On the trip, I also bungee-jumped from a bridge three hundred feet high, posed in a bikini inside a New Zealand glacier cave moments before it collapsed, and surfed the biggest waves of my life in Indonesia.
Adventures like this continued through my twenties and into my thirties.
Immediately after I finished college, I moved to Hawaii, to the North Shore of Oahu, the surfing mecca of the world. There, I was trained to surf huge waves by some of the legends of big-wave surfing. I continued work as a bikini model and travelled all over the world, mostly by myself with my surfboards. I met wonderful people, experienced wonderful things.
While attending summer school at the University of Manoa in Hawaii, I met a young guy who was on his way to Tavarua, an island in Fiji. He invited me, saying there would be a world-class tube-riding event, and the owner wanted a bikini model to attend. I fell in love with the place and, a few years later, spent two months managing the island and living in a tiny tree house with white lace curtains. I had everything a young girl could ask for, yet I still felt a void inside. I still felt soul-sick. And it began manifesting in my relationships with men.
In Hawaii, I started sleeping with every hot guy I met, and there were a lot of them. Deep down, I wanted love, I wanted true intimacy, but I had been so wounded by life and a part of me craved the power I felt when I got a guy into bed and left before he woke up. I learned to completely separate sex from love. I learned to use my body in the most intimate way with utter strangers and to shut myself, my soul, and my mind out of the process entirely. A part of me really enjoyed the freedom and empowerment of being so promiscuous, especially after being raised by such an uptight, prudish, Catholic mother; however, another part of me knew I was betraying myself.
I picked men who mimicked the love pattern I had learned from my mother: they loved me, then pushed me away. They wanted me, then slept with someone else. If I met a guy who truly loved me and wanted only me, I got bored and broke up with him. I had learned to crave the pull–push, attraction–repulsion, intermittent reinforcement that I had experienced as a child.
Later, I would learn that this insecure, codependent attraction to emotionally unavailable people is common in children of addicts. I, like many children, was taught by my mother that I was not okay the way I was, that I had to change in order to be good enough. The constant refrain of slow down, be quiet, don’t do that, stop crying, not now, be a lady, go play in your room taught me at a very young age that I had a choice: be exactly the way I was and be shunned and possibly abandoned, or change in order to be loved and taken care of. I picked love and survival; all children do. That’s how we end up with screwed-up adults whose insecurities run so deep. Most of us learn in childhood to hide our true selves and become who our parents and teachers need us to be; we learn to turn our feelings off and stuff them deep inside. They reappear, years later, as addiction and self-destructive behavior.
I learned to turn my light down, to blend into the furniture, to not get noticed, to stay out of the way. But I wanted to be noticed. I needed to be noticed. So, as a young adult, I used my body to get attention. However, I had grown to believe that if I spent too much time around anyone, s/he would soon get annoyed and shove me away, the way my mother always had, so one-night stands fit my needs. They temporarily filled my void. A man would find me sexy and irresistible, that would feed my ego, and then, if I left before he woke up, he would never get the chance to see my flaws and my wounds and my broken parts. He couldn’t get annoyed or disillusioned with me because I was already long gone.
This pattern of behavior, of course, alienated me from myself even more. I wanted acceptance and friendship, companionship and approval. But by portraying myself as the bad girl who just wanted sex, I attracted the guys who didn’t want relationships either and repelled the guys who did. So my wounds multiplied and grew deeper. My belief that I was not lovable, not desirable, not worthy of a close, committed relationship strengthened. So I slept around more. It was a vicious cycle and one I did not realize I was perpetuating. My soul sickness grew more intense with every passing day.
