleep in the loft?” he asked.

“No. I want you to hold me.” Her voice was still childlike.

He did so. When the alarm sounded, he was stiff from not moving for hours. She bounced up and was ready in minutes and waiting for him to drive her home.

In the car he asked, “Will you be okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s no big deal.” Her manner and tone of voice was cool and hard. "I’m sorry I inconvenienced you.” She obviously was no longer a little girl.

Phil became worried and, as gently as he could, told her, “I don’t think Azazel can just manufacture a memory and implant it in you. Maybe trigger a memory before its time, but you’ve got something to deal with, Pam.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said with some heat.

“Then don’t, but you might try vipassana meditation. It would be better than relapse.”

The air turned cold in the car, and Pam stared out the window. When they arrived at her place she exited the car without another comment and slammed the door.

Worried, Phil drove home and went to bed, but he struggled to get back to sleep. Finally he did, but Becky’s call woke him. It was 10am.

“Surf’s up,” she gushed into the phone.

“Okay. See you in half an hour.”

They worked the waves until early afternoon. During a lull, Becky smiled at him, “I got a date.”

“Yeah? Is he worthy of you?”

“I hope so. The only problem I see is, he’s all metro.”

Phil wasn’t sure what ‘metro’ meant. Before he could ask, she went on, “He seems sweet. He caters to me more than I’m used to.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Somebody introduced us at that pizza place off the boulevard.”

“Well, be careful.”

She laughed, “Are you jealous?”

“Concerned. The demons are out in force lately. Must be the moon.”

She stared at him, pensive and curious, but soon looked over her shoulder at the building waves. The next set was upon them, and they rode them to shore.

During brunch she asked, “What’s with the demons? You call me to tell me to be careful. Now you’re worried about metro-boy.”

“What’s metro?”

“Sort of a straight guy you’d think was gay because he’s all caught up in his appearance," was her perfunctory answer. Then she demanded, "You didn’t answer my question.”

Today Becky wore an orange T-shirt and tan shorts. The window behind her framed a blue sky and a busy narrow street. Her hair was almost dry, and she smelled of sea-salt and sun block.

Phil put his forkful of Spanish omelet down and replied, “You know my weird teacher.”

“No, I don’t, but it’s about time you told me more about him.”

“It’s a long story. What I need to tell you is I’m in a kind of spiritual battle right now, and my friends are fair game.”

“You count me as a friend?”

“I do -- more importantly, they do.”

“They who?”

“Call them demons. They get to us through our vulnerabilities.”

“Your friends? Is that your vulnerability?”

“I suppose so. My kids, you, Pam, Sandy, and not many others.”

“Interesting. What is my vulnerability?”

“Being alone. You told me so the night I met you.”

She pursed her mouth in distaste but admitted, “I said that, didn’t I?”

He nodded and picked up his fork.

She went on, “It’s not as bad now. The shaman training helps. I think the reason I didn’t want to be alone was because I didn’t want to be alone with myself. Now I kinda like me.”

“That’s good news.”

“How long will this battle take?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully not long. I’ll let you know.”

“You better. I’m counting on you to prepare me for my own battles.”

“Metro-boy might be one,” Phil said with a shrug.

Phil drove home distracted by his concern for both Pam and Becky. He hoped Donna would see any challenge coming her way. Luckily his daughter was under the protection of Ishtar. His son Bobby was firmly in a college rut of studying and frat-house parties. Routine tended to provide its own safeguards. Sandy was someone Phil didn’t worry about. He was firmly planted in cynicism, which perhaps insulated him from both the good and the bad.

Phil spent the day on the computer continuing to build a model for a healthy corporation from his extrapolation of the healthy community. Late in the afternoon, he called Pam. She wasn’t home, nor did she answer her cell phone.

As he considered his options, none of which seemed sensible, he wondered how someone could stay married to an addict. It was like living with a trap door, a randomly opening trap door. They just disappeared; then reappeared. Phil felt the irrational urge to run around town looking for her, but decided the best way he could support Pam and everyone else was to finish what he started.

He closed up his apartment and sat in the dark on the leather cushion and dropped into meditation. Soon he was walking into Manuel’s patio. The angel arrived moments later.

“Things are sorting themselves out," Manuel said without preamble. "We’ve got the support of most of the archangels, the Powers, the Virtues of course, but not the Cherubim nor the Principalities. The Seraphim and Throne angels don’t care. Metatron is refusing to take sides. Jehovah -- well, you can guess. Yahweh is wait-and-see. In the Dark Camp, Belial and Abbadona will work on our behalf.”

Phil nodded and asked, “Can you get them to lighten up on Pam?”

“I’ll ask Abbadona.”

“Good. Now I must see Lilith. And what did they do with Echidna?”