The years flew by. I felt myself going nowhere, so, in an effort to get my life together, I moved from the North Shore to the South Shore, to Diamond Head, and started going to massage therapy school. I got a job as a barista; my shift started at 4:30 a.m. I rented a room in a gorgeous house close to the coffee shop, but I should have paid more attention to the living arrangement. The house belonged to a woman and her daughter living together. The father had just died. The girl, who was a few years older than me, was an alcoholic and struggled with anger and depression. I had landed in the middle of chaos and, subconsciously, I had picked another situation that mimicked my life with my mother. To add to the chaos, a month after I moved in, an exotic dancer took over the last spare bedroom.
We began throwing parties almost every weekend, with loud local bands and people diving off the roof into the pool. The police showed up to shut our parties down. Once, as they were making the rounds, throwing people out of the house, I was in my bedroom screwing a guy I had just met when two police officers entered, flashlights blazing. I was humiliated, but it also woke me up. I was a mess. I had to get off that island or at least out of that house.
I moved back to the North Shore, to a studio apartment. I felt utterly lost. I had no idea what I was doing with my life. One morning I was lying on my bathroom floor, curled in a fetal position, crying my guts out, wondering what to do with my life. I called my godfather for advice. He was very conservative, a staunch Republican, a graduate of MIT, a Harvard MBA, and an engineer. I figured he’d tell me to move to someplace like Boston and get a “real” job in an office.
Instead, he said, “Renee, what do you love?”
I thought about it. “Surfing, dancing, traveling, and speaking Spanish.”
He said, “If you can find a job doing something you love, you will never have to ‘work’ a day in your life. Do what you love for six months, and see where it leads you. Be open to anything.”
With that advice, he lifted me up and gave me wings.
But, first, I had to get my ass off that island. I saw before me a life of surfing, surfers, alcoholism, and a dead-end marriage to a Hawaiian lifeguard. I had to do something more with my life than surf and chase surfers. I made a plan—not much of a plan, but a first step: I was going to move to Mexico, learn to speak Spanish fluently, and become a professional massage therapist at one of the fancy hotels. I had just finished massage therapy school. I could do it. I moved to Cabo San Lucas.
I met a cute surfer. I moved into his trailer on the beach and surfed every day. I never got a job. A month rolled by. I had to get my ass out of Mexico.
I had travelled to so many countries, most of them on my own. I could work for Lonely Planet. I would be the perfect guide for them. They had just started a TV show, where they followed a young girl or guy around the world; I could be that person. So I sent a letter to their London office telling them so. Then I flew to Europe. I figured I’d walk into the office and simply convince them to hire me.
I started in Italy, visiting a friend and his sister. Then I detoured to Germany, Austria, and Prague. After Prague, I detoured again, to Spain. The Lonely Planet idea receded further and further into the recesses of my mind. I spent a week in Madrid and then took the train to San Sebastian, where I had no place to stay. This was how I travelled back then: I’d let the wind blow me and work it out when I arrived.
At the train station, I started calling youth hostels. No availability. Then I tried cheap hotels. No rooms vacant. Then I tried more expensive hotels. Still no luck. Then I tried expensive hotels. Totally booked. I was screwed. I sat on the floor and tried to figure out what to do. It was getting dark.
Just then, I noticed a tan, blonde, surfy-looking guy kneeling on the ground, rearranging his backpack. Not sure if he spoke English, I approached him and asked if he had just arrived and where he was staying.
He looked o
ver at me, smiled, and, with a heavy Australian accent, said, “Nah, I’m actually leaving.” He looked me up and down and added, “You should come with me. I’m on my way to La Tomatia.” I had never heard of it.
“I’ll go to La Tomatia with you, if you go to Formentera with me,” I heard myself say. What was I doing? I had read about Formentera, the smallest Spanish island, and was dying to go, but it seemed relatively deserted, and I wanted to be sure I had company. He seemed like a nice guy, his eyes were very kind; maybe he’d be a good traveling companion.
He looked at me like he had just won the lottery. “Deal,” he responded.
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. His name was Adrian. He was cute—not cute enough to sleep with but definitely kind of cute. We got on the train to Valencia, arriving the next day. After a pitcher of Sangria on a hot Spanish night, I ended up sleeping with him. That’s the way I did it then: boys, booze, sex.