“Threw her in with Lilith since the damage was done.”

“Damage?”

“You getting eaten broke the spell, shifted the paradigm. It was like Sir Edmund Hilary and Mt. Everest. Once it was done, people knew it could be done.”

Phil stifled any exultation because he didn't really know what he had done; besides, there was more to do and not much time.

“Let’s celebrate later. Right now I need an escort to Lilith.”

“Sure,” Manuel grinned as Sanoy flew through the ceiling. “Let’s go.”

The three of them flew to Earth, through the connecting portal and into the Arabian Desert.

Phil still wasn’t sure about Sanoy. As they traveled, he asked, “What’s your role in this, Sanoy?”

“Justice,” the brown-robed angel said. “If Lilith was right all along, and the Elohim were wrong, we’ve got some work to do.”

“I guess so, but you, seeking justice on behalf of a new ideal, would seriously upset the balance. Wouldn’t it?”

Sanoy nodded unperturbed. “The balance is in subtle and constant change anyway. I don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, you leave that to us,” Manuel grumped. “Ever notice archangels get all the dirty work?”

“All the fun, too,” Sanoy said with sarcasm.

They landed at Lilith’s desert cave and entered. The oval chamber had undergone a redecoration.

Instead of bare earth, they were standing on a maroon rug with gold geometric patterns woven in. The rug stretched the entire length and width of the oval chamber. At the edges now were small tables with two high-backed chairs flanking each. On the tables were candles in mosaic holders. The domed roof wore frescoes of Reubenesque women attended by faeries chasing constellations around the ceiling.

“Echidna’s been busy,” Manuel observed. “She likes luxury. Her place in Arima was opulent.”

On the other side of the room from where they entered stood a dais and two thrones. Both were empty, but demon entities were scurrying about them in some panic.

Lilith soon appeared. As she sat in her throne, the trio advanced.

“You left Raphael behind,” Lilith pouted at the three of them. “He’s my favorite.”

Manuel ignored the comment and said, “What is Phil’s task with you, Lilith?”

“Defeat me, of course.”

“How?”

“Not by disintegration, assimilation, and reconstruction. Echidna gave Phil what he needed in that regard, and she’s in her room still recovering from it. Phil must give to me what I need.”

Phil stepped forward, “I must reverse the effects of the patriarchy on both men and women through you. But how is that defeating you?”

“You are precocious, aren’t you? You must therefore realize I cannot answer you directly. I cannot give you the exact means of my own defeat. I will give you clues, though. The first one I think you already know. The patriarchy keeps itself in power by raping women.”

Phil immediately thought of Pam. She was wandering the planet completely disengaged from her personal power because of the abuse she endured as a child.

Apparently, Lilith could also read his mind, or at least intuit what he was thinking. She said, “Some 75% of women are similarly cut off from their authenticity. Even so, to reclaim it, they must be defeated in some way. Figure out what I mean by that and accomplish this task, then I will give you your next clue.”

Phil’s eyes dropped to the maroon rug as he considered Lilith’s challenge. He could see no connection between healing from the trauma -- the obvious need -- and defeat. Lilith began laughing.

The trio left the cave. As they flew, Sanoy spoke first, “She gives you a lovely paradox, Phil. We see this paradox often in our work. Remember the Butcher? He showed up in Lebanon to finance the distribution of food and medical supplies to the people of the city.”

Phil still couldn’t see the connection. Sanoy went on, “When you are convinced of the lie of your own evil, you become it. You become a false self fighting against the true self.”

Now Phil caught on. A raped girl or woman would develop a persona to reflect it. They would become the evil done to them. That false self born from that evil needed to be defeated.

He called Pam again when he returned from the journey. She answered this time, but was cool.

“I don’t need you watching over me, checking up on me,” she snapped. “If you must know, I went to an NA meeting. Now I’m home. Anything else you need to know?”

“Yes. How am I supposed to express my concern without running into your nasty-wall?” He regretted saying it as soon as the question escaped him mouth.

There was a long pause before she answered, “I don’t owe you anything, do I?”

“Courtesy?”

“You’re trying to control me, Phil.”

“I’m lost. How am I trying to control you?”

“You’re tracking my every move, wondering when I’ll relapse.”

He caught himself before he barked back and breathed deeply a few times. In a calmer voice he said, “If that’s how it looks to you, then tell me what you want me to do.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Can’t do that. You’re in way over your head with Azazel and his merry band of demons. I set in motion their assault on you. I feel responsible. I need to do something to help protect you.”

Her silence was longer this time. Eventually she asked with what sounded like true curiosity, “What can you do?”

“I don’t know. We would have to figure it out together.”

“Okay. Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll stop by after the noon meeting,” and she hung up.