We went to La Tomatia, which turned out to be a tomato-throwing festival in a little town near Valencia—30,000 people crammed into a tiny town square pelting each other with overripe tomatoes—then to Ibiza instead of Formentera because it was easier to get to. Finally, ten days later, we arrived in Mundaka to reunite with his friend and a van full of surfboards. Adrian’s friend was surfing the World Qualifying Series tour. I decided to move into the van and continue the tour with the boys.
We packed up the van and headed to the next top, Portugal, driving all day long and arriving after dark. It hit me that night, as we were falling asleep in the back of the van, all scrunched together like sardines, that I had spent the last two months in Europe doing the exact same thing I’d done in Mexico, and in Hawaii before that: surfing and sleeping with surfers. If I was ever going to take my life to the next level, I had to make a change.
I woke up the next morning to people screaming outside the van. The surf was pumping, and all the guys in the lineup were yelling their heads off. As I looked out the back window at the surf, I suddenly knew, I simply knew I had to move to California to become a professional Latin-ballroom dancer. That was my life’s next step. It was suddenly crystal-clear. This career choice had briefly crossed my mind the last few months I had lived in Hawaii. I had signed up to take ballroom dance lessons at the Arthur Murray in Honolulu, and while on my way to Mexico, I spent a week in southern California and had looked at a few dance studios in San Diego. As I gazed at the surf, one of those studios flashed into my mind and I saw myself there dancing. This was the answer. I had to fly to California and I had to get a job at a dance studio, and I had to find a Latin-ballroom dance partner, and I had to compete. I got up and opened the back door.
Adrian was surfing. I left him a note:
Thanks for everything. I’m moving to LA. Flying out of Madrid tonight.
Love and hugs, Renee.
Then I grabbed my backpack, crawled out of the van, and started walking toward the train station.
Chapter 9 Arizona
As Vishnu drove me home from the beach after our “recon,” he told me he had really appreciated the card I had given him and was glad we had found some time to be alone. He seemed content. I felt nervous. I had never intended that card to be anything more than a sincere “thank you.”
On the ride home Vishnu gave me strict orders not to tell anyone about our outing. According to him, it would set us up—Lakshmi included—for an “occult attack.” I most certainly did not want to do that, even though I had no idea what an “occult attack” was. I wished I could talk to someone. I felt truly stuck. This thing with Lakshmi and Vishnu was getting weirder by the minute, but at the same time, it was exciting. I believed in Enlightenment, and I believed I was heading in that direction. I had always been able to talk out my concerns with my friends, but now suddenly I was unable to.
As soon as I got home I called Bruno. I wanted to tell him about my day and contemplated breaking Vishnu’s orders, but in the end I simply asked him if we could go see the movie Alvin and the Chipmunks. I needed a lighthearted evening to take my mind off all the weirdness.
When I arrived at the theater, Bruno was standing outside with his sister. He had already bought us tickets . . . to see I am Legend. I hate scary movies. I had nightmares that night about the creatures in the movie and woke up feeling like something was on top of me, sucking the breath out of my body.
I remembered Vishnu telling me that I could call him if anything strange ever happened, that he slept alone in a room with just a bed. So I struggled through the weight on top of me, reached for the phone, and dialed. It was midnight. He answered and soothed me. He told me to turn on all the lights in my house and make hot mint tea with a lot of honey in it. He said he would wait on the phone until I made it and drank some.
While we waited for the water to boil, he asked what I had been sleeping in. “I will try not to pant,” he said.
I cringed and answered, “Sweatpants,” even though I had gone to bed naked.
He then explained that all the light running through me from working so closely with the two of them made me attractive in the night to “Dark Beings on the dream plane” and that they came to steal my energy. He told me not to be afraid and explained that they simply used the form of the scary creatures in the movie as a way to frighten me. “They feed on fear,” he told me. “Just laugh at them and wake yourself up if it happens again.”
I thanked him, hung up the phone, and tried to go back to bed. I could not sleep. Now I was afraid of three things: “Dark Beings,” whatever they were; “occult attacks,” whatever they were; and a romantic relationship with Vishnu.
The next morning, I ignored his phone calls, letting the messages pile up in my voicemail. I had no idea what to do. I was not ready to be in this position with him. I could see we were headed in this direction, but I also seriously hoped I was wrong. And, part of the truth is that I didn’t want to push it away. I was stuck. I wanted to be special, but I didn’t want to sleep with him. I was terrified of that step, that radical change in my life, in my path. I was used to being on my own, doing things my way. If I started sleeping with Vishnu, I would be under his command even more. The free spirit in me wanted to run. The soul-sick seeker in me wanted to stay and do whatever it took to become Enlightened. I still had one foot out the door. If I slept with him, I would really be jumping all-in. And what about Lakshmi? Were they dating? Could I just blatantly ask him? Every time I thought about asking him, I chickened out.
At some point, I had to answer the phone. He had called too many times and left increasingly stressed-out messages. When I called him back, we talked only business. We had our last class weekend of the year that night and the next, and we had to discuss the logistics. When class rolled around, I avoided his gaze as much as possible.
The next day, he called again and asked about my change in behavior.
Suddenly, I was pissed off. I did not want to be in this position with him. I told him the beach outings and champagne made me feel uncomfortable, and I said that it seemed like maybe he was implying that we were lovers in a past life. This seemed like the gentlest, most respectable way to say to my boss, my sensei, and possibly my Spiritual Teacher’s boyfriend, Please stop hitting on me.
By this stage in my life I had been so used to ignoring my inner guidance when it came to men, allowing myself to be in very uncomfortable situations in my effort to be loved, that I was the perfect target for this type of unwanted advance. I had allowed myself to get here, and I had done it with my eyes wide open, wanting to believe he just saw me as evolved, but knowing deep down that he was attracted to me . . . and I had gone along with it because I simply wanted to be as close as possible to Lakshmi, a part of her inner circle. I had always been terrified of confrontation, because I learned as a child that any time I stood up for myself or tried to enforce my boundaries, I got scolded and pushed away by my mother. But I was finally so uncomfortable that I decided I had to say something.
“We have all had so many past lives,” he r
eplied, “that we have all been each others’ lovers, parents, children, friends, and enemies.” With that, he brushed it aside and went back to talking business. I felt incredibly relieved. I must have been wrong, I thought to myself.
The event that night went smoothly, and at the end of it, before we all went our separate ways for the winter holidays, Lakshmi—via Vishnu—invited eight of her closest volunteers to meet with her after the event. Once all the other students left, the eight of us went back into the event room and stood in a small circle, nervously awaiting her.
She entered the room escorted by Vishnu. We made room for them in our circle. Seeing Vishnu by her side, protecting her and not focusing his attention on me, I felt reassured. Everything felt normal again.
Lakshmi thanked us for all our hard work that year and told us she wanted us to visit her in Arizona for a special weekend together to celebrate. She explained that we would meet the student who had been mentoring her. This was the first we heard of anyone outranking her; we were thrilled at the idea of meeting another Enlightened Master. She told us we would hike in the woods with Vishnu, and we would have a special meditation session with her. Until this point, we’d had only fleeting moments alone with Lakshmi. This opportunity was a rare and precious gift. January could not come fast enough.
A few days later, I flew to Colorado to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve with some close friends. Vishnu was on my mind constantly—dark thoughts of him. He showed up in my dreams: in pain, reaching out. He was grabbing for me. Why did I keep thinking about him? It was such a relief to be away from the intensity of working with him and yet he was still with me. I kept trying to push him from my mind.
The Burn Zone Page 8