The next day, Phil worked at his computer as his laundry cycled through its Saturday routine. Pam showed up after 1pm. She wore a sleeveless, button up the front, flower printed, yellow dress. Without much fanfare, she walked past Phil folding his laundry at the living room table and sat on the couch.

“Sorry I snapped at you,” she sighed.

“Me, too,” he muttered and began feeling uncomfortable -- the walking on eggshells syndrome.

“Well, I’m here,” she breathed. “What now?”

“Now we figure out a way to talk when you’re like this.”

She started to protest his ‘like this’ comment but said, “I get tired of being used and run over. I deserve better.”

“Of course you do. But treating people poorly is hardly the way to get better treatment,” he replied, realizing as he did so the statement probably sounded patronizing.

“They owe me, Phil. Somebody owes me. They took my Mom. My Dad went missing in action. Crazy people raised me. They did all this to me.” She gestured wide and brought her hands back to her heart and collapsed inward.

“I didn’t,” he pointed out. “I tried to help. Why take it out on me?”

“You’re available. You’re a man," she answered, but then sighed and her body language loosened.

Phil finished folding his laundry and sat in a chair facing her. “Look. The way I see it, you’re crying over spilt milk. True you didn’t spill the milk. All these others spilt it, but you’re stuck cleaning it up. You sound like you want somebody else to clean it up, and you’re mad at the world because nobody but you can. At least, that’s my take on it.”

Pam struggled with her response, but chose to stay rational. “And the hard times I’m having -- the abuse I endured as a child -- none of it creates an entitlement? Are you saying that, Phil? Sorry about how tough your life has been, but too bad. Buck up and get on with it. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Phil leaned forward in his chair. “Of course not. I am saying I don’t owe you anything. If there is an entitlement waiting for you, I’m not paying for it. Furthermore, should I donate to your entitlement fund, I’d like a thank-you rather than a wall of meanness.”

She glared at him before saying, “How Republican of you. All your high-minded spiritual nonsense boils down to ‘take care of yourself.’ How could I have ever expected anything different?”

Phil was somewhat surprised by her challenge, although he had been considering these types of questions when he examined second and third world economic situations. Entitlements clashed with the value of hard work being rewarded. He didn’t yet have an answer to those issues, but he understood them.

“You know better than I no one can do recovery for you. It may not be your fault you’re an addict, but no one can get you clean and sober but you. The same is true on the larger stage. The War on Poverty was lost in the Sixties because the government tried to manage outcomes. They changed the rules from ‘equal access’ to the American Dream to ‘equal outcomes.’ From free market to entitlement. You, of all people, should realize you can’t force outcomes. It’s the height of insanity.”

She sighed again and her face softened. She knew recovery better than he did, but he knew the Twelve-Step programs emphasized personal responsibility. They understood there was no free lunch. They didn’t tolerate the Victim mind-set the radical feminist agenda seemed to accentuate.

This, Phil suspected, was what he needed to defeat -- the shadow feminine resided here in the angry, scapegoating, entitlement driven, and Victim-thinking Pam was stuck in.

She took a deep breath and replied, “Don’t you think there ought to be some platform, some floor below which no American should fall? Shouldn’t there be some level of minimum health care, including mental health, some poverty line, some least possible quality-of-life standard no American should fall below?”

“Yes. I don’t know how you would construct this floor without it being a codependent Rescue, but I think we do need to figure it out.”

“Until then, you don’t want to be part of me crying over spilt milk,” she smirked. “Is that it?”

“Well, it’s a harsh analogy, Pam, but basically yes. You must tell me how I can help you clean it up, because I don’t know how to help. When I try to do something on my own, you think I’m controlling.”

“I know,” she admitted in a rush and her head drooped. “I want to do this myself, and I know I can’t. I want your help, but I resent you because I’m weak and need help. I hate men, but I love you in a way I don’t understand. It’s just too much for me, Phil, but I won’t let myself relapse this time. I know getting fucked up only makes it worse, but I don’t know how to get out of the self-hatred I feel on an almost constant basis. Sometimes I really just want to end it all.”

Her suicidal thinking wasn’t a surprise either. Phil hadn’t thought about it consciously, but when she said it, it made perfect sense. And he knew this is what he needed to not only defeat but ‘kill.’ They needed to kill the ‘self’ that considered suicide an option. Only then would the shadow-feminine be totally defeated.

He took her hands. “We’re in a soap opera, Pam, circling around in manufactured crises. The only way out of it is to formulate a plan and execute the plan. It’s in some ways no different from going to the gym after the Holidays. You sign up with some friend and you encourage one another to keep going.”

She lifted her head and smiled a half-smile. “Going to the gym?”

“It’s the best I could think of. You get my meaning, don’t you? Tell me what you want from me. Do you want me to remind you of stuff? Do you want me to ask you about stuff? What do you want?”

“Since it’s my spilt milk, I have to take the lead, don’t I?”

“Well, I can tell you what I think you ought to do, but we know how that plays out.”

She smiled again with her whole face this time. “But I don’t know what to do. That’s a big part of the problem. I hate myself for not knowing. I hate myself for being weak. I hate myself for needing anyone’s help.”

“So who would know?”

“My sponsor. She’s been through sexual abuse recovery. I’ve been avoiding her for just this reason.”

“Well, there’s the answer then.”

“Call her?”

“Yes.”

Pam dug into her purse and pulled out her cell phone and dialed her sponsor. As she talked, Phil put away his folded laundry. When Pam hung up, she smiled weakly at him.

“There are a couple of books she wants me to get. She said once I understand the recovery process it gets easier. She also said I will inadvertently turn my relationships into opportunities for acting out the abuse as a way of trying to heal it.”

“Makes sense,” Phil responded. “I’m glad we didn’t trash our friendship because of it. So what can I do?”

“Go with me to the book store,” she replied. “Take me out to dinner. Hold my hand while I read about the journey before me.”

“I can do that.”

Over the weekend, Phil saw the patriarchy through feminist eyes. Pam read both books and discussed their implication with Phil. Each of them was amazed by their particular blind spots.

Pam couldn’t understand her Dad retreating into himself after the death of his wife. Phil explained it was how men heal, by retreating to their caves. By contrast Phil didn’t get why women needed constant reassurance about a relationship. Pam explained it wasn’t really reassurance, it was connection -- why be in a relationship when there was no relating? These conversations were enlightening, even fun, unlike the more difficult topics of abuse and recovery, of the patriarchy and power.

“Even though both Judaism and Christianity were influenced by Greek democracy,” Phil summarized on Sunday evening, “the main emphasis was, and still is obedience to God and his Law. Islam takes it to an extreme.”

“Obedience is gender-neutral,” Pam pointed out.

“But if you’re already in a patriarchal system, men hear from God what they want to hear.”

“I don’t know, Phil. There’s got to be something good in the patriarchy.”

He laughed, “Listen to yourself. You’re defending the system that uses rape to keep itself afloat.”

“Where did you get that?”

“If you must know, Lilith, but I’m sure feminist authors have come to the same conclusion.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “I need a Higher Power to get me through this. According to you and Lilith it won’t be one who supports the patriarchy. I don’t know of any others.”

“How about a Buddhist? Quan Yin or somebody.”

“I suppose you’ve met her.”

“No,” he grinned. “I’ll go with you to meet her if you want.”

She chuckled, “You seem to think my Buddhist training will help. First you suggested vipassana and now Quan Yin.”

“Well it would be playing to your strengths.”

She climbed off the bed to get a drink of water. Phil stayed put. For most of the last two days they lounged on the bed, reading, talking, being silent together. There had been no lovemaking, only focused work on Pam’s recovery plan. So far there was greater understanding of the task but no real plan.

Pam returned and sat on the edge of the bed, “Quan Yin feels right. How would I contact her?”

“I’ll find out,” Phil answered. “Would you mind cooking up dinner? There’s a pizza in the freezer. It shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes.”

Pam left the room, closing the door. Phil stretched out and dropped into meditation. Without much trouble he soon arrived at Manuel’s patio. The angel appeared moments later.

“Any luck with your task?”

Phil’s smile was weary. It had been a long couple of days. “The patriarchy is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“I know. It makes for a very stable status quo. What else is new?”

“Pam wants Quan Yin as her Higher Power. How would she make contact?”

Manuel sat on the marble bench, and so did Phil. The water fountain behind the angel gurgled softly as the angel said, “Quan Yin is an active mask of God. She has her own compound, like Yahweh and Jehovah. All Pam has to do is make an altar, which signifies her intention, and she calls Quan Yin to her. It’s not rocket science, Phil.”

“Sorry,” Phil grumped, but he was grateful the angel withheld a stupidity lecture. Maybe the angel noticed Phil's fatigue and was being kind.

Manuel caught the thought, “Well, it was a pretty stupid question, but you’ve got a lot going on.”

“Since when has that stopped you?” Phil countered.

The angel arranged his robes and said, “You’ve got even more problems. They’ve imprisoned Lilith and Echidna in Jehovah’s compound. I don’t know how they did it, but we have to figure out how to free them.”

“Otherwise I can’t defeat them,” Phil surmised, “and the game is over.”

“In which case, you are responsible to the Sarim for the mess. They could sentence you to getting zapped. You know: coma, loss of memory, all of it.